The Last Read online

  “I’ll say he’s a guy.” She taps the phone screen. “Is this his picture?”

  “Yep,” I say, noticing she’s pulled up an image of him running shirtless through the finish line at some Ironman event. “He—uh—works out a lot.”

  “No kidding.” She nods appreciatively before handing the phone back. “I don’t usually dig redheaded guys, but he’s a hottie.”

  “I like the freckles on his shoulders,” Junie says.

  I glance down at the photo and I have to admit, I dig the freckles, too. I hesitate, then type out a response.

  Ah, the marriage pact. We were going to be each other’s last resort?

  His response comes before I’ve set down my phone.

  Your flattery is touching. You still up for it?

  I laugh and take another sip of champagne. He’s kidding, right?

  Sure. I’m not doing anything this weekend, so a wedding would be nice.

  I hit send before I can tell myself it’s a bad idea. I’m being way flirtier than I normally am, and he has to think it’s weird.

  But Ian replies with a thumbs-up emoji, followed by the little dots that tell me he’s still typing.

  Want me to pick up a gumball-machine ring and print out a marriage license from some shady internet site?

  I laugh and grab an olive. Ian was always one of those serious guys who didn’t pull stupid pranks or get off on frat-boy humor like most guys our age. Maybe that’s why his moments of lighthearted humor seemed more charming. But something changed when his parents split and he dropped out of school after his brother—

  The screen fills with a silly GIF of Homer Simpson in a wedding dress, and I smile as I take another sip of champagne.

  “What?” Cassie asks. “What’s he saying?”

  “We’re just joking about the marriage-pact thing,” I tell her. “He says he’s ready to go through with it.”

  “Let me see his picture again.” Cassie holds out her hand, and I tap the screen a couple times to find another image. This one shows Ian in the cockpit of an airplane, wearing aviator glasses and a black T-shirt that showcases his toned biceps. The sisters and Junie peer at the screen.

  “Very hot,” Cassie pronounces as she hands back my phone. “Those green eyes and that rumply red hair that makes you want to run your fingers through it.”

  I stare down at my phone, surprised to realize I’ve never once considered running my hands through Ian’s hair. True, I’ve pictured a few other things. Not in explicit detail or anything, but—

  “What should I say?” I turn to my girlfriends for wisdom. Considering they’ve had more champagne than I have, it’s possible they’re not the best source of advice.

  “Tell him you’ll marry him,” Junie says. “Wait. Does he have a job?”

  “A good job,” I reply. “Some kind of aviation management thing.” Not that I know what that means, but it sounds impressive.

  “Yep, might as well marry him.” Cassie lifts her champagne glass and gives me a smirk. “Better yet, tell him you want to skip the wedding and go straight for the honeymoon. Wedding planning is a pain in the ass.”

  The sisters launch into some cheerful bickering about the perils of wedding planning, but I’m only half listening because I’m staring at my phone screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

  Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the oddly flirty tone of his last couple messages. Whatever it is, I suddenly find myself tapping out a reply that’s sooo not what I’d normally write to Ian.

  Sure, I’m game. Let’s skip the wedding and go right to the honeymoon. I hear Hawaii’s nice this time of year.

  There. Not too forward. If he freaks out, I can just say I’m tired and need a vacation. That’s all I’m after, not someone to talk sexy to me.

  Liar.

  There’s a long pause before the little dots appear to indicate an incoming reply. I hold my breath, wondering if I should have called it a night a few messages ago.

  Excellent plan. Might as well consummate this engagement to make it official?

  Holy shit. He’s totally flirting. And I’m totally smiling. Why can’t I stop smiling? It’s the champagne, dammit. I glance at my flute and remember I’ve only had a glass and a half. Okay, maybe it’s the fact that he’s three thousand miles away, on the other side of the country. Flirtation is safe at a distance like that. I tap out a short response:

  I’m game. I’ll expect you here in 20 minutes ready to satisfy my every sexual desire.

  His reply is almost instant.

