chapter fifty-three

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"Wait, wait, wait—let me get this straight." Lacie sits back in the booth and holds up her hand to stop me mid-sentence. "You guys spent your spring break in Vegas, had hot post-lap-dance sex, and then he gave you a promise ring in a pool?" Her eyes are wide and incredulous as if she honestly doesn't believe me. "We're talking about the same guy, right? Tristan Beck, six-five, curly hair, dimples—or, as I like to call him, the face that dropped a thousand panties?"

"Yes." My nose wrinkles at the name because while I am painfully aware of Tristan's well-known sexual history, I don't like to think about it. I don't hold it against him, we didn't even really know each other then, but still, it makes me nauseous to think about him doing the things that we do with anyone else. Of him seeing someone the way he sees me. Of him touching them the way he touches me.

I blink a few times to shake those thoughts before I start to spiral, and when I look up, Lacie's smiling sheepishly at me. I manage to give an, it's fine, let's just not talk about this ever again smile, and she nods quickly before reaching for another napkin and silverware set to start rolling.

I follow her lead, plucking a warm, just-out-of-the-dish-washer fork, spoon, and knife from the basket before rolling it into a napkin. I've rolled at least a hundred of these in the past forty minutes, and while I usually love my shifts with Lacie and Josie, I can't deny that I'm incredibly thankful that my shift is over in five minutes. Working at the diner is great most of the time because we're usually so packed that time flies by, but on rare occasions like tonight when the restaurant is dead, we're stuck doing tedious busywork like cleaning off menus, spot cleaning booths of scuffs, and rolling extra napkin rolls.

But fortunately, I get to slide out of this booth in five minutes, grab the to-go food already waiting for me on the bar top, and go home where Nia and Jenny have already set up girls' night for us in the living room.

Face masks, fuzzy blankets, pajamas, wine, two different kinds of chocolate cookies, three new serial killer documentaries that were just uploaded on Netflix, and best of all—the deliciously greasy diner food that I'm bringing home.

It's going to be amazing, and if I'm honest, it's much needed because ever since Tristan got home from New York—and Florida—I've been attached to him like a moth to a flame.

I would have probably been extra clingy anyway since he was gone for so long and I missed him, but after finding out that he flew to Florida just to talk my mom into coming to my graduation, it's like the gravitational pull I always feel when I'm around him was thrown into hyper-drive.

He's only been back in Pullman for three days, and yet, in that time, we've spent more time in bed exploring each other than the past two weeks combined. I missed him, of course, but my newfound addiction to my boyfriend stems from something much deeper, something rooted in the fact that I somehow fell even more in love with him when my Nana told me all about their dinner together.

I knew the dinner couldn't possibly have been what changed my mother's mind, I know her well enough to know exactly how that dinner probably went, but neither of them has given me much detail about what happened other than my mother telling me how I "need to wake up and leave him before he ruins my life" and Tristan telling me that they had a "much-needed conversation about the reality of the situation."

I was tempted to push the conversation to find out exactly what was said, but I thought better of it because maybe it's for the best that I don't know what he said to her. Especially because I got what I wanted. My family will be at my graduation—my mother, my Nana, my brothers, even Lessa. And I know that even though he can't be there, my dad will be watching, too.

"Well, I have officially never felt more single in my life, so thanks for that, Abs." Josie's laugh pulls my attention away from the napkin roll in front of me, and when I glance up, she's smiling at me as she leans back into the booth, her own stack of napkin rolls sitting beside mine in the middle of the table. "I guess I should probably just accept my fate now, right? I'm going to die a lonely, old virgin. Why put off the inevitable? I should just go adopt my six cats now."

"You're not going to die a lonely, old virgin, Jo," Lacie and I say together.

Lacie's eyes flick up to mine, and I grin at her as I slap her outstretched hand in a high five.

Josie doesn't look convinced.

"You're still a freshman, Josie. You're practically still a baby." I shrug, tossing a bunched-up napkin at her to get her attention. "You're going to find an amazing guy, I promise."

Her lips twitch as she looks up at me. "You don't happen to know anyone, do you?"

I consider my catalog of single guy friends, which is mostly limited to Tristan's teammates. I skim through the list in my head quickly before giving her a sheepish smile because the list pretty much boils down to Luke, Penn, and Micah, and as much as I love them, I wouldn't trust any one of them not to break Josie's heart.

Her lips fall into an, I told you, I'm going to die alone frown, and I nudge her shoe gently with mine under the table.

"Oh, wait, here we go. My psychic senses are tingling, Jo." Lacie winks at me before closing her eyes, rubbing her temples for dramatic flair. "Yeah, I can already see him now—he's kind of hipster-looking, he definitely has a man bun, super clean-cut, in fact, he's probably a youth pastor or librarian or something. He drives a Prius, wears Tom's, spends his weekends looking up new vegan recipes, likes to take long strolls through farmers markets, exclusively wears cardigans, and gives off major I'm rich, but I don't like to talk about it because it's my daddy's money vibes."

Josie's eyes widen as she watches Lacie, and I can't hold in my laugh because she looks like she wants to throw the spoon in her hand at Lacie.

"Are you crazy! You can't put that out into the universe, Lacie!" She tosses the crumpled-up napkin at Lacie. Her brown eyes flick over to mine and she shakes her head in mock horror—or real horror. I'd be horrified, too, if that was my future.

"I'm manifesting a man for you, Jo." Lacie grins, tossing the napkin back at her.

"Well, don't manifest that one!" Josie laughs, knocking Lacie playfully in the ribs with her elbow. "And was that your interpretation of my perfect man? Because if so, I'm offended. I don't even know what was worse—the man bun or the Tom's."

"Man bun," I supply quickly. "Definitely the man bun."

Josie points at me with the spoon as if to say, thank you for backing me up here.

Lacie puts up her hands and shrugs. "I'm just telling you what I saw."

"Well, unsee it, please." Josie shakes her head, her brown eyes crinkling in an amused smile as she looks between us. "Because if that's all I have to look forward to, I'd rather stay a virgin."

I glance at the clock hanging below the neon Over Easy sign behind the register and shoot up from the booth. I've been off the clock for two minutes. The groans from Lacie and Josie echo behind me when they realize that my time with them is officially up.

Suffering at work isn't nearly as bad when you're not alone, but I can't stay and hang out; I have a serial killer marathon waiting for me at home.

I round the bar, grabbing my purse and the steaming bag of food before calling out my thanks and goodbyes to the cooks in the back. They all give their usual noncommittal grunts, which I've learned over the four years that I've worked here to mean they're all probably watching Netflix on their phones while pretending to look busy in case one of the owners walk in. It sounds rude, but really, it's their way of saying, Bye Abby, have a great night, drive safe, we love working with you, just not in so many words.

Lacie and Jo are both turned around in the booth, and I catch the dramatic pouts on their lips as I push open the door and grin at them.

"Love you guys, don't have too much fun here without me," I call over my shoulder, rubbing in my freedom just a little bit more as I walk out into the empty parking lot.

The air is much warmer than it has been lately, and the fact that I'm not immediately reaching to pull on my coat is enough to make me smile as the breeze rustles through the trees surrounding the parking lot.

I unlock my car and gently place the food into the passenger seat before sliding into the driver's side. I have the car turned on, the air on low, and my go-to playlist—the same playlist I made for Tristan for his car—playing before I sit back in my seat and scroll through my notifications.

I have a few texts from Tristan, mostly telling me how the boys are also having a boys' night tonight after Luke gets back from physical therapy. He sent me a few pizza and beer emojis, which I, of course, had to reply to with four eggplant emojis.

I scrolled through the roommate group chat, replying to anything I missed until I clicked out and opened the last notification—a text from Jeff.

Unsurprisingly, it's a meme. More specifically, a sports meme. I read through each picture with scrunched brows because I don't understand the joke, but we both know it's not meant for me; it's for Tristan. He's been sending me memes to forward to Tristan since he got back to Pullman, which is honestly kind of adorable because that's the Ryan sibling way of showing love.

I'm about to send a screenshot of the meme to Tristan when my phone lights up with a call. I hesitate as I stare at the unsaved number. I usually wouldn't answer, but the call is labeled as a New York number, and the only connection that I have to New York is NYU.

Connecting my phone to my car's BlueTooth, I accept the call as I click my seatbelt and pull out of the parking space.

"Hello." I sound embarrassingly nervous for no reason, and even though I know the caller can't see me, I bring my hands up and smooth out my hair. This is precisely why I'd much rather get an email. At least with those, I can type and delete and retype my responses a hundred different times without looking like an idiot.

"Hello, good afternoon. I'm calling to speak with Abigail Ryan." A smooth feminine voice rings out from my car's speakers.

"This is she."

My heart is already racing in my chest as I try to figure out what this call might be about. For some reason, the words sorry, Ms. Ryan, your acceptance to NYU was a mistake keep running through my head like a broken record. They wouldn't really rescind my acceptance, would they?

USASN did.

USASN labeled me a liar, a sensationalizer, a falsifier.

Is that what this is about? Did USASN reach out to them?"Ms. Ryan, my name is Angelica Ferris; I'm the head of the professional development team here at The Metropolitan Post. How are you tonight?"

The Metropolitan Post.

Oh, my God.

My hands tighten on the wheel as I try to keep calm, but my heart's pounding so hard in my chest that I can barely breathe.

"I'm well. How are you?"

