Page 2 of The Last Person
“What’s wrong?” Brian asks.
He’s always so fucking perceptive. It’s a miracle I’ve been able to hide these maybe-feelings for so long. Especially when he talks about finding love. It’s hard not to throw my hand up and volunteer as tribute.
But screwing up my relationship with my first real best friend is terrifying. Not quite as terrifying as having me confess some sort of feelings only for him not to have any feelings back.
Or for me to say I have feelings for him and be totally wrong. See concern number one about screwing this up.
I drop my phone like it’s on fire, and Brian laughs.
“Watching porn? If you need to beat off, do it in the bathroom. And give me a five-minute warning so I can put noise-canceling earbuds in.”
I push myself upright and look at him, taking in the faded farmer’s tan on his fair skin, his short, dirty blond hair, his gentle ice-blue eyes, and the mischievous smile that most people don’t get to see.
Brian Ackley is the softest, gentlest linebacker you’ll ever meet. He’s a tortured artist who happened to be damn good at football. He’d rather sit in the silence with someone than be forced to make conversation. The love he has for the people he’s close to knows no bounds—it’s part of what we first bonded over, even though I love very loudly and sarcastically, and Brian loves with a firm bolstering of support. He’s a whisper of strength in the hardest moments. Most people have no idea that he has a goofy, playful side. He loves to laugh and especially loves to bring joy to the people around him. His eyes light up when someone smiles because of him.
“Dude, seriously, are you stroking out? Do I need to call 911? What’s happening right now?”
I swallow down all the questions and nonsense plaguing my brain.
“I’m fine.”
“Wow. Believable.”
“Fuck off.”
“This about tonight?”
“What about tonight?”
I know exactly what he means, but I’m sure as shit not going to own up to it unless he calls me on it.
“We were sitting around with everyone being vulnerable for a second about our fears in life, and you said that bullshit about not being afraid of anything.”
Like that.
Though Brian and I both play for the New York Bandits—the number one team in the eastern division—we’re out in California for our friends’ wedding. We got lucky that it fell on our bye week so we could be here.
And as Brian pointed out, everyone was being vulnerable, trying to help our girl Hallie be comfortable opening up her heart to her baby daddy—who she’s definitely in love with.
The thing is, it wasn’t total bullshit. There’s not much in life I’m truly scared of—beyond the things most people are scared of like losing someone they love or something like that. But this stuff with Brian is fucking me up, and it’s not like I was going to admit to that in front of all our friends.
“It wasn’t total bullshit. You know me. What do I run from?”
“Linebackers?”
I throw my head back and groan, but even as I do, I’m enjoying the beautiful warmth of his laugh.
“Are you okay?” he asks after a beat.
“I’m fine. Just can’t sleep. Started doom scrolling and now I’m stress-wired,” I lie.
“Come here.”
He stands up, the blanket slipping off him, and it takes everything in me not to stare at him in those way-too-shortboxer brief thingies he has on. Especially the way they mold to his thick, muscular stomach.
No. Eyes away from there.
Schooling my features, I stand up and follow him as he heads for the balcony door.
