Page 48 of One Lovely Lie

“While we’re on the topic of fucking things up, who gave you that hickey?”

His eyes widen comically. Carter isn’t someone you can usually catch off guard. He’s not bashful like Daniel. He’s not wild like Avery. He’s not a jackass like Ozymandias. He’s reserved, calm, even-tempered, and levelheaded.

But he looks like a speechless idiot now.

“None of your goddamn business,” he snaps.

I’m about to tell him off for getting involved inmybusiness, when our door suddenly opens. Ozymandias walks in, a smirk firmly planted on his lips, but he stops in his tracks when he spots me.

“Magnus,” he coughs, running a hand through his halo of blond hair. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“Oh shit.”

Carter and Ozymandias hate each other,loatheeach other. There’s no other reason Oz would come visit him besides—

Oh, fucking shit.

No way.

“Shut up,” Carter hisses, then looks toward Ozymandias. “What are you doing here?”

“I can’t believe this,” I continue. “You two? You know, they do say there’s a thin line between love and hate—”

“Damn it, Magnus! Get the fuck out!” Carter yells, throwing a book at me. I manage to block it as I jump off the bed, laughing the entire time.

“Okay, okay! I’ll just go hang out with Avery then!”

I don’t stop laughing, even when I reach Monroe Hall because…those two?

Yeah, definitely hate-fucking.

Chapter 15

Magnus

I can’t believe I was right. The thought of Carter and Oz—mortal enemies, constantly at each other’s throats, always pranking each other—fuckingis just downright hilarious.

I wonder if Avery knows.

I snicker at the prospect of being there when he finds out. I take the spare key Daniel gave me and unlock the door, still laughing as I walk in.

“Hey, Avery! I’ve got to tell you about this crazy shit. Oz and Carter— Woah…”

All humor fades. My jaw drops as I take in Daniel and Avery’s room. It’s dark, illuminated by only one single black light in the center of the room. The walls and windows are covered with various sizes of paper, plastered and taped on every inch. Avery stands in the center wearing only his briefs, his hair all mussed up, and a notebook in his hands as he furiously scribbles something on it.

“You redecorated,” I say, closing the door gently behind me. “Um, whatcha doing, man?”

“It’s my poetry,” he says quickly, not looking up from his notebook. “I write poetry now.”

I sigh. “How many times do we have to tell you?You can’t write poetry.”

“I’ve written all of these,” he says, gesturing around the room, looking incredibly proud of himself. “See?”

Yeah, I do see. I look at all the scraps of paper and read them carefully as I try not to trip over a mountain of empty Red Bull cans, and they’re all illegible. I find that I can make out a few words every other page, but they’re just random words meshed together. Nothing makes sense. I know we joke that he can’t write poetry, but it’s not funny anymore.

“Hey,” I start carefully, eyeing Avery as he stands on a chair in the center of the room and tapes a poem to the ceiling. “How long have you been awake?”

He wobbles dangerously on the chair, barely keeping his balance as he grabs another poem. “What do you mean?”

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