"Don't be a drama queen," I tease. "Eat it."
He looks at me with mock horror as he brings the pineapple-covered pizza slice to his lips, and with the most dramatic groan I've ever heard, he takes a bite. I lean forward on the bed and pull my bottom lip between my teeth as I wait for him to un-scrunch his eyes and swallow the bite. When his emerald eyes finally open, they meet mine, and he considers me for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly.
"Okay, so it's not terrible."
"What was that?" I lean toward him and cup my hand behind my ear, a smug smile growing on my lips.
He rolls his eyes, but his dimple betrays him, followed by the smile he was trying to hold back.
I sit back on the mattress and close the nearly empty box of pineapple pizza. There are a few pieces left, which I'd be willing to bet he's going to eat tomorrow now that he's had a taste of the pineapple heaven.
Wiping my hands clean on a napkin, I glance down at the notebook in front of me. Half of the questions have already been filled out since we did a quick-fire question-and-answer during dinner. I look up as he pops off the top of one of the beers he brought from the kitchen. I opted for a water bottle, which I have capped and resting on my lap, but when his eyes drift up to mine, he raises a brow and extends the bottle in his hand.
The last thing I should be doing right now is drinking with Tristan, but every time I look at him, a flash of our bathroom encounter plays in my mind. Honestly, I could use the buzz to relax.
Taking the beer, I bring it to my lips and take a small pull of it. It's definitely better than whatever we were drinking at the bar last week, but it's still beer, so I take a few more sips and try not to focus on the terrible aftertaste.
The sound of another bottle cap popping off pulls my attention back to see him taking a long pull from his own beer. His eyes seem to have lost some of the humor, and I can tell the taste of the beer has brought back his own bathroom memories because he's now clearing his throat as he rubs the back of his neck.
This is what I didn't want—the awkward after.
I can't seem to process the fact that the man sitting across from me has not only seen me naked but has touched, kissed, and explored me in ways that no one else has before. The thought makes my cheeks burn, and I look away, allowing my hair to fall from behind my ear, shading my face slightly from his gaze.
He clears his throat, and I glance back over at him. "Why don't we make the rest of this a less formal interview," he offers with a reassuring smile. "We could make it into a sort of game—more laid back and fun."
I raise a brow and smile at his clear attempt to make me feel more comfortable. "What kind of game?"
"It'll be a question game, so you can get the rest of your interview done," he explains as he leans back in his chair and picks up the miniature-sized basketball from his desk. He tosses it into the air a few times, catching it easily as he keeps his eyes on me. "You ask a question, and if I don't want to answer, I drink." He holds up his beer bottle and grins. "And the same for you."
I look down at my beer and trail the pad of my thumb down the neck of the bottle, drawing a line in the condensation. That does sound less awkward than him just asking me questions.
I look up from the bottle, and when I nod, he smiles and leans back in his chair.
"I'll go first." His thumbs drum softly on his bottle as he considers me. "How are you so good at video games?"
I laugh at his question and consider bringing the bottle to my lips to keep some air of mystery but decide to save the drinking for questions I really don't want to answer. "I have two older brothers, Mark and Jeff, who only paid attention to me when they wanted to try out new wrestling moves, use me as their paintball target practice, or needed a third player for their video games." I shrug, grinning at the rush of childhood memories. "I always opted for the third option, so I ended up getting pretty good."
"They used you as target practice?" He seems amused and horrified at the same time.
"Only a few times, and it was mostly to tease me. They purposely missed. I was only shot once in the leg, and when Jeff realized that he actually got me, he carried me back home from the park and helped me ice it." I smile at the memory of Jeff's usually tanned face paling as he ran all the way home with me in his arms. We were so young then. I was in mid-elementary school and still so desperate for my brothers' fleeting attention. "I was sworn to sibling secrecy, and I thought that if I kept the secret, I would finally be welcomed into their little pack, so I kept my mouth shut. It didn't last long, though. When my dad saw the huge bruise on my leg the next day, he pried it out of me."
