Page 128 of Oleander

He looked at me and frowned. “Were you hiding? I was quite aware you were at Oxford, Jude.”

“I meant here. Now.”

“Oh. Well, Finlay told me of course.”

I wondered what else Finlay had told him. Suddenly, those thoughts I’d had about having him find out about Finn and I were less fantastical and far-fetched. Whatwouldhe do if he knew? Would he care? I suspected not.

“Of course, he did.” I took another drink.

He said nothing, glancing around my room again as though he wanted to burn it, or clean it.

“What are you doing here, Cas?”

“In England? At Finn’s party? At your dorm? Be specific.”

My fist curled around the bottle. “Here. In front of me. Why are you here, right now?”

I saw some of his composure slip a little. “You ran off. I wanted...I didn’t expect to see you there.”

“I suppose that makes both of us.” I glowered. The anger helped keep away some of the other thoughts scrabbling for attention in my vodka-soaked brain.Go to him. Hold him. Kiss him. Fuck him. Love him. Love him. Love, love, love …

“I was visiting Gideon in London, and then I had to be in the area,” he explained vaguely. “I told Finlay I’d drop by and wish him happy birthday.”

“That’s really lovely and all, but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. In my dorm. Why I’m having to look at you.”

“Are you and Finlay fucking?” he asked as though I hadn’t said anything at all. I couldn’t tell how he felt about it; it was said with only the barest hint of curiosity.

“What has that got to do with you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Then why ask?”

“I am curious, is all.”

“Didn’t you ask Finn?”

“He said that you were friends.”

I smiled. “Then that’s what we are. Friends.”

Caspien stared at me for a few long moments before he came toward me. He reached out and took the bottle of cheap supermarket-brand vodka, brought it to his lips, nose wrinkling slightly as he did, and took a large gulp. After he’d swallowed, he let out a gasp, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“If you’re going to drink yourself to death, the least you could do is make sure it’s something decent,” he said, disdainful, as he held the bottle out to me.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all afford to drink $500 bottles of wine with dinner.” I regretted saying it immediately. He’d posted the picture on his Instagram a few months ago. I didn’t go there almost as much as I used to, but him knowing that I went there at all made me feel ill.

He spared me the mortification by saying nothing.

“What, your trust fund isn’t enough to cover a bottle of decent wine?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Cas?” I pressed. “You came all the way over here to ask me about Finn and make snide comments about my drinking, really?” After everything that had happened, that’s all he wanted to say? “You could have called to do that.”

A beat. “And would you have answered?” he asked, his voice was softer. But I hardened myself against that because it wasn’t real. Imagining his voice being soft was my mind inventing things I wanted to be true.

“Yes,” I admitted. “But that would be a mistake: everything about you was, is, a bloody mistake.” I thought I saw him flinch a little at this.

“You finally hate me then.”