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Ah, fuck. Remember when I said I wouldn’t know if I regretted drinking until I saw the aftermath? I regret it now.
“I have five-, ten-, and twenty-year plans.” Holy shit, she’s insane.
“There’s a reason we skate on ice, Summer. If I wanted to wear sneakers and walk in the woods, I would be a serial killer,” argues Dylan.
“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’re actually helping these poor kids.” “Ah, so you’re assessing how good I look as a DILF.” “That was you as a dad? I saw you push them to the ice.”
Is this how normal people feel? Because being stress-free is peaceful and terrifying all at once. Currently, everything is on track, and there’s an empty stress-shaped hole in my stomach. It feels too good to be true, like I’m forgetting about a fifty-page essay that’s due tomorrow.
I care about being a good captain, but being a good friend is more important.
Never promise your mother anything while you’re in a rush.
I forgot his presence is equivalent to eating rocks.
“Think of it as exposure therapy.” “Great idea. Except you’re not my therapist, so it’s just torture.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t try to distract me with your Canadian words.
“Nope. That’s a bad, bad idea. Sober Summer is screaming at me right now.” “Tell her not to, or she’ll wake up with one hell of a hangover.”
“Are you proposing?” “I’m positive if I asked you to marry me right now, you’d kick me in the balls.”
I grab her wrist to stop her. Her annoyance is clear when she huffs and slaps her hand on my chest. “You’re doing that thing where you’re trying to be a gentleman, aren’t you?” “No, I’m doing that thing where I take consent seriously.”
THISSSS! dating ≠ consent 👏👏👏
“Come on, I’ll even read your porn to you.” I clutch my bag tighter, a hot flush rising to my cheeks. “I don’t need you to narrate my porn. I have apps for that.”
😂
“Rai! You fuck with my best friend again, and I will crush your skinny little bones with a pillowcase full of your textbooks.”
