The Last Person

Eric glances down the hallway to his friends. “Can you get home by yourself?”

The door to the bathroom opens. The woman coming out gives us a quick smile and turns the corner.

I laugh. “You have a date. I have to pee.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a date. I just met her here. I … we …”

I rest my hand on his chest. “You…” my head tries to spin again “…slept with her. She’s not a psycho author. You ran into her and she seemed like a good distraction. I get it.” I turn and flip on the light to the bathroom. “I used to be a good distraction until you ruined it.”

Closing the door, I lock it and find the toilet before I wet my pants. When I emerge, he’s gone. His friends are gone. And I’m oddly disappointed. It has to be the tequila.

I take my inebriated self home. The loft is quiet. Thank you, god. After erasing my mom’s text without responding, I resist my normal urge to jump online and see how my book is selling on digital retailers. I wouldn’t call ten copies a day something that will pay rent. Tequila, Mom, and Eric mix into a potent cocktail of self-doubt. I decide to face the truth.

I’m not a writer.

The next morning, I wake with a nasty hangover, but a new lease on life. I’m not a writer. This means I can figure out what I am good at. For now, it’s marketing at the bouldering gym.

“Morning,” Finn says as I arrive for my morning java.

“Good morning.”

“Usual?”

I nod.

“So I heard you’re an author.”

I peer up from my phone. “Um …”

He nods behind me. I glance over my shoulder to Eric sitting at a table with his coffee and a stack of papers.

He smiles, much like he did the day we met.

I turn back to Finn. “I’m not.” How nice of Eric to blab it to everyone. I can only imagine what he said about my subpar abilities to pen something worthy of a spot on someone’s bookshelf.

Grabbing my coffee, I march toward the door, keeping my gaze away from Eric.

“Do you want it?” His voice stops me.

“Want what?” I ask, both words lined with exasperation.

“Your manuscript.”

As I glance to the side, he digs into his messenger bag and pulls out another pile of papers and plops them on the table.

Taking slow steps toward his table, I squint at it. “I didn’t send a physical copy.”

“They print it. I’m old school like my parents. I like to make physical notes the first time through.”

I pick it up, the slew of red marks from the second page bleeding through to the title page. “Did you edit it? Why edit something you don’t intend to publish?”

“As a favor to you.”

“How kind. Maybe you’ll critique the cellulite on my legs and my small boob size later too as a favor.”

“I haven’t noticed your cellulite, and your boobs are fine. What is it they say … anything more than a mouthful is a waste?”

“You’re a dick.” I hug the manuscript to my chest with one hand and bring my coffee to my mouth with my other hand.

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Just so you know…” he nods to the manuscript “…I wasn’t in a good place when I made the edits. That means I mentioned every little thing and used a lot of exclamation points. Very unprofessional of me. My bad.”

My bad?

How did I let myself get entangled with this guy?

Dropping the manuscript on top of the other manuscript in front of him, my lips pull into a firm line and I set my coffee down before removing the lid to his large coffee and dumping it all over both manuscripts.

Eric jerks back in his chair, attempting to avoid it spilling onto his lap as well. “What the hell?”

“Sorry. My bad.” I grab my coffee, pivot, and don’t look back.

“Get your stubborn ass back here!” He grabs his bag and gathers the wet manuscripts, depositing them in the garbage as he follows me out the door.

I lengthen my strides. “Screw you, Eric Steinmann!”

“You did! That’s just it. And it was so goddamn unforgettable I felt angry that you lied to me, that you let a book ruin it. So I took it out on your manuscript.” He grabs my shoulder and forces me to stop, placing himself in front of me like an angry roadblock.

“Oh, gosh … I’m so sorry. I’m sure blond girl from last night can spread her legs just as wide as I can spread mine. So save your ‘the sex was goddamn unforgettable’ story for someone else.”

“It was more than the sex, and you know it.” He steals my coffee and struts in the other direction.

“Hey!” I chase him … which is harder to do because his legs are much longer than mine.