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“Ohhh, I get it! So, you like her. Does Callum Fox have a crush?” Oliver states gleefully.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone struggling to breathe.”

I accelerate again.

It’s not even just about how much I want to fuck her. I see something stupid during the day and think Bea would hate that or Bea would have an opinion about that.

It’s becoming a fucking problem.

He swears but stays beside me.

“Fine,” Oliver says. “Enough girl talk. I get it.”

We run another minute in silence.

“How’s the writing going?”

“Fine.”

“You said you were working on new songs. Can I hear some? This chick I’m seeing loves AF, and if I tell her a spoiler I’m sure I’ll get head out of it.”

“I am.” Technically, sitting in front of a guitar and becoming progressively more pissed off at it counts as work. “And no, you can’t; I won’t let you use my music as sex currency.”

He whines. “Then why are we even friends?”

Oliver studies me from the corner of his eye. “How many have you finished?”

“You’re getting very talkative again.”

“Zero, then.”

“I’m being selective.”

“Sure.”

“Every song I write could eventually be heard by millions of people. I’m allowed standards.”

“And what happens if you don’t finish anything?”

I turn the discomfort into a grin. “Then I’ll finally accept your offer and become fraternity recruitment bait.”

“Excellent! I knew you’d see sense. I’ll order the posters.”

By the time we reach my building, my shirt is stuck to my back, and Oliver looks one hill away from death.

He bends with his hands braced on his knees. “Seven miles.”

“Six point four.”

“My watch says seven.”

He straightens and points at me. “Party at the house tonight. You wanna come?”

“I’ll see later.” I might go. I don’t have any other plans for tonight, and maybe alcohol and hot sorority girls will help take my mind off everything.

Upstairs, I shower, make coffee and sit on the kitchen floor with my guitar across my lap.

There are exactly two things Steve from the label always said I was good at.