Tristan grins. "My dad would have killed me if I ever shot my sisters with a paintball gun."
"Oh, he nearly did. He took us out back and gave me the paintball gun and sixty seconds of unrestricted payback time. I had terrible aim, so my dad made my brothers wear blindfolds and those ankle weights to slow them down. I still only got a few good shots in, but they ended up running into each other, which was hilarious."
"Your dad sounds like a badass." He laughs, and I bite down on my lip as I smile at the memory.
"Yeah, he really was." The familiar pain in my chest pulses and his eyes widen when he realizes what I mean. When he blinks away the shock and leans forward, all the humor is gone from his face.
"I'm so sorry, Abby. I didn't know . . ."
His eyes are searching my face, but I look down at the leftover pizza on the plate in front of me and count the pineapple chunks on the slice—something my grief counselor taught me to keep my mind from spiraling. Counting keeps you grounded, so I count the pieces again before glancing back up at Tristan with a weak smile.
"It's been a few years," I say before taking a long sip of my beer.
He nods, not sure what to say, but sips his own beer.
"My turn," I say, trying to pull the humor back into my voice. I glance down at the list of questions, but as I scan through them, none of them seem even remotely interesting. Glancing back up at Tristan, I bite the inside of my cheek as a million non-article-related questions flood my mind. Taking another long sip of my beer, I lick the errant liquid from my lips before landing on a safe question. "What's your dream team to play on?"
He smirks as he leans back into the chair. "On the record, I'd be happy to play on any team, and I'd be honored just to be drafted." His response is quick and rehearsed, but when he leans in, his voice is lower, as if he's worried someone might overhear him. "Off the record, I've always dreamed of playing on the Knicks."
"The Knicks?" I practically snort.
He can't be serious; the Knicks have sucked for years.
"My dad's from New York. Even though I grew up here, I was raised a Knicks fan. It would be nice to be able to play on the same team my dad and grandad watched together when he was a kid, you know?"
I watch his face as his words sink in, and when they do, my lips pull up at the thought of a tiny Tristan watching basketball with his dad, continuing a tradition that his father and grandfather started years ago.
"That's really sweet," I admit. When his eyes meet mine, my stomach tightens, sending a shiver down my spine that spreads across my body. He looks down at the beer in his hands, and I take a deep breath, looking down at the notebook in front of me.
"My turn," he says, breaking the silence. "What was your favorite concert? If you've ever been to one."
I consider my options for a moment and then slowly raise the beer to my lips and take a sip.
His eyes widen, and he leans forward in his chair. "You're drinking for that?" he asks incredulously.
"It's embarrassing." I shrug.
"Well, now I have to know." He grins.
"I already drank." I smirk, holding up my beer. I drink again for good measure.
"I'll give you a veto on one of my drinks then," he offers.
I sit back to think it over.
"Deal," I agree as a sly smile slips onto my lips. He eyes me warily, wondering if he made a mistake making the deal. "I've only been to one concert, so I guess it wins by default. I was sixteen, and I went with my friend Sara, who won tickets from a radio station contest," I say, smiling at the memory.
"Which band," he prompts, clearly sensing that I don't want to admit it.
I stare at him for a moment, biting back an embarrassed smile.
"Come on, Ryan, it can't be that bad," he urges, amusement lighting up his eyes.
"Fine. One Direction." I watch him, waiting for the inevitable teasing.
He sits back in his seat with a shrug. "Me, too, actually. Olivia was obsessed with them, and my parents never let her go to concerts alone, so I had to take her."
"You've been to a One Direction concert?" I gape.
"I've been dragged to two of them, actually," he corrects.
"Let me guess, you're a Harry girl?" I grin, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He doesn't miss a beat. "Zayn, actually."
I blink, staring at him in disbelief before his words fully sink in. I nearly spill my beer as I fall back onto the bed, laughing at the thought of Tristan standing in a sea of tween fangirls at one of their concerts. When I catch my breath again, I peek up to see him grinning broadly.
