Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
"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.
