But the thing was, as much as I could have these realizations, they didn’t change anything. They only made me more certain that it was not good for me to be in a relationship. If I’d let her in all along, let myself be honest, it still would have ended, and we’d have lost something even bigger. We’d both be even more hurt. What use would all that pain be? I’d tried to have a relationship where it was only the fun stuff, the kissing and dates and holding hands, but you couldn’t have a romantic montage and skip the rest of the movie. As much as I’d tried to avoid feeling it, if I was being honest with myself, the last couple of weeks had been torture. If I wanted to stop feeling pain, and causing pain, I needed to go back to a strict no-relationships policy.

“I think it’s for the best. It was going to end soon anyway, so what difference does a couple of weeks make?” I said, not really answering Oliver’s question.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He shook his head. “You need to get over yourself.”

Those words flung me back into the car with Ruby and I bristled.

“Oh really? If we’re analyzing people tonight, tell me this, Mr. Quinn. Why do you have parties at your house—sorry, mansion—and then hide in the music room and avoid everyone? What’s the point?”

He didn’t seem hurt. Instead, he rubbed his chin with his hand.

“Funny you should ask. I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

He seemed genuinely thoughtful, maybe even a little deflated, and I felt bad for snapping.

“Any deep insights into your psyche that you want to share?” I teased, trying to bring us back to more lighthearted territory, where I was comfortable. I expected some kind of joke in response, but Oliver was serious when he spoke.

“I think I started having these parties so people would like me. I know that’s the most cliché thing in the world. But I thought if I had parties, people would come to me, and they’d associate me with having a good time.”

Oliver had always been that guy, the guy with the parties, the guy everyone talked to and chatted with at school.

“Well, it worked,” I said. “You can hardly walk down the hall at school without someone talking to you.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “People do talk to me. People say things like Lad, I was so battered at your party or Crackin’ night, lad.” He said these things in a deep bro voice. I tried not to laugh; Oliver trying to impersonate “the lads” sounded ridiculous. “They tell me about the things they did at my house. What a great time they had. And when they stop talking about it, I have another party.”