"You would like Zayn," I tease, rolling my eyes dramatically. "The bad boy of the group."
"You're definitely not into Zayn." He narrows his eyes at me playfully. "He's not your type."
"Not my type?" I laugh at how matter-of-factly he said it. "What's my type then?"
He's quick to answer as if it's obvious. "You're into the goody-two-shoes, cardigan-wearing, have-you-back-by-ten type," he says, grinning when my cheek twitches.
I consider his assessment. I don't have to look up to know he's waiting for my reaction, so I hold my composure for as long as possible before the laugh slips from my lips. I would never admit it to him, but I guess that kind of is my type—save for the cardigans. Tyler didn't wear cardigans, but he certainly was a rule follower, and he always made sure I was back home by my curfew at eleven. But I'm not going to tell Tristan that.
"Am I right? Is that your type?" His mouth pulls up into a smug smile.
"Maybe, maybe not." I shrug as I bring my beer up to my lips to hide my smile.
"Is it still?" His voice is lower, and when I look back up at him, he's watching me curiously.
Am I still attracted to the good boy type? Yeah, of course.
Does the person I've been fantasizing about for the past few weeks fit into that category? Absolutely not.
My gaze coasts over his tanned face and curly hair, down to his chest and arms—one of which is coated in ink, trailing from his wrist up and disappearing under the black fabric of his shirt. The swirl of ink is distracting, and I wish I had paid more attention to it when he stood in front of me, with his chest bare and tattoo wholly uncovered. I was distracted, with blinders on and hands eager to explore then, but now, I want to trace the black lines and follow them from start to finish up over his shoulder.
The man sitting in front of me is everything but my type. He's not clean-cut, not a rule follower, and certainly not one my mother would approve of, which I guess has been more of a prerequisite than anything else in the past.
Tyler's dad was a respected surgeon in town; his sister was in her third year of medical school, and Tyler had just been accepted to Florida's most prestigious private college when we started dating. Introducing him to her was easy because I knew he would check all of her boxes before even speaking with him. He wore button-up shirts and loafers, his hair was always cropped short, and he spent weeks at a time with his family at their vacation home in Cape Cod. He was the paradigm of what my mother would have picked for me, and she made sure to mention all of this when I told her that we broke up, as if his father's career choice and their real estate catalog were enough of a reason for me to stay in a dead relationship.
I can't pretend that Tristan didn't completely shatter everything I thought I liked, everything I thought was good for me. Before him, I spent years thinking that the routine-like sex in dark rooms with a boy who knew nothing about my body, besides what it could do to make him feel pleasure, was enough. But after feeling the way Tristan's fingers felt on my skin, the way my body reacted to him, to his lips, his tongue—I don't think I can ever go back.
I look up to see him watching me.
"I don't know," I admit, but it comes out as a whisper when his eyes flick down to my lips. His eyes don't leave my mouth as he puts his beer down on the desk next to him, and my breath catches in my throat when he stands up, taking a step toward the bed. The near-empty beer bottle now feels incredibly heavy in my hand as I watch him take a few more steps, eyes locked on mine as he closes the space between us.
He stops at the edge of the bed, leaning over slowly as I tilt my head back to bring my lips closer to his. But just as I feel his hot, spearmint breath just inches from my lips, we both jolt away from each other when the bedroom door opens quickly, crashing against the wall as Luke stumbles in.
"Hey—oh, Abby, you're still here." His voice echoes loudly around us and he smiles widely at me before his eyes slide over to Tristan.
"You're sloshed, McConnell," Tristan groans with an inward sigh, moving away from the bed. "Go to bed."
"I'm not sloshed, just slightly intoxicated," he corrects, although his words are slurring together pretty severely, incriminating him just as much as his swaying is. He grins at Tristan, who's walked over and grabbed his shoulder to make sure the swaying boy doesn't face plant on his bedroom floor. He's even taller than Tristan, and they both tower over me as I slide off the bed.
