Signed /Dream Team/

39

I choose to sleep in the living room that night even though George's bed was free. Simply because I want to sleep, not think about sleeping with him.

And in the morning it's the same. Showering, drinking coffee, eating, watching videos, eating again. I'm not even motivated to go to the gym, my body's aching enough from the radiating pain of my soul.

But Clay never misses a day. I'm jealous of his willpower and there's envy in my eyes as I watch him get ready to leave. He looks back at me one last time after adjusting his beanie.

"You sure you don't wanna come?"

So what if I miss the 8th day in a row? First I had my period and now I just don't wanna go.

"I'm good," I mumble against the pillow, keeping my eyes glued to my phone.

"Come try to bench double your weight again," he grins, "maybe today's your lucky day."

No way he still remembers that. I kept telling myself that nobody remembers and that's the way I blocked it from my memory. Guess I was wrong and it's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life.

"Bye," I'm too unenergetic to argue with him.

"Bye-bye," he waves and leaves.

Ugh.

I spend another hour on Instagram and realize that Nick's been staring at me for the at least half of the said hour. I look up from my phone and narrow my eyes at him.

"What?" I pull my brows together.

"Why do you look like that?" He frowns.

"Like what?" I hope he doesn't say like shit.

"Like you have better things to do than living," this must be the most accurate description I heard throughout these days.

Unfortunately, I don't have an answer to his question. I annoy myself lately, I can imagine how annoying I must be to them.

I just raise my shoulders with a deep breath and exhale, letting them fall. That's the best explanation I can give.

Another ten minutes pass and Nick comes up with the greatest solution of all time. Not that I would tell him, but he doesn't even try to find out the reason behind my shitty mood, he quickly offers a solution.

"Do you wanna do vodka shots?"

I look at him judgmentally. He bought a huge bottle of vodka the other day to spray his lemon tree with it, claiming that it's a good pesticide. And thinking about it, maybe that's why the tree is half-dead at this point.

"Bet I can beat your ass," he has the nerve to continue challenging me, knowing damn well that at least 1/2 of my parents are Russian.

"How much you wanna bet I'll mop the floors with your body after the third shot?" I drop my phone to my belly, sitting up straight cause finally something intriguing is happening in my life.

"Mop the floors because you'll be throwing up after the second shot?"

Why is he testing my patience?

"Bring it."

Nick gets up with a grin and returns with slices of lemon, the vodka bottle, along with two shot glasses that make me feel like I'm at work - minus the migraine from a slicked-back pony and the drunk sweaty men.

Also, the vodka brand he bought is questionable. And from the smell alone I can tell that it's closer to being rubbing alcohol than something safe to consume. But I've been drinking moonshines instead of milk since I was a kid, it surely can't get worse.