chapter twelve

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I've been sitting at the diner bar top for the past hour rolling the warm, just-out-of-the-dishwasher silverware into neat napkin rolls. It's typically my least favorite thing to do while working, but today I don't mind the tedious work as I desperately try to think of an excuse to text Tristan as to why I can't come over tonight.

I don't want to see him. I don't want to interview him. And I really don't want to write this article anymore.

I'm embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

I was drunk, sure, but not nearly enough to not know exactly what I was doing. I felt every kiss, every touch, every breath, every single moment, and now I can't stop thinking about it. I can stop thinking about how it felt to be so reckless in the bathroom of a sports bar. To have my clothes shed and tossed into a pile, to have Tristan focused entirely on me, on my body, making me feel the most alive I've ever felt. Of course, as soon as those memories rush through me, I can't help but miss how his fingers felt trailing down my body, touching me in ways that Tyler never even came close to.

With Tyler, I was methodical. I took off my own clothes, made sure the lights were always off, and refused to step outside of the tiny box that I created for myself out of pure embarrassment. I didn't want him to see me naked, I didn't want him to touch me for very long, and I sure as hell would have never let his lips anywhere but my own while having sex.

I didn't just take a step outside of my comfort zone with Tristan; I dove headfirst without a life vest into the churning black water below. And now that I've washed ashore, I'm left to deal with the consequences. The worst one being the mortifying conversation where Tristan Beck all but wrote just a hookup on my forehead in shiny red permanent marker.

A hookup. Something I never would have imagined being or doing a few weeks ago.

But I did. I knew going into it that Tristan Beck doesn't date. I knew he only hooked up. It's not a secret; rumors of his latest sexcapades spread across campus like wildfire.

He's Tristan Beck, USW's star basketball player, playboy extraordinaire. I knew what I was doing. So why do I feel like this? Like I want more. Like I already miss something that never existed.

"That guy never texted?"

I look up to see Lacie wiping the bar top a few stools down, her lips pulling down in a frown as she examines me sitting here with the silverware sitting idly in my hands. Pretending that I feel like shit because Dean hasn't texted me—which is just the cherry on top of this pity party sundae—is an easy out, so I take it.

"Yeah, I guess he wasn't really interested." I shrug, pulling off the ends of a napkin and stacking the pieces into a neat pile.

Lacie sighs inwardly and pulls out the stool beside mine. "Maybe he lost your number." Her voice is soft, and the tone eases some of my discomfort, even though her excuse is kind of ridiculous. I raise a brow at her, and she grins back sheepishly. "It could happen." She nods her head, but there's no conviction behind her words, and we both laugh at the attempt.

"He wasn't even that cute anyway." She smiles at me, eyes widening in the conspiratorial way they always do when she's about to talk shit about a mean customer to make me feel better. "I bet he just chickened out. He probably just realized you're way too cute for him anyway. Didn't want to get hurt." She winks, and I bite the inside of my cheek while grabbing her hand and squeezing.

"You're too good to me, Lace."

She winks again before sliding off the stool and walking around the bar top to grab a new sanitizing spray bottle.

Glancing at the clock, I take a deep breath and start to stack the napkin rolls into their plastic bin. I have three minutes before my shift ends. A notification lights up my phone, and I look down to see Tristan's name on an unopened text. Lacie glances over at me near the register, and I shake my head to her unasked question. It's not Dean. She looks a little disappointed but turns her attention back to cleaning the bar top as I slide open the message.

Tristan: Hey, Ryan. Have you eaten yet?

I try to control the flutter in my stomach as I reread the message. Trying to keep it as casual as possible, I type out and delete my response a few times before landing on the simple reply.

Me: Not yet.

Tristan: What kind of pizza do you like?

Me: I'm not picky.

Tristan: Ryan, answer the question.

Me: I'll just have whatever you're having.

Tristan: Ryan.

Me: Fine. Pineapple.

Tristan: You're one of those . . .

I bite down on my lip as I type out my response.

Me: How did I know you were going to be like this?

Tristan: Be like what? A rational person who knows not to put pineapple on pizza?

Me: Fine, get me a veggie instead.

Tristan: VEGGIE? ABBY RYAN, ARE YOU JOKING?

Me: I SAID I WOULD EAT WHATEVER.

Tristan: Pineapple it is. See you soon?

Me: I'll be over in fifteen.

I look up to see Lacie staring at me with a raised brow and a smirk on her face. "That's not Dean, huh?" I hear the bite of accusation in her voice.

"It's not." My face heats as she places a hand on her hip.

"Then why are you smiling like an idiot at your phone, Abby?"

I feign innocence as I lean over the counter to grab my purse.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lace," I say, pulling my purse over my shoulder and waving, already making my way through the empty diner toward the door.

"Abby!" she exclaims.

"Have a good weekend, Lace." I smile over my shoulder as I walk through the door, smirking at the sound of the bell echoing as the door closes behind me.


