Oliver's story continues...

***

Oliver Hogarth sat in the pub and debated suffocating himself with a napkin.

It wasn't a bad pub, admittedly; The Prince Alfred was a quirky Victorian building, still fitted with carved mahogany and snob screens. Dwarf-sized doors — affectionately dubbed "hobbit doors" by the local Londoners — divided the different sections, but more importantly served as a handy way to determine how drunk you were. Oliver always knew it was time to go home whenever he hit his head.

Yes. He loved this pub.

Although, Oliver thought grimly, he could have done without the stained-glass windows; they gave the impression of a Catholic church confessional, which wasn't helping his nerves.

He took a large gulp of his gin-and-tonic. Bombay Sapphire, with a few cucumber slices. Exactly what he had been ordering for years. Oliver had been hoping it would settle his nerves, but instead, he feared he would never be able to drink gin again.

Bloody, buggering hell. How on earth was he meant to tell the other boys about what he had decided yesterday?

They would flay him alive.

The door shot open.

"Brits are insane." Theo trekked into the pub, throwing himself into a scrubbed wooden chair. "Don't you people have any roads that are straight?"

"Well, there's the motorway."

"I need Advil," he moaned. "And a new stomach."

Oliver studied him. His dark skin was slick with sweat, and his white jumper reeked of cigarette smoke and vodka. He looked about five minutes away from chundering. Ten, if Oliver was being generous.

Not that Oliver felt all that sorry for him.

He had seen the Instagram story of Theo dancing on a table last night, wrapped in an American flag; he had been spraying ludicrously expensive champagne into the Thames. The idiot had only himself to blame.

"Good night, then?"

"Oh, shut-up," Theo muttered half-heartedly.

Oliver swirled the cucumber around his glass. A part of him was glad that it was Theo that had come to the pub first; out of the three boys, he would take the news the best. This could be a warm-up round. Practice, really.

"Theo, there's something I need to—"

The door flew open again.

Rory shot through, collapsing against the nearest wall. He was panting heavily, and his blond hair was windswept. He was also missing his left shoe. His shoe, Oliver thought, amused, and any semblance of calm.

"British girls are crazy." Rory was still doubled over, gasping for breath. "I was just attacked for an autograph. Attacked! In broad daylight."

Theo looked up. "Did you go out without security again?"

"Well. Yes."

"And your shoe?"

Rory flushed. "I threw it at her."

"So actually," Theo said wryly, "you attacked her."

"It was self-dense!" Rory held up his hands. "You know what? I need a drink." He stalked towards the bar. "Theo, what do you want?"

"A new liver."

"Two pints of beer, then." Rory clicked his fingers. "And a mickey of vodka. Coming right up."

Oliver felt his stomach twist. Mickey. God, he hadn't heard that word in months. It was a Canadian term, and one that he had only learned this year; Rory's younger sister, Ella, had taught it to him.

He paused. No. Nope.

He wasn't going there. Not now.

He was still trying to avoid any thought of Ella when Rory sat down. He shoved a pint of beer towards Theo, placing the bottle of vodka on the table. Oliver noticed that Rory placed it just a hair closer to him, his eyes flicking towards the door.

It wasn't hard to guess what Rory was thinking.

Max. He would be here, soon.

Oliver gripped the glass. He hadn't seen his fourth bandmate in months — not since the incident that took place in April. Oh, they had exchanged a few phone calls about the upcoming album, and they were always very civil. But things were still awkward, and time certainly wasn't healing any wounds.

Instead, Oliver felt like the concentrated liquid at the bottom of the teapot: the longer you left it, the more bitter it became.

"So," Rory said, taking a sip of beer, "is everyone packed up?"

"Oh, please, god." Theo's voice was muffled by the table. "Don't talk about flying. Or driving. Or anything involving movement."

"You are packed though, right?"

Silence. Rory frowned.

"Theo?"

"Almost packed."

"You idiot." Rory put his drink down. "You haven't even started, have you?" The glass sweated beads of condensation. "In case you missed it, Theo, we leave for Los Angeles tomorrow."

Oliver braced himself. "Actually, speaking of that, I want to—"

He stiffened as the door opened.

Max strode in. He was dressed in a black pea coat today, his tattoos peeking out over the white collar of his shirt. He clapped Rory on the shoulder. "I saw you getting chased down the street by that redhead. Bad luck, mate."

Rory scowled. "And you didn't think to stop?"

