The Last One Read Online Free PDF

there, you know. Um, I think his hair was light brown, maybe almost blond? He was kind of tall. But then everyone looks tall to me. Pretty built, I guess. Why?”
    “I think I sort of remember him.” But in my memory, I was looking up into the deepest brown eyes I’d ever seen, watching my own hand stroke the side of his face. With a pang, I recalled touching his skin, how the soft stubble had felt beneath my fingertips. Which was ridiculous, because if I couldn’t remember leaving the bar last night, let alone the car breaking down, how on earth could I still picture those eyes?
    “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. He helped get you to the truck and then carried you to the Chevette. You were semi-awake then.”
    I bit the side of my lip. “His name is Sam, you said?”
    “Yeah. Why?” I heard her curiosity.
    “No reason. I just want to know who has my car.”
    “No, that would be Boomer, remember? Sam just drove us there. I don’t think you’ll see him again.”
    I closed my eyes against the remainder of the headache still pinging under my forehead and stomped down the feeling of disappointment. Why would I care about not seeing a man I’d been nearly too drunk to remember? What did it matter if it felt like those brown eyes had seen deep into me, maybe the first guy ever to look beyond the surface? It meant nothing. He was just another male, one more in a world full of men I didn’t need.

    I BEGAN TO FEEL more alive around two that afternoon. When Laura suggested that we log some studio time, I put on some yoga pants and a T-shirt and walked the few blocks to a tall brick building that used to be a department store but now housed classrooms and practice rooms. We had access to the art studios twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but the weekends were still the busiest times. I was surprised to see the day’s sign-in list was virtually untouched when Laura and I arrived.
    “Geez, are we the only losers who care about their craft today?” I printed my name on the line and handed the pen to Laura.
    “Or maybe we’re among the few who didn’t hit the party of the year last night. Could be the rest of campus is still sleeping it off.” She smiled and handed the pen back to the security attendant. I followed her down the hall and into a nearly empty room.
    The studios were divided between the different disciplines. Laura’s major was drawing, with a concentration in pen and ink. Mine was painting. Those two disciplines shared a room, although Laura didn’t come down here as often as I did. She could draw virtually any place, and most of her homework and projects could be finished in our living room as well as anywhere else. I, on the other hand, had to be in the studio at least three to four times a week. I was pretty sure she’d suggested us coming down today as a distraction for me, to take my mind off my hangover, but that was all right; I was willing to play along if it gave me some time on the easel.
    The room was a study in chaos. There were canvases in the process of drying propped against the walls, half-finished three-dimensional sculptures scattered on tables and windowsills, and boxes of paints and brushes piled here and there. I felt perfectly at home.
    “Meghan! Hey!”
    I turned my head to glance down the haphazard row of easels, where a tall, skinny boy in chino shorts and a paint-splattered T-shirt was waving his brush at me. Forcing a smile, I returned the wave and clenched Laura’s arm. “Don’t leave me alone.”
    “Why?” She followed my gaze. “Oh, shit.” As he approached us, her phony grin matched mine. “Hey, Preston. How are you?”
    “I’m awesome, just like always.” He slung an arm over my neck, pulling me close. I stood perfectly still, trying not to stiffen my body. “What’re you ladies doing down here? Gettin’ your paint on?” He laughed at his own lame joke.
    “Yeah, just putting in some time down here before it gets too intense.” Laura slid her