I spend the ten-minute drive from the diner to Tristan's giving myself a mental pep talk. You can do this. It doesn't have to be awkward. I end the pep talk with a reality check—you don't have a choice; you need this article.

That clears my mind a bit, which is good because when I pull up to the house, the same three cars and motorcycle are parked out front.

An instant flood of embarrassment rushes through me. Did he tell them?

I've kept to my story of not feeling well with Nia and Jenny, which has proved harder than I imagined because I've never really kept anything from them before. I can't tell them, though. If I do, it'll shatter the last bit of normalcy that I desperately need to stay sane after the bathroom incident.

Grad school, Abby. Grad school.

I take a deep breath and release it.

So what if they know?

So what?

Turning off my car, I soak in the last bit of circulating heat before braving the icy air. My nose and cheeks are already frozen by the time I knock on the front door. I'm practically bouncing in place just to create some body heat when Tristan pulls open the door.

He's in a t-shirt again. A damn short-sleeved t-shirt.

He steps back, holding open the door for me.

Ignore the arms. Ignore them.

"Ryan!" One of his roommates, Micah, I think his name is, grins as he stretches out his long, fully inked arm across the back of the couch.

"Hey, Abby." James nods in greeting.

"Hi." I smile at them, fixing the strap of my bag on my shoulder.

"You work at the diner?" The youngest of them, who I think is named Luke, motions toward the Over Easy logo printed on my shirt.

I nod, glancing down at the shirt. It's a pale pink with white lettering, and thankfully, it doesn't have any stains from my shift.

"We're about to head out to Greek Row. You guys want to come?" Luke's voice takes on a distinctly flirty tone that falls flat halfway through when he looks at Tristan.

"I think I need a little break from drinking." I laugh, and when my words register, I look over at Tristan, who's rubbing the back of his neck. The muscles in his cheek tense as he tries to hold back a smile.

"Fair enough." Luke shrugs before they all turn back to the video game.

Tristan nods for me to follow him, and I fall into step beside him as we walk across the living room toward the hallway leading to his room. When he closes the door behind us, I look around the room again. The dark grey walls feel more familiar now, less intimidating, and I relax a little as I set my bag down on his bed, the scent of his bedsheets sparking a warmth beneath my skin. I look away, traitorous cheeks burning at the thought of how different that night might have been if we were here, alone, with no roommates to interrupt.

Tristan pulls out his desk chair and sits down, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"I'm going to change out of my work clothes," I say, grabbing the change of clothes from my bag.

He nods, shuffling through some papers on his desk as I slip into the bathroom connected to his room. It's cleaner than I expected a college guy's bathroom to be. A few toiletries line the counter beside his sink, his towels are hung up nicely on the drying rack, and there's even a fragrance diffuser plugged in. I have a feeling his mother is responsible for that last detail, though.

I pull my shirt over my head, slide my jeans off, and fold them both before stepping into yoga pants and slipping on my USW hoodie. I hesitate at the door, tempted beyond belief to sneak over and smell his cologne like a stalker, but chicken out at the irrational thought that he might somehow know. The thought of that has me stepping back into his room. He glances up, considering me as I pack my clothes into my bag.

"So . . . I've been thinking," he says, leaning back in his desk chair as I zip my bag and climb onto his bed, settling down in the same spot as last time. I take advantage of the fact that it isn't made this time and wrap part of the blanket around me. When I look back up at him, he's bouncing a pen between his fingers.

"Thinking what?"

"Thinking that I don't know much about you." He leans forward in his chair and considers me like he might find all that he's looking for by searching my face.

"Sure you do," I argue.

"Knowing that you suck at chem isn't what I'm talking about, Ryan." His lips quirk.

I feign offense and place my hand against my chest but drop it back to my lap quickly when he smirks at my dramatics.

"Why do you want to know about me?" I shake my head, genuinely confused.

"We're friends, Ryan. Or—I'd like us to be." His brows twitch up in what seems to be an earnest confession.

I look down at my hands. Being friends would make this article a lot easier. It would be a truce of sorts, to not let the awkwardness of our drunken hookup make the rest of our interviews unbearable.

I nod. "Yeah. I'd like to be friends."

He grins. "How about we make this fair—for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one too."

I blink up at him.

"You want to interview me?" When nods rather than offering a just kidding! I gape. "You're serious?"

A knock on his bedroom door startles me.

James pops his head into the room. "We're about to head out to that party, T." He glances at me before he gives Tristan a very obvious look. Well, that answers that question. Tristan nods, and James smiles at him, almost encouragingly. "Oh, also, your pizza just got delivered."

Tristan stands, sliding his phone into his pocket, and I set my notebook down and follow suit, stopping beside him at the door. His cheek twitches as he motions for me to go ahead of him.

"First question, Ryan," he says, falling into step beside me as we walk to the kitchen. "Why would you ever put pineapple on pizza?" 


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