"Your sister's here, man. I didn't even recognize her. But I guess now I can see it." He grabs Tristan's shoulder and narrows his eyes to steady his vision as he looks at his teammate's face like he's trying to piece together the similarities between Tristan and his sister.
"Olivia?" Tristan's brows knot, but the freshman nods as if it's obvious.
"She was at the party."
A loud crash echoes down the hallway from the living room, and the gasp and bubbly laughter that follows makes Luke grin as he points over his shoulder to the open door. "Told you."
Tristan drops his hand from Luke's shoulder and pushes past him. I follow him quickly, nearly crashing into his body when he stops short at the end of the hall leading into the living room.
"Olivia? What the fuck?"
I step to the side to get a clear view of the living room, and my jaw drops when I see his sister, clad in a little black dress and tall platform heels, on the floor with her heavy eye makeup slightly smeared. Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink and based on the way she's stuck on the ground, trying to grab the back of the couch to help her stand back up, she's absolutely smashed.
"Hey, bruv." Her too-loud voice is slurring and her eyes are glassy as she squints up at her brother. Her lips pull back into a sheepish smile as she laughs nervously, but when her eyes slide from his to mine, she beams up at me from the floor.
"Abbbbby." She waves a few times and then puts her hand back on the couch when she starts to sway on the floor like she might fall over even though she's already sitting.
Tristan takes a deep breath and walks over to where she's sitting on the hardwood. He bends down and hooks his hands under her arms, gently lifting her back up to her feet. He keeps his hand on her back to make sure she doesn't fall again, and when she looks up at him, she smiles appreciatively before looking back at me.
"What are you doing here, Abby?" She grins at me as she kicks off her platform heels.
"What are you doing here?" he asks her, but she waves off his question as she drops down on the leather couch, plucking the TV remote and an open bag of chips from the side table.
"Do you have Hulu?" she asks, turning the TV on as she sticks her hand into the chip bag.
Tristan stares at her incredulously, and when James walks out of the kitchen with a glass of water and a medicine bottle in his hands, his eyes lock on Tristan's.
"What the fuck is going on?" Tristan asks, his hands knotting in his hair in frustration.
"We found her at the party," James explains, handing Olivia the water and pills as she flicks through the lineup of shows. She thanks him before downing the pills easily.
"Abby, come sit with me." She pats the seat next to her.
I look to Tristan to see him pulling his phone from his pocket.
"I tried to call you," James says quietly.
"My phone was on silent." Tristan sighs, scrolling through the notifications on his screen. He shakes his head as Olivia crawls across the couch to grab the blanket lying on the other end. They both look away quickly when her dress rides up, which she fixes clumsily and looks over at me, laughing.
"Do you like The Bachelor, Abby?" I don't know if I'm supposed to interact with her or ignore her, so I just nod and look up to meet Tristan's eyes as he sighs heavily.
"Do you mind babysitting her for a little while, just to make sure she doesn't go anywhere? I need to call my mom and let her know where she is and figure out what to do with her tonight," he asks as he pushes his hair off his forehead.
"Yeah, of course," I say softly. I want to reach out and comfort him somehow, but I keep my hand to myself and watch as he smiles weakly. I can feel the stress and confusion radiating from him as he shakes his head.
"She's never done this before. She's still in high school. I think this is the first time she's ever gotten drunk. And she was at that frat party alone? If James wouldn't have found her..." He winces, glancing over his shoulder at her.
It could have been bad. Really, really bad.
"I'll keep an eye on her." I don't know what else to say, but when he looks back down at me, he smiles and nods before turning on his heel and disappearing into his room. I can just barely hear the distant hum of his voice when I turn back to the couch to see Olivia holding the remote close to her face, squinting to see the buttons.
I settle down beside her on the couch just as she finds whatever she's looking for, and when she presses the button, a show starts to play on the huge flat screen.
"So, this isn't The Bachelor, but it's kind of like it," she explains. Her words are slow, and she's pointing the remote at the flat screen, trying to explain the concept to me. When she looks over and smiles up at me, she holds open the blanket for me to scoot closer before offering me the half-eaten bag of chips, nearly spilling them in the process.
She gives me a sheepish grin before nuzzling further into the couch, pointing the remote at the TV to turn up the volume on the reality dating show. It drowns out the soft hum of Tristan's voice echoing indistinctly from the hall, and I nestle down next to her as we watch the opening credits.
Two minutes into the episode, Olivia passed out with her head resting on my shoulder and her soft snores reassuring me that she's still breathing. I don't mind, especially because her body is radiating so much heat under our shared blanket that it makes up for the barely-there flame licking at the wood in the fireplace.
"Thanks for staying with her. I know it's getting late." I look up to see Tristan walking toward me with my bag in his hands. His eyes flick to his sister before meeting mine again. I move slowly, making sure not to wake her as I slide off the couch and tuck the blanket securely around her sleeping body.
"What did your mom say?" I whisper, taking my bag from him.
"Just to let her sleep here." He shrugs, falling into step beside me as I walk to the front door.
I'm surprised when he follows me out rather than saying goodnight at the door. I don't look over at him as we walk side by side to my car, but I'm hyperaware of him as he matches my slow pace, keeping my eyes trained on the ground, searching for ice patches.
"I'm sorry we were interrupted again." He sighs as I unlock my car remotely, stopping at the driver's side door. The cold night air is nipping at my cheeks and nose, quickly sending goosebumps down my arms. I look back up at him, and a shock of heat rushes across my skin when he takes a small step toward me.
"It's okay," I say, but my voice is lost in the heavy breeze. My heart is beating quickly, fast enough to hear the rushing of blood in my ears, and my cheeks flood with heat when he takes another step closer. I watch breathlessly as he closes the space between us, and when he raises his hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair securely behind my ear, he hesitates as he considers before his thumb slowly wipes a tiny flake of snow off my cheek.
I can smell him, the spiced cologne mixed with his beer-tinted spearmint breath. It's intoxicating. His eyes search my face for a long moment before falling to my mouth.
I want to rock up onto my toes to connect our lips, to feel his warm breath heat them, to taste him on my tongue again, but his words echo through my mind.
It was just a hookup. Just a one-time thing.
It can't happen again.
The distinct sound of a text notification echoes through the silent street, and his eyes flick up to meet mine again, sobering quickly from whatever he was thinking about. He clears his throat and blinks a few times as he takes a step toward my car.
"Goodnight, Ryan," he says, opening my car door for me. His voice is flat, and his eyes are trained straight over my head.
I hesitate for a moment, confused and wanting, but turn and climb into my car when he keeps his eyes averted from mine. I keep my gaze on the steering wheel as he closes the door behind me and only look up at him when he turns around to jog back up his driveway. He disappears back into the house without a second glance, and I try to keep my breathing even as I wait for my car to heat up.
Just friends. You're just friends. It was just a hookup.
It can't happen again.
I pull out my phone, hoping for a distraction from the thoughts running rampant in my mind. Expecting to see a text from Jenny or Nia, I'm confused by the text from the unknown number.
I have to read it twice before it fully registers.
Unknown: Hey, Abby. It's Dean, the guy from the diner. Full disclosure, I'm kind of drunk. But this isn't a drunk text. I've been waiting to send this text since I got your number, but my roommate said I had to wait the appropriate amount of time, or I'd come off too eager and scare you away. I Googled how long I should wait, and the GQ article said a week, so I waited a week. So, this is my not-too-eager-slightly-drunk-but-not-a-drunk first text.
I bite down on my lip and look back up at the house. When I finally look back down at my phone, I click out of the text before tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. I try to steady my breathing to keep the tears welling in my eyes from falling, but the scent of him that's clinging to my hoodie is now circulating my car in the warm air like a haunting reminder.
It was just a hookup. It can't happen again.
I repeat his warning over and over as I pull out onto the street.
Just a hookup.
You were just a hookup.