"I'm great, thank you. Well, I'm sure you must be very busy with finals coming up, so I won't take up too much of your time. I'm calling to let you know that out of the three hundred applicants for the internship contest, I'm happy to say your article was by far the most captivating read. It was incredibly well-received here at The Metropolitan Post. We've been looking for something with this much moxie and heart for a long time, for a writer with such a strong sense of self and the determination to stand for what they believe in. I was so moved, especially by that last line, the one about being a raindrop in a whirlpool of change in the industry."

I hesitate, brows pulling together as I desperately try to figure out what's happening. I never submitted my article to them. I had no idea they even had an internship contest; it certainly wasn't on any of the sites I've been looking on.

Angelica doesn't miss a beat, though. "Of course, I knew it was going to be something special when Marina hand-delivered it to my desk. She seemed so excited, so sure that you and your article were exactly what we were looking for. I should have known she'd be right."

Marina—as in Marina St. Clair? She's the only Marina I know, but why would she have submitted my article? How did she even read my article? I knew she read the feature I wrote on Tristan, but my USASN exposé?

"Marina St. Clair submitted my article for an internship?" I confirm, pulling into the turn lane of my apartment. The click of my blinker echoes softly through the car as I try to process this, squinting at the harsh light of the nearly setting sun.

"She didn't tell you?" Angelica muses.

"I had no idea."

I had no idea Marina St. Clair read that article. I had no idea Marina St. Clair even remembered me at all. We had one conversation, and even though she gave me her business card, I've been too chicken to actually reach out to her.

"Well, then I guess I should probably explain the internship." She laughs, and the casual sound relaxes me a little as I turn into my complex. "The Metropolitan Post is a political publication here in New York. We're choosing three applicants for our fall term internship. It's a paid internship, of course, and you'd be working with the entire team of journalists while you're here. It's not a coffee-run, stuck-in-the-closet-filing-paperwork kind of internship; it's incredibly hands-on. Out of the three interns, one will be chosen to publish with us at the end of the term, and of course, that intern will be awarded the scholarship that goes along with it. That scholarship is conditional to in-state tuition; as long as you're attending school in New York, we will pay for your full first year of tuition."

Scholarship.

Scholarship.

The weight that's been crushing me since I opened the financial aid letter suddenly doesn't feel so heavy, and as I pull into a parking space, I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

"Thank you so much." It comes out a little choked, and I clear my throat softly to cover up the fact that I'm dangerously close to sobbing. Happy sobbing, of course.

"So, is that a yes then?" I can hear the smile in her voice, and it's infectious because suddenly, I'm smiling as I wipe away the rogue tear racing down my cheek.

"Yes, yes." I nod quickly. "Thank you again. This is—this really means so much to even be considered."

Marina said it during her Q+A—internships are the most challenging part of grad school. They're what make or break you. They determine your future just as much as the degree itself. I've been so wrapped up in worrying about how I'm going to pay for grad school I haven't even had the chance to start worrying about internships yet.

"We all thoroughly enjoyed reading your work, Ms. Ryan. It was so refreshing to see such confidence and resoluteness in an article written by an undergraduate. Usually, we don't see that until a journalist is well into their career. It comes with time, and if this is where you're starting, I can't wait to see what your future holds."

"Thank you." It's all I can seem to say. "Thank you so much."

"Now for the less exciting part." Her fingers typing away on her keyboard echo through the phone, and the sound relaxes me a little as I lean back in my seat. "We need to confirm some information. It makes sense now that your application wasn't fully filled out if Marina was the one to submit it. Do you have time now to answer some questions?"

"Sure." I pull out my phone and text the group chat that I'll be up in a few minutes because, knowing Nia, she's already impatiently checking the pantry for a pre-dinner snack.

"Marina mentioned that you were starting grad school, but she didn't specify which one. If you're not in New York, we do offer remote internships; you just wouldn't be eligible for the in-state tuition scholarship."

"NYU," I say quickly.

It's always been NYU, but now that I'm saying it out loud, it feels so real.

"That's perfect. NYU is really close to our main office; you'd be able to walk over after classes. Do you have a preference for which journalist you'd like to work under? You'll be working with the entire team, but this will be your main point of contact, your mentor through the process."

I don't have time to even think about the question before I say, "Marina. Marina St. Clair, please."

I wouldn't even be having this conversation if it wasn't for Marina.

"I had a feeling you'd say that." I can hear her smile as she types on the other end. "Alright, well, I've got you confirmed in our system. We will be sending out an onboarding email with the required paperwork shortly. If you could just send us back the filled-out information by Monday morning so we can get it processed, I would greatly appreciate it," she says. "Your first day will be August 3rd, does that work for you, Ms. Ryan?"

"Yes." I smile, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is really happening. "That's perfect."


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