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No more semi-flirting or sexual innuendos. We had to return to our regularly scheduled programming of insults and verbal spars, ASAP.
“No fever, which means you’re not sick and delirious. You just have bad taste.” I dropped my hand. “I’m so sorry. That condition is incurable.”
This must’ve been how Caesar felt when Brutus stabbed him.
Like most people, I needed motivation. Winning was a strong one, but nothing kicked my ass into gear like spite.
Being a good friend meant knowing when to support your girl’s delusions and when to dish out some tough love.
“What’s wrong? Who made you cry?”
“You can be sad.” He rubbed a soothing hand over my back. “You can be anything you want.”
“I’d lose every single fucking bet in the world if it meant I could be with you.”
“You should know better than to tell me something is impossible. I take that as a challenge.”
“I’ll put it on our scoreboard.”
Tu es plus que mon cœur. Tu es mon tout.”
