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...
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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.