  I’ll be there in 10 if traffic’s not bad.

  I stifle a giggle as I tap out my speedy response.

  You’ve got the address. I’ll be waiting. Maybe naked.

  I bite my lip to keep from grinning like a doofus. I’d never have the balls to write stuff like this to anyone else. Or to anyone in my same zip code.

  But this is Ian, and we’re obviously joking, so it feels safe.

  Safe, and maybe just a little naughty.

  I set my phone down, embarrassed to be the kind of person who ignores her houseguests to message some random dude. “Sorry about that,” I tell them.

  Cassie grins. “Are you kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had all week. I love seeing you get all glowy.”

  “Please.” I pop an olive into my mouth and do my best not to glow as I turn to Junie. “So how have driving lessons been going?”

  “Great.” She beams. “Simon says he’ll take me in for the license test next month if I pass the class.”

  “Junie, that’s wonderful.” It is wonderful. I love that she’s been hitting so many milestones lately. Not all adults with Down Syndrome can tackle challenges like driving or dating or living independently, but Junie’s always been high-functioning. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” Junie looks at Lisa. “Dax says he’ll teach me to ride a motorcycle next.”

  Cassie stands up and opens another bottle of champagne while everyone starts chattering about motorcycles and wedding plans and whether we should schedule a night out at the new tapas bar down the street. I’m mostly relieved we’ve moved on from the topic of Ian, but a tiny part of me is dying to check my phone again.

  A splash of trepidation leaks into my subconscious. If he’d responded, wouldn’t my phone have buzzed? And if that’s the case, maybe I offended him. Did I cross a line?

  A sharp chime bounces off my living room walls. It takes me a second to recognize the sound of my own doorbell. I hop to my feet and pad sock-footed across my living room.

  “If one of you ordered pizza, I’ll love you forever,” I say, reaching for the knob to fling open the door. “Forget what I said about not wanting presents. Right now, I’m craving pep—”

  The word dies in my throat as I come face-to-face with something else I’m craving. Something that’s definitely not a twenty-inch pepperoni with extra cheese. I swallow hard to force my voice to work.

  “Ian?”

  Chapter Two

  Ian

  Damn.

  Sarah Keating is stunning.

  She was always pretty in that girl-next-door way, and her smile could light up my whole dorm room ten years ago.

  But a decade has transformed her lean angles into lush curves, and she’s gone from clean-scrubbed lovely to grown-up sexy in a way I never would have imagined. Her dark hair is longer than it used to be, and it’s pulled back in a low ponytail that shows off flawless bare shoulders.

  It occurs to me I should probably stop staring like a dork and say something.

  “Sarah.” I clear my throat when my voice comes out a little gravelly. “Happy birthday.”

  “Happy birthday.” Her words come out on autopilot, and I watch her throat move as she swallows. “Oh my God, Ian—how did you—what—where—”

  She stops there, clearly unsure which question to hurl at me first. I’m deciding which one to pick when a cute brunette appears over her shoulder.

  “You must be Ian?”
The brunette smiles and nudges Sarah aside with her hip. “I’m Cassie. Come on in. We were just leaving. Or did you need us to stay, Sarah?”

  The two of them exchange one of those looks that contains an entire conversation with no words, and I shift my glance to offer them some privacy. Three more women are scattered around the living room, busy scooping food and champagne bottles into canvas bags.

  I catch the eye of a blonde in silk pajamas who gives me a knowing smile I can’t quite read. The other women are smirking, too, and I wonder what Sarah’s told them.

  “You don’t have to leave,” I insist. “I can come back another time. I didn’t realize—”

  “No, it’s fine.” Cassie smiles. “We want Sarah to have a very happy birthday.”

  “Very happy,” calls one of the other women. “As happy as you can possibly make her, at least three or four times.”

  I swallow and nod. “Right. I—uh—I’ll see what I can do.”

  Holy shit. Are they suggesting what I think they are, or am I reading this all wrong?

