“Just—” Oliver drops the rake and digs his palms against his eyes. “Just let me be sad, Viggo.” “You’ve been sad. Now it’s time for anger. We’re going to process this shit and move forward.” Viggo dusts off his hands, strolls toward Oliver, and yanks him by the shirt. “I don’t want to move forward,” Oliver groans. “I want to wallow. I want to drown in the misery that there’s no escaping him when he’s in half of my classes and on the fucking team!” Well. Now we’re getting somewhere. Oliver has refused to discuss what’s upsetting him. Until now.
