I can feel the fatigue weighing me down as I close my car door behind me.

My hands are on autopilot as I start the engine and crank the heat, but they fall back to my lap as I lean my head against the headrest.

In the nearly four years that I've been working at Over Easy, I have never experienced a more disastrous and stressful shift. It was a shit show, an absolute shit show. Three of our six scheduled waitresses called out sick tonight, but I couldn't even be mad about it since I was the one who answered the phone when Lacie, Nicole, and Maria called. There wasn't a sliver of a doubt that they were really sick because, mid-conversation, Lacie put the phone down to throw up.

I'm a sympathetic puker—a really attractive trait, I know—which means I had to hold my hand over my mouth as the sounds echoed through the receiver. I stayed on the phone long enough to wish her well before hanging up and running into the back, where I had to cycle through the three deep breathing exercises I know of to keep from upchucking all over the bar top.

So, it was up to me, Josie, and Kelsie, the newest hire who just finished her final training day last week, to manage the Friday night crowd that always flocks to the diner for the basketball games.

Needless to say, we got wrecked.

I take another minute to catch my breath before clicking my seatbelt into place. I'm turning onto the main road that brings me back to my apartment when the display on the dashboard lights up with my mother's name.

I groan inwardly because I know I can't ignore her call again. It's been four days since I've called her back, and if I try to push it to five, she might actually track me down to kill me.

"Hey, Mom." I try to sound upbeat because the last thing I need is for her to ask how much sleep I'm getting or whether or not I'm being wise with my time allocation.

"Abigail, why haven't you called me back in four days?"

I take a deep breath and tighten my hold on the steering wheel as I take the left turn toward my apartment complex. The roads are still pretty busy around campus since everyone is leaving the arena now that the game is over.

I try to focus on relaxing my tense muscles as I reply, "I'm sorry, I've been working a little more than usual since some of my coworkers are sick."

"Right, Jeff mentioned that you were extra busy this week. Nana also said you called her yesterday," she says, though it comes out as more of an accusation—you have time to call your brother and grandmother, but not me?

Technically, I didn't call Jeff; he called me when I was on my way home from work the other night. It was a little out of character since most of our communication is reserved for our random back-and-forth conversations on Snapchat.

"It was on my way to work; I only had ten minutes," I defend, but I know I've already lost the battle because to her, calling Jeff and Nana, and not her, is like a slap to the face.

"Right. Well, catch me up now, then. Nana mentioned an article you're writing. She said it was for a scholarship?"

I let the question hang between us for a moment. What she's really saying is, why didn't I know about it? What kind of article is it? And how much is the scholarship worth?

There's a reason I haven't mentioned the article to her, well, multiple reasons, actually, most of which are listed above, but mostly, it's because I don't want to hear the judgment in her voice when I tell her it's for USASN. If my mother knew I was spending my time writing a sports article, she might actually blow a fuse.

You're not seriously wasting your education to become a sports journalist, are you, Abigail? I can hear the lecture now: the joke of the journalism field, you wouldn't really stoop that low.

"Abigail? Hello?"

"I'm here," I say, trying to think of the vaguest way to tell her about the article without setting her off. When I turn into my apartment complex, I pull around the bend, parking in my usual spot upfront. Parking isn't too crowded tonight since most of the student population is still making their way home from the game—or more likely, to a bar to celebrate our win.

"I'd like to hear all about the article. You can tell me about it over dinner when I'm in Pullman."

I nearly choke on my spit when her words register.

"You're coming here?" I know I sound like I'm being strangled, so I clear my throat and try to pull back the last bit of fleeting composure I can muster.

"Yes. If you had called me back, I would have been able to tell you that. I'm coming to Pullman in three weeks."

"You're coming here. To Pullman," I repeat slowly, to make sure there's no mistake.

Victoria Weisman-Ryan has never stepped foot in Pullman, Washington. Not to drop me off or help me move into my dorm freshman year. Not to visit for my birthday. Not even to be with me when I had appendicitis my sophomore year, and Jenny and Nia had to drive me to the ER in the middle of the night, where I was taken into surgery.

"Yes, I'll be there on the twenty-fourth—well, I'll be near there. I'll be in Spokane." The sound of her slippers against the hardwood of the house echoes through the phone. "I have a business meeting there the following day, so we'll have to just do dinner."

I glance around, trying to picture my mother here in Washington, but it just seems . . . wrong.

"I'll need you to come to me, of course," she continues. "Since Spokane is an hour-and-a-half away, you'll need to drive up. We can have dinner at my hotel."

I nod, and when I realize that she can't see me, I say, "Okay."

The clicking of her slippers subsides. "I'll see you in three weeks."

"Three weeks." I nod.