  A small woman steps forward and beams at me with almond-shaped eyes and facial features that remind me of my brother Shane. My stomach twists up in an unexpected knot of melancholy as the woman smiles. “You’re going to marry Sarah for her birthday?” She studies me up and down as though assessing my fitness for marriage, then nods. “Okay, maybe.”

  “Um, thanks?” I should probably introduce myself. “I’m Ian.”

  “Junie,” she says, accepting my handshake with an enthusiastic grip. “That’s Missy and that’s Lisa and that’s Cassie and they’re all sisters.”

  Sarah shifts forward, and I catch a familiar whiff of the honeysuckle body lotion she always used to wear. Her ponytail brushes my arm, sending goose bumps all the way to my shoulder as she looks at me like she still can’t quite believe her eyes.

  “You’re really here,” she says. “I thought—don’t you live in New York?”

  “I do, but I’m here for work.” Shit, I’m just now realizing she had no idea. She was totally kidding in her message, and I’m the dumbass who took her invitation literally. “I was actually just a couple miles away visiting another college buddy—”

  —whose sweet wife and new baby got me pondering what’s missing in my life.

  I don’t say that out loud because I’m not a total fucking psycho. “I can come back another time,” I tell her. “I didn’t realize you were having a party.”

  “No!” She grabs my arm and holds on like I’m a felon threatening a jailbreak. “Stay, please. I just—ladies, you don’t have to go.”

  The blond sister—Lisa?—laughs and shoulders a canvas tote. “Please. We’re seeing you tomorrow for brunch. We were pretty much done here anyway, right?”

  “Right,” agrees Cassie, winking at Sarah before she can say anything. “You need to get on with the rest of your birthday plans.”

  “Um—” Sarah licks her lips and glances at me. “Yes, but—”

  “Bye, birthday girl.” Cassie leans in to give Sarah a hug, and I hear her whisper something that sounds like “yummy.”

  The women take turns hugging Sarah and wishing her happy birthday, and I watch them file out the door toward a waiting limousine. Fancy. And weird, since they’re all in pajamas.

  When the door closes behind them, I turn to face Sarah. Her cheeks are flushed, and the expression she’s wearing is halfway between uncertainty and amusement. She’s wearing pajamas and a bright yellow scarf, and she’s hands-down the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

  “Wow. Ian.” Her voice comes out a little breathless. “You’re really here.”

  “In the flesh.” I give her an apologetic smile. “Sorry if I killed your birthday party.”

  “No, we were done anyway,” she says. “Besides, I’m the one who invited you over.” She gives a funny little laugh and shakes her head, still befuddled. “And here you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “Wow.”

  Okay, so this is awkward. Awkward, but nice. God, it’s good to see her. How often have I pictured this over the years? I’ve been in Portland a few times and always thought about looking her up. I even grabbed her address once when I sent her some silly Chewbacca socks a few Christmases ago, but we haven’t connected in person for years. Yeah, I checked out plenty of her Facebook photos and couldn’t help noticing she had a boyfriend every time. Rarely the same boyfriend for long, which was kinda how it went in college. She dated a lot, but never got serious with anyone.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” She gestures at a green bottle chilling in a silver bucket filled with ice. “There’s still half a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

  “It’s not Pabst Blue Ribbon, but I suppose it’ll do.”

  She smiles and backs away. “Let me grab you a glass.”

  I do my best not to stare as she hurries toward the kitchen. Those smiley-face pants are fucking adorable, and I get mesmerized watching her hips sway under the flannel. She’s wearing one of those tank tops with the skinny straps, and I’m pretty sure there’s no bra under it. Her hair has soft golden streaks I don’t remember from college, and her ponytail swings as she walks.

  God, she’s beautiful. And still sweet as hell, judging by how quick she is to invite me inside no matter how long it’s been.

  “It’s great to see you,” she calls from the kitchen as she bends down to grab a glass from the bottom shelf of a cabinet. “You’re looking great.”

  “So are you,” I croak.

  Stop staring at her ass.