"And spoil the fun?" Max smirked, shrugging off his coat. "Unlikely."

"You're a dick, Bentley."

"So I've heard."

He greeted Theo next. There was a pause as he and Oliver inclined their heads, and then Max was off to the bar. He could see the bartender relax as Max easily counted out the change; Rory and Theo were both North American, so their grasp on British pounds was about as good as their grasp on aerospace engineering.

Which was to say, not very good at all.

Max returned, carrying an obscenely bright pink martini.

"Really?" Rory asked, amused.

"What?" Max took a sip. "I like pink. Anyway, there's no paparazzi around." He nodded at Oliver. "Thanks for booking this place out, by the way."

He shrugged. "No problem."

There was a horrible, awkward pause.

Oliver fiddled with a drink coaster. It hadn't always been this way; when he joined The Patriots two years ago, he had been on top of the world. Oh, it had been hard work — Oliver's fingers were ten small, aching callouses, after hours of playing bass each day — but he had loved it. He had lived for the whirlwind tours, for the screaming fans, for the late-night composing sessions fueled solely by adrenaline and caffeine. Sleep and sanity? He didn't know them.

And then the incident happened.

Oliver bent the coaster's paper corners. Well, he called it "the incident," but it was really just one person.

Ella Walker.

It was amazing that one small blonde could wreak such havoc. Rory's younger sister had joined their North American tour last year and Oliver had known from the moment he crashed into Ella in the hotel lobby that he was done for. A few months after that, he had worked up the courage to kiss her.

There were bike rides around Jersey City. Rainy nights spent curled up under one duvet. And even an impromptu trip to Disney World, where they spent the day munching on warm funnel cakes and riding rollercoasters. Ella had laughed so much that Oliver teased her that the white stuff on top of the funnel cake had been more than just icing sugar.

"It's not that," Ella had said. "It's you."

"Really?"

"You don't get it, do you?" She had shaken her head. "You make me believe in magic, Oliver. Not the park. You."

And then in April, Ella broke up with him.

Oliver stared down at the bent coaster. She was with Max, now. Which was fine. Mostly. Oliver still wanted to throw a drink in his face, but at least he no longer vividly imagined shoving Max's face into a meat grinder.

Progress.

Anyway, Oliver thought bitterly, it was June now. He should be over it. But the trouble with heartbreak was that it didn't follow a timeline, and all of that stuff about time healing all wounds was horseshit. It didn't help that Ella — now a star in her own right — had her face plastered across every tube stop in London.

Stupid, sodding billboards.

He hated them.

Oliver set down the coaster. But that was exactly why he had to get away for a while. He had to go off the grid. Both for his sake, and for the sake of the band.

"Right." Oliver cleared his throat. "There's actually a reason I asked all of you to meet me here today. You see, I've been thinking, and—"

Theo vomited on the table.

Rory gave a rather high-pitched squeak, diving backwards. Max clutched his pink drink protectively to his chest. And Theo — staggering to his feet like a wounded soldier — grasped his stomach.

"Oh, no." He shook his head. "I'm not done yet."

Rory looked green. "Then get your ass to the bathroom, idiot."

"Wait!" Oliver shot to his feet. "There's something I need to say."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Surely it can wait," Rory said.

"Oh, god." Theo clutched his head. "Is the floor moving? I feel like it's moving." He turned around. "Where the hell is the bathroom?"

There was a shrill ringing noise. Max fished in his pocket, pulling out his phone. "It's Ella." He showed them the screen. "I should take this."

Oliver scowled. "But I—"

"I'm sorry, Ollie." Max clutched the phone. "I feel like such a knob. I normally wouldn't take it in front of you, but Ella's going mad about some stuff for the new album."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, god, it's dripping." Rory swayed slightly as he studied the earwax yellow liquid on the table. "Someone please make it stop dripping."

"Thirty seconds," Theo warned them. "That's all I have left. If I'm not in the bathroom by then, I swear to god—"

"Will you all shut-up?" Oliver snapped.

Three shocked faces turned towards him.

Max's phone went silent, plunging the pub into a deafening silence. Oliver's hands were fists. He could feel his whole body shaking with a mix of fury and fear. Oh, sod it; he was just going to say it. Timing be damned.

"I'm not going to Los Angeles," he growled. "I'm going to St Andrews. Tomorrow."

Rory stared at him.

"You're what?"

***

Read the rest of Oliver's completed story, "Six Ways From Sunday," on my profile!