A migraine starts to pound in my head, and I know I need to down ibuprofen in the next five minutes, or I'm going to suffer all night. The bright headlights of someone pulling into the spot next to me send a jolt of pain through my skull, and I keep my eyes down to shield them from the light.

"I have to go, Mom," I say, turning off my car. I linger in the warmth for a little bit longer, knowing just how ice-cold the unusually strong winds are tonight.

"Alright, call me tomorrow." She sighs, the annoyance clear in her voice. "And Abigail?"

I grab my purse from the passenger seat and rummage for the travel-size ibuprofen bottle. I pull it out quickly, thanking my past self for forgetting to bring my water bottle in with me yesterday. 

"Yes?"

"Answer when I call you."

She doesn't bother to say goodbye before the click of the disconnection echoes through my phone. I down the two headache pills, praying they will miraculously cure my rising stress level. Tossing the closed bottle back into my purse, I lay my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes as I replay the conversation in my mind.

My mother is going to be here in three weeks.

My safe haven is about to be breached by the one person it was meant to keep out, the one person I chose to move across the country to get away from.

I'm now cycling through the same deep breathing exercises from before because now I'm starting to feel nauseated again, and I know it has nothing to do with the stomach bug going around.

When the three soft knocks on my window echo in my car, my eyes shoot open. It's dark in the parking lot of my apartment, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the lighting before I recognize the familiar curls, emerald eyes, and soft dimple of the man currently bending down near my driver's side window.

My heart hammers in my chest when I open the door, and he takes a step back to lean against his truck. "Are you planning on sleeping in your car tonight, Ryan?"

I climb out but lean back in to grab my purse and the two textbooks I left in here from class yesterday. When I stand back up and hip-check my door closed, he's grinning. I have a feeling it has more to do with the fact that he just saw me bent over in tight leggings rather than his lame joke.

"What are you doing here?" I don't mean to sound short, but when I look over at him, he doesn't seem offended.

He reaches out and takes the two books from my arms, and I don't protest because, honestly, I don't know if I would have made it up the steps to the second floor with them weighing me down. I'm running on fumes here, and the phone call with my mother was the cherry on top of my shitty day.

"I'm supposed to be picking you up to meet everyone at O'Malley's." He falls into step beside me, matching my slow pace, which must be like walking in slow motion for him and his long legs. He seems amused as I practically zombie march toward the apartment building. "But I have a feeling we're going to be staying in tonight."

I glance over at him. His smile has melted into something much more bemused as he watches me struggle to climb the stairs, and by the time we get to the top, his hand is on the small of my back, giving me the slightest push to help me up the final three.

I am done with today.

Physically, I don't think I've worked this hard since I tried out for the soccer team freshman year of high school. The try-out consisted of running two miles, full-field sprints, and agility drills. Needless to say, I didn't even make it to the sprints, and if it weren't for the fact that we were running on a trail in the middle of the Florida wilderness, I wouldn't have finished the two-mile run, either.

"You okay, Abs?" His voice is soft as he reaches out for the keys I'm fumbling with. I let them slide through my fingers, and he hesitates as he scans the different apartment doors around us. I realize he's waiting for me to point out which apartment I live in, and that's when it hits me that he's never actually been over before. For all of the time we've spent together, it's never once been at my apartment.

"Yeah, just tired from work." I motion toward the first one on the left with the pink floral wreath and the come in and cozy up doormat. He slides the key into the lock and stands back as he pushes the door open, waiting for me to lead the way. I've been at work all day, so I skim the apartment, praying that Nia and Jenny didn't leave the place a mess before heading out for the game. Aside from the basket of laundry sitting on the kitchen table and the mess of papers and textbooks littering the coffee table, it's relatively clean.

I flick on the lights, and when I turn around, Tristan is standing by the door with my textbooks still tucked under his arm. He takes in the apartment, and I follow his gaze, scanning the open concept living space. It's a lot smaller than his house, but it's cozy. There are scented candles on almost every open surface, a million decorative pillows on the light gray couch, and at least ten different vases of decorative flowers placed strategically around the room to give it a homey feel.

"Where do you want these?" he asks, holding up the books.

"Oh, right. In here." I motion for him to follow me through the living room toward the hall, and when I push open my bedroom door and flick on the lamp, I turn to watch him examine my room. He walks past me and places the books on my desk, and his fingers skim over the smooth wooden surface, reaching for the picture I have framed there.

It's a family picture from when I was a kid—my seventh birthday. Jeff and Mark are smiling at the camera while my mom stands behind them, a hand on either of their shoulders. My dad is standing beside her, hugging me securely to his chest while I'm hanging upside down. My arms are dangling above my head, and I'm frozen, rosy-cheeked, and mid-laugh while he beams at the camera. It's the kind of smile he always had on his face whenever he would drop down onto the floor next to me and color or play tea party or have our cannonball competitions. The same one I would pay any amount of money to see again, even just for a second.