  She straightens up with a glass in hand, and I manage to tear my eyes off her as she whirls back around. “Let’s sit in the living room to catch up.”

  I follow her in there and spend a second debating between the loveseat and the spot on the cushion beside her. What’s the protocol when you haven’t seen someone in ten years? I’m already at risk of being a creeper for showing up like this, so I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Speaking of which, I should explain.

  “I didn’t mean to just bust into your night from out of nowhere,” I tell her. “I was visiting Ryan Callow—you remember him from my Ultimate Frisbee league?”

  “Of course,” she says slowly, taking a sip of champagne. “We weren’t close, but I see him sometimes on Instagram.”

  “He lives just a few miles from here,” I tell her. “For some reason I was thinking you knew I was in town.”

  Which is ridiculous, I realize now.

  She must see some hesitation in my eyes, because she pats the cushion beside her. “I’m glad you came,” she says. “Come on, sit down.”

  “Thanks.” I drop down next to her and accept the delicate champagne flute. My fingers brush hers, and I’m reminded of that heatwave that used to hit every time we’d touch. Which was always innocent, I swear. For God’s sake, we sat on my beanbag chair playing video games. It doesn’t get more platonic than that.

  You always wanted more.

  “Cheers,” I manage, clinking my glass against hers. “Here’s to birthdays.”

  “To birthdays.” She smiles, but it’s a nervous smile. “God, I can’t believe it’s been ten years.”

  “Too long.” I take a sip of the champagne. “So tell me what you’ve been up to. Your Facebook profile says you do some sort of clinical social work?”

  She nods and rests her glass on her knee. “I got my undergrad in special ed and a master’s in social work. I manage a group home for adults with Down Syndrome.”

  “Just like you always wanted.”

  She smiles. “I owe it to you. Well, you and Shane.”

  There’s a tightness in my chest that happens every time I think of my brother. I swallow some champagne to make it go away. “He’d have been proud.”

  Her eyes cloud with sympathy, but it’s obvious she knows I’d rather not talk about it. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I know it’s been a long time, but I still think about him a lot.”

  “Me, too.” Chri
st, more than she knows. More than anyone knows.

  Sarah clears her throat, and I’m grateful she still has a knack for recognizing the need for a subject change. “How about you? I saw you do something in aviation?”

  “Yep. I’ve been a private aviation management consultant for the last four years, but I’m out here on a temp assignment that could turn into a full-time gig as the Chief Operations Officer for Wyeth Airways.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Congratulations. You always wanted to be a CEO or COO or one of those C jobs.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Achievement unlocked. Congrats.”

  I smile and fight back the urge to reach up and brush back a strand of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. “So did you end up doing the Pacific Crest Trail?”

  She stares at me for a second like I’ve lost my mind, and I wonder if I have. Then she bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, I totally forgot about that,” she says. “That was one of my goals when I was eighteen, wasn’t it?”

  A flicker of guilt tickles the back of my throat, but she doesn’t seem upset. More amused than anything. “I take it you didn’t cross that one off the bucket list?”

  “I think I lost interest,” she says. “Or I woke up and realized I hate heights, I hate being cold, and I don’t like walking more than a mile, never mind walking twenty-six-hundred miles for five months.”

  “Other than that, it was a totally worthy goal.” I sip the champagne, which is pretty damn delicious. “Well, we all have stuff that sounds like a fantastic idea at eighteen, and ten years later you’re wondering what the hell you were thinking.”

  “True enough.” Sarah unwinds the yellow scarf from around her throat and sets it on the arm of the couch. “Is it hot in here?”

  “It’s pretty warm,” I agree, though it has nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with that long, bare slope of her throat. Her tank top dips low above her breasts, and I force my eyes off her as attraction chatters through my body like an electric current.

  “So how about you?” she asks. “Did you get to skydive the way you wanted?”

  “Not quite the way I wanted.” I pause, wondering if I should tell this story so soon after our reunion. It’s going to take my cool points down a few notches.