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"Expectations that involve a personal photographer at influencer parties and a daily diet of champagne and designer handbags," Greg countered, raising an eyebrow.
I sighed, deflating like a popped balloon. He wasn't wrong. Tresa's world was a glittering, curated bubble, and I knew she craved the validation that came with it.
"Look, Greg," I said, choosing my words carefully. "If you want Tresa, you gotta play the game. Spoil her rotten with the right kind of gifts, the kind that make it onto her feed. Forget physics textbooks, think limited-edition sneakers and designer sunglasses."
The advice felt alien coming out of my mouth, like I was speaking a language I barely understood. But watching Greg's face light up with a mix of determination and apprehension, I realized something.
"Boring?" Greg's incredulous snort echoed across the field, a stark contrast to the lazy buzz of the cicadas. "Impressing Tresa is anything but boring, man. It's like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded while juggling flaming chainsaws."
He wasn't wrong. Tresa was a hurricane in human form, a whirlwind of designer dresses and social media clout. I knew firsthand how difficult it was to navigate her orbit, how her demands could shift like desert sands in a sudden storm. But Greg, bless his nerdy heart, still harbored a secret crush on her, a flickering flame I'd inadvertently doused by dating Tresa myself.
"You want her, right?" I asked, my voice laced with a hint of amusement. "Then put away the textbooks and calculus equations. Tresa doesn't swoon over Pythagoras, Greg. She wants fireworks, not formulas."
He squirmed, his cheeks flushing a shade of crimson that rivaled the sunset. "Yeah, I guess… but how do you do that? You, Dax, you're like a… human jukebox of charisma. You just walk in, crack a joke, and girls melt like butter on a hot pan."
I snorted. "Please, spare me the Hollywood fantasy. Trust me, it's not all sunshine and roses. Tresa and I, it was… complicated. Three years of on-again, off-again nonsense. It wasn't a real relationship, just a twisted game of cat and mouse."
His eyes narrowed, a hint of curiosity flickering in them. "So, what's your secret weapon, Casanova? How do you win a girl like Tresa?"
I leaned back, the sun warming my face. "I don't know, Greg. Maybe it's the way I can spin a story that makes you feel like you're living it, or the fact that I can charm a cobra out of its basket. Maybe it's the reckless glint in my eyes that whispers of danger and adventure. Or maybe, just maybe, it's all a big elaborate lie."
Greg's voice buzzed around me like a persistent mosquito, his pleas for advice morphing into a needy whine. "Of course you have charm," he insisted, his eyes pleading for me to spill the secrets of Tresa's heart. I felt a pang of irritation, the air thick with his needy hero worship. "Tell me, Dax, how do I make her see me?"
"Charm? Me?" I let out a bark of laughter, the sound harsh against the dying light of the day. "Greg, my friend, the last thing I have is charm. My repertoire is more barbed wire than boyish grin."
He persisted, though, his eyes fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. "But… you got Tresa. Three years, on and off, but still. How'd you do it?"
The question tasted bitter on my tongue. Tresa? Three years of a chaotic dance, fueled by convenience and fleeting thrills. Not love, not in the real, soul-searing way. Just a shared amusement park ride, with laughter masking the churning abyss in my gut.
"Greg," I sighed, the word heavy with unspoken truths. "Tresa's a mystery symphony played on a broken piano. Trying to understand her is like chasing smoke - you end up with nothing but singed fingertips."
His face fell, the eagerness fading like watercolors bled into rain. "Then… there's no hope for me?"
"Hope?" I spat the word out, the irony bitter on my lips. Hope was a foreign language to me, a skill I'd never bothered to learn. "Listen, Greg, there's no magic formula for winning Tresa's heart. It's not about a haircut or a witty quip. She's a kaleidoscope, constantly shifting, and what charms her one day might send her running the next."
He flinched, a flicker of hurt in his eyes.
"Look," I softened my tone, a grudging respect for his persistence growing within me. "If you really want to know Tresa, talk to her friends. They're the keepers of her secrets, the whispers behind her laugh. They'll give you a far better map than I ever could."
His brow furrowed, suspicion flitting across his face. "But you were her boyfriend… you were close to her. Shouldn't you know more?"
"Ex-boyfriend," I clarified, the word sharp like a shard of glass. "We were a temporary spark, not a burning pyre. I knew her body, maybe, the rhythm of her laugh, the curve of her smile. But the woman behind it? That, Greg, is a riddle even I never cracked."
"Her other friends are so rude... I despise them, except for Skye. I can tolerate her. Hmm, should I consider dating Skye instead of Tresa? She seems smarter and kinder than Tresa herself!" Greg mused, his original decision wavering.
I nearly stopped in my tracks. "Skye is off-limits!" I asserted.
He blinked, surprise flickering across his face. "Whoa, calm down, man. It's not like I'm planning on kidnapping her and forcing her to be my prom queen."
"I'm not referring to that part."
"Then what?!"
"I'm trying to tell you not to waste your time pursuing Skye."
"Look, Dax," Greg pressed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm not asking you to give me your blessing or anything. If Tresa blows me off, which chances are high, Skye's just a backup plan. A spare parachute in case I fall off the love cliff.
"Stick to Tresa and only Tresa... not Skye!" I declared firmly.