Placing the frame back onto my desk, he turns around. His lips pull down in a thoughtful frown, but when his eyes meet mine, he perks them up into a soft smile as he takes a deep breath.

"Have you eaten?"

I shake my head.

"Alright, you go take a shower. I'll make dinner, and we'll stay in and watch a movie or something," he says, already moving to the door. "I'll call James and let him know we're not coming out to the bar."

He doesn't give me time to process his words before he's out of my room, and when I finally register what's happening, I stick my head into the hall to catch him before he hits the living room.

"I'm vegetarian," I call after him.

He doesn't stop as he rounds the corner, and his soft chuckle echoes through the empty apartment as the opening and closing of the kitchen cabinets start to sound.

"I know, Ryan," he calls, and I don't have to see him to know that he's smiling. "Now get your ass into the shower."

The hot water worked wonders on my muscles.

I took extra time to massage the body wash into my sore muscles, deep conditioned my hair twice, and while I waited for the hair mask to work its magic, I made sure to shave all pertinent areas . . . you know, just in case.

By the time I'm dressed in my favorite pair of polka-dotted sleep shorts and Tristan's black Warriors Basketball hoodie, the mouthwatering aroma of mac and cheese wafts through the apartment—my absolute weakness.

I pad out to the kitchen, but because my socks are so fuzzy, they silence my footsteps, and I'm able to watch Tristan work over the stove without him knowing he has an audience. He has a few pans on the burners, and I realize the smell of the mac and cheese isn't the only mouthwatering aroma. Leaning against the entryway, I enjoy the sight of him stirring the contents of the pots while his head bobs absently to the music playing softly from the radio Nia always keeps in the kitchen.

It's an older song, one I don't recognize, but I make a note to look it up later and add it to the new playlist I made a few nights ago titled Tristan.

When he turns around to grab the kitchen towel by the sink, he spots me and grins as his eyes take in my pajamas. "Nice hoodie." His dimple pops in his cheek, and I tuck my wet hair behind my ear as I look down at it.

"Full disclosure, you're probably never going to get it back," I admit, burying my hands into the front pocket.

"That's fine." He grins. "It looks better on you anyway."

His gaze coasts down to my pajama shorts and fluffy socks, and my heart beats a little faster when he lingers on the short hem before looking back up to my face. He blinks a few times and then looks down at the kitchen towel in front of him.

"Dinner's ready." He clears his throat, turning away from me as he opens the cabinet to grab two plates. I bite back a smile at the realization that he's explored the kitchen enough to know where everything is. "You should go pick something for us to watch," he calls over his shoulder but keeps his eyes on the stove as he starts to load the plates up. He's blocking my view, so I can't tell what else he's made, but whatever it is, it smells delicious.

I scroll through Netflix until I land on one of the shows I've been meaning to start. Nia and Jenny both binge-watched it without me when it first came out, and it's been sitting on my to-watch list ever since.

"Okay, be careful it's hot." Tristan hands me the steaming plate and sets his own on the coffee table as he pulls two water bottles from under his arm. When he drops onto the couch beside me, I lift the knit blanket, inviting him to scoot closer. Once we're tucked in, I finally look down at the plate in my hands. Huge mountains of mac and cheese and mashed potatoes are piled onto the plate next to a steaming black bean veggie burger.

"Are you trying to feed an entire village?" I laugh, picking up my fork.

"Didn't know what vegetarians eat." He shrugs, scooping up a forkful of mashed potatoes. "So, I made you a bit of everything."

I look back down at the plate and smile at the thought of him standing in front of the pantry, trying to figure out what to cook.

"So, what are we watching tonight, Ryan? Please, for the love of God, do not make me watch Love Island," he pleads between bites of mac and cheese.

I elbow him lightly as I click onto the show. The first scene of Stranger Things begins to play, and I pull my legs up to settle deeper into the couch as I take my first bite of food. He's so close that my entire right side is pressed against him, and if I tilted my head the slightest bit, it would be resting against his shoulder.

"I've heard good things about this. Micah wouldn't shut up about it when it came out," he says as we watch someone in a lab get chased down a hallway.

By the time the first episode ends, we're both done with dinner, and he reaches over to grab my plate and set it down on the coffee table before pressing play on the second episode. Only this time, he raises his arm when he leans back into the couch, and I don't hesitate for a second to nuzzle into his side as his arms come down around me. Halfway through the second episode, my eyes start to flutter shut as his thumb traces slow, rhythmic circles on my bare thigh, and while the soft motion eases any remaining stress from the day, I drift off in his arms for the second time this month.