“You know who I don’t like right now?”

“Ansel?” I guess.

He laughs. “Walk with me, Finn.”

Oliver steps back onto the dock and after a moment of hesitation when I wonder whether I could actually swim back to my house, I follow. On the surface, Oliver is about as laid-back as anyone I’ve ever met. He’s one of those people who keeps everything in, letting their emotions out in small, measured pieces. The fact that he flew up here to check on me without even knowing about the show... I think I’m in for a world of hurt.

Despite the sun high overhead, there’s a distinct bite to the air. The wind whips through the boats and it gets even chillier the farther we walk. A ship’s horn cuts through the silence and Oliver turns to me.

“I’m assuming this whole show thing has something to do with why you left? And with what was bothering you the entire time?”

I pull my cap off and run a hand through my hair. “Harlow tell you anything?” There’s a part of me that almost wishes she had. If Harlow’s already told him then there’s no need for me to, no reason to spill my guts out and onto the dock.

I am not that lucky.

“No, actually she said it was your story to tell. And I agree.”

The sound of the water, small waves breaking against the base of the pier carry up to us, amplifying my silence. I should have told him. I should have told Ansel.

“Finn, I know you’re not a big sharer. I get that. Hell, after spending time with chatterbox Ansel, I even appreciate it at times. But I love you, you’re my best mate and I wouldn’t have given you so bloody many chances to confide in me if I didn’t actually care what was happening in your life. Talk to me.”

“I don’t like discussing things until I know what I’m going to do.”

“I get that,” Oliver says, nodding. “But seeing as how I came up here to make sure you were okay, and I find out just now from your brother that you’ve already signed on to do a television show...” He waves his hand forward, indicating he doesn’t really need to finish making his point.

I point to a bench at the end of the dock, and we walk there in stiff silence. We sit down, and Oliver stretches his arms across the back of the bench as I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring down. The dock is old and weather-worn, but I swear I could draw the pattern of grain in the wood from every plank from memory.