When Hate Feels Like Love

Chapter Eight: How to Win Friends and Influence People

Willow Harrison's POV

After my lunch break, I managed to fix myself. Hair is neat, uniform is crisp, and ready for act two. No one would guess I almost cried in the bathroom ten minutes ago because I overheard my classmates talking about how my grades weren't as good as last year.

If I hadn't placed first in that competition, I would've cried. That little victory saved me. Or at least, it saved the version of me they all expected to see.

I walked the halls like I belonged there because I did. Because I had to. Everyone expected Willow Harrison to be composed, reliable, perfect. The Straight-A student. The future Ivy Leaguer. The one who had it all figured out.

So I gave them that.

Always.

“Willow, can you—?”

“I have already submitted it and informed the professor about it.”

“Oh, you’re the best!”

I smiled. Nodded. Kept walking.

I’d been showered with congratulations from teachers and classmates, but not from the one person I actually wanted to hear it from. Not yet. And just like that, I saw him. Oliver Clarke.

He was walking down the hallway, hands in his pockets, that usual calm, unreadable look on his face. He caught my eye, walked straight toward me, then said casually, "You fixed your hair three times already today. Who are you trying to impress, Harrison?"

"Do you ever mind your own business?" I folded my arms.

“Only when it’s boring,” he said, stepping closer. “And you, Harrison, are rarely boring. Go ahead, gloat about winning. I saw you grinning as soon as they mentioned my name as runner-up.”

“Grinning? No. That was pride. It's a subtle difference, but I wouldn't expect you to know that. Runner-ups don’t usually get to experience it.”

“And there it is.” Oliver rolled his eyes, but there was that almost-smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he continued, “The signature Willow Harrison smirk-s***h-moral-high-ground combo. Trademarked. Patented. Dangerous in close proximity.”

I tilted my head, flashing that very smirk. “Dangerous? That’s rich coming from the guy who literally argued with a professor over the formatting of a multiple-choice question.”

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “It was misleading. And I was right.”

“Debatable.”

“I would’ve won if you hadn’t pulled your overachiever stunt and asked the panel to rewrite the essay rubric during the contest because it was too subjective.”

“You mean, if I hadn’t fixed the flawed system that you were about to exploit?”

He gave a low scoff, “You say exploit, I say strategy.”

“It’s called being a sore loser.”

“Funny. I don’t feel sore.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse skip—annoyingly.

I met his gaze evenly. “I beat you simply because I’m better.”

“That so?” he asked, lips twitching.

“That always,” I said, brushing past him, shoulder grazing just enough to be intentional.

Just as he glanced back over his shoulder, Oliver's voice dropped just enough for only me to hear wearing that stupid half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Congratulations, by the way.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that sarcasm?”

“Do I look like I’d congratulate you sarcastically?”

“Yes.”

“Fair.” He laughed, walking off like he hadn’t just casually ambushed me with what I hadn’t realized I was waiting for. And I stood there, still recovering from the tiniest, most ridiculous, smile tugging at my lips.

“Willow,” Hazel called from behind me, tugging me right out of the spiral I was slowly enjoying. She slid into her seat next to mine, a little too casually. “Can you announce to the class that Ms. Rodriguez isn’t coming in. Her three-hour class is canceled for today and we’re supposed to use it for self-review.”

I stared at her. My mouth had already gone dry. But then again... if I didn’t, who else would?

For some reason I didn’t entirely understand, my gaze drifted towards Oliver. He sat there casually, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever he was studying. Then, as if he felt it, he looked up, straight at me.

Our eyes met.

I looked away, too quickly. I brushed it off, standing up. “Listen up, everyone.” My voice rang a little louder than I expected, but it got everyone's attention. I took a deep breath, smoothed down my uniform, and walked to the front of the room, deliberately ignoring the way Oliver Clarke’s head tilted slightly, eyes locked on me like it was entertainment. That smug, amused look? Infuriating.

I cleared my throat. “Ms. Rodriguez won’t be attending class today.”

Predictably, the room erupted in cheers. Chairs squeaked. Bags zipped. People started half-standing like they’d just been granted a golden ticket out of misery.

I raised my voice just a little, holding my ground. “But she left a memo. We’re still expected to use this time for self-review. Exams are next week.”

There was a collective groan, followed by a few grumbles of disappointment. Someone muttered, “Boring,” but the energy was already dissipating. People were starting to lose interest, slowly getting up, stretching, and ready to slip out of the classroom.

I pressed on, trying to sound as in control as possible. “Get your notes and start reviewing for the exams. If you don’t, you’ll be hearing from me.”

Someone snorted. “You can’t scare us, Willow. You’re too goody-two-shoes for threats.”

I turned slowly and gave him the same flat stare I reserved for people who never pulled their weight in group work. “Oh, really? You wouldn’t want me calling your parents to explain why you were cutting class, right?”

That got a few nervous laughs. Someone muttered, “She wouldn’t actually do that. Right?”

Oliver’s voice cut through the buzz before I could say a word. “She would,” he said, unmistakably amused. “With a follow-up PowerPoint.”

More laughter.

Of course.

Anyway, that seemed to do the trick, so it's fine. The class finally began to settle into something that resembled order.

“Always so serious,” Oliver added, like he couldn’t help himself.

“If I weren’t, this room would’ve dissolved into chaos five minutes ago,” I replied.

“Would you really have called their parents just to prove a point?”

“I’d make you do it for me,” I snapped, half-joking, mostly not, sticking my tongue out at him before I could stop myself.

His grin spread, slow and effortless. “And how would you manage that?”

“Easy. You’d do it just to spite me.”

He tilted his head. His voice dropped low, quiet enough that no one else would hear. “Maybe. Or maybe I’d do it just to hear you say please.”

My breath caught.

Cocky bastard.

His smile grew wider, but instead of responding, he turned back to his notebook, leaving me to wonder just how much of that look was genuine and how much was just a game to him.

The most important thing in communication is hearing what isn’t being said.

But with Oliver Clarke? He’s a walking enigma, always leaving things unsaid, wrapped in silence and that unreadable expression of his. Oliver Clarke says nothing, and still manages to get under my skin. He is the single most unpredictable thing in my world and that's what I hate about him the most.