His face, like everything she knew about him, was purely contradictory. That cherubic mouth with those penetrating eyes: he was too lovely to be menacing, but too intense to be innocent.

See, Red? When life hands you lemons, you know what you gotta do?”
“Wow,” Lauren said. “Yes, Mr. Cliché, I know what I have to do. I make lemonade.”
“No,” he said. “You scream, ‘Fuck you, lemons!”
“And then you throw those goddamn lemons into oncoming traffic, and you go do what you want to do.

I always knew I would fall in love with you, but you were never supposed to love me back. (Michael/Del)

See, Red? When life hands you lemons, you know what you gotta do
now.”
“Wow,” Lauren said. “Yes, Mr. Cliché, I know what I have to do. I make
lemonade.”
“No,” he said. “You scream, ‘Fuck you, lemons!

She tilted her head, looking back down at Del’s notes as she absently tore the crust off her pizza.

And then she reached across the table and handed it to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced down at the crust and then back at her; her eyes were still on his notebook as she flipped a page and began reading again, and he felt something settle in his chest. It was pathetic, but that was probably the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time.

And when he winked at her, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that
from that moment on, she would do anything for him.