"Oliver!" I yell, entering the house. "I need to talk to you!"

The door slams shut behind me, which only works to my advantage. I'm on a mission.

"Oliver!" I repeat, heading up the stairs.

The boys usually don't get home from work until 7, but the other three boys were at my place, playing video games with Mary. I dropped Aretta off there but didn't waste another second.

I'm so fucking mad.

Why can't he just speak to me like a normal person?

I continue shouting his name as I climb up the two flights of stairs. I'm out of breathing when I reach the top level, but it doesn't stop me.

"Oliver!" I call. "you better fucking answer!"

there's a chance he won't be home. he always works more than the rest of the boys, but all of his cars were in the driveway, including one I haven't even seen before.

The double doors to Oliver's room are closed, but I don't bother knocking. I'm too fucking angry to care.

"Oliver!" I yell.

His room is empty. Well, empty of people.

His room is a disaster zone. The giant king-size bed in the middle of the room isn't made up, and there are heaps of random stacks of books littering the floor. Whats worse is the empty cans and bottles lying around. The whole room reeks of weed. There's a packet of cigarettes and a bong on his nightstand, a lighter between them.

As I head over to them, I peek into the other room. It's only separated by an archway, but its set up like a hotel room living room. And that too, is empty.

When I reach his nightstand, I spot his wallet open on his bed.

He's here.

He wouldn't leave the house without his wallet.

"Oliver!" I repeat. "I know you're here!"

I hear a door open behind me, and turn around to Oliver walking out of his bathroom, a towel around his waist. Water drips over his chest, distracting me only for a second.

"Ms Robins," he says, his voice breathy.

"Don't pull that shit on me!" I call. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Oh, come on, Oliver," I scoff. "Why can't you speak to me normally? I'm not in business with you!"

he runs a hand through his wet hair, and tugs at the back of the dog tag he's still wearing. Seriously, whats up with the necklace?

"How about I put some pants on, and we can talk?" he suggests.

Part of me wants to say no. I'm angry now, and I want to talk now, But that's irrational.

I nod, shifting my eyes away from his. I hear him shuffle over to his wardrobe, and shut the door behind him.

I let out a deep breath, looking around the room. His nightstand calls to me, so I return there. Besides the substances at the front of the table, there's just a stack of books at the end. I grab the black lighter, opening the flame between my fingertips. I play with it a little, watching the fire flicker in front of my eyes.

"You shouldn't do that, Lucy," Oliver says. "Be careful."

"You're really not in a position to do be telling me what to do," I scoff.

I drop the lighter back down on the nightstand and turn to face Oliver. He's wearing a pair of black sweatpants, but no shirt. As usual.

I understand Florida is warm, but I don't feel the need to go shirtless, so why does he?

"I'm just looking out for you," he defends.

"It's not your place to care for me anymore."

"I'm not allowed to care about you anymore?" he raises his eyebrows questionably.

"That's right," I nod.

He snickers, his eyes flickering down to the ground. He takes a few steps towards me, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"What are you here for, Lucy?"

"To yell at you," I cross my arms angrily.

"Go for it," he shrugs.

"What?" I frown.

"Yell at me."

"What?" I repeat.

"That's what you came here for, right?"

"Are you being funny?"

"No," he says. "If you have something to say, go ahead and say it. I'm listening."

"Well," I begin, slightly confused by his easy going attitude. "I want to talk about the email."

"Ah yes," he smirks. "I've got to say, I loved your response."

"You wouldn't have loved it if I was an employee or a business partner," I say. "Which is how you make it seem. ANd paying me? God, what were you thinking?"

"You're right," he says. "But my words still stand. I shouldn't have come to you last night, and I shouldn't have said the things I did."

Even if there was truth to his words, it wouldn't change anything for me.

"Thank you," I say. "That's better."

"Apology accepted?"

"I'm sorry I barged in here like this," I respond. "We both know I have a tendency to get angry."

The day I found out he was moving to Milan. I was so furious at him. I felt like he was taking everything from me, my friends, my happiness. I thought he was playing me the entire time we were together. Instead of considering his position, I just got angry. I didn't stop think about how afraid he must've been, how sad he must've been. I only got angry.

"I think we need to talk about much more than that," Oliver says.

I know exactly where this is going. I don't want to talk about what happened while he was away, but I know we should. It's unavoidable.

"Your drug use?" I smirk.

"No, Lucy," he scoffs. "We need to talk about what happened."

"What happened is, you left and didn't eben bother to call. I reachedout to you. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to fix things, to be with you, but instead, you were in clubs, getting drunk, stoned, and having sex with all kinds of models," I ramble.

"Lucy, I-,"

"Three years, Oliver," I say. "You didn't bother to speak to me for three years, and then you show up at my door, drunk off your face, telling me you love me. After three years! Two of which, I spent hating you."