Page 22 of Someone Like You
IAN
“T hank you so much, Ian! You saved my life!.”
Georgia Walsh, owner of the Shelfish bookstore, was ecstatic to have her windows properly lit again. They were getting less daylight every day and having curated shop windows was no use if passersby couldn’t see what was on display.
“No problem,” Ian grumbled. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, it’s been a… Ah, challenging week.”
C hallenging being the understatement of the year.
He and Phil had gone for one of their runs earlier that morning and they’d acted like any other day, tacitly agreeing not to bring up the panic attack or what had happened next.
Ian wasn’t even sure what had happened next.
A moment of weakness. A distraction. He’d let the emotional charge of the situation derail his integrity for a heartbeat, edging dangerously close to losing control.
It would’ve been unforgivable of him to take advantage of Phil’s vulnerability.
Every fibre in his body had wanted to pull him to himself and hold him tight until he stopped shaking so helplessly.
Wipe his tears, kiss his temple. Kiss him . Tell him—
“How much do I owe you?”
Georgia’s voice tugged at Ian’s musings, but he was only half listening and half still caught up in judging himself. What kind of person thought about kissing a guy who’d just come out of a panic attack?
“Nonsense,” he said, trusting he’d processed the question correctly. “It was a ten-minute job and I live round the corner.”
Georgia made another couple of attempts to convince Ian to take a few quid, but he was unmovable.
“Take a book or two, at least!”
“Alright, alright!”
He looked around, meaning to select a random book out of the many within reach, when a bright white cover caught his eye.
It was simple and discreet, just like he liked them.
At the centre, shattered glass formed a sun-like shape dotted with blood drops, a captivating silvery title embossed on top of it: Seventeen Seconds of Sun .
He’d already picked it up when his heart leaped noticing the author’s name at the bottom.
P. J. Hanson .
“Oooh, that one’s brilliant!” Georgia clapped her hands excitedly. “Have you read Hanson before?”
A corner of Ian’s mouth ticked up fondly at the sound of the name he’d been lovingly twisting since the first time he’d heard it.
“Can’t say I have, no.” He couldn’t believe he’d never thought of looking up Phil’s books.
Georgia reverently trailed her fingers down the cover. “This is his debut novel — my favourite yet. Although Star Captor might be close second. You’ll love it if you’re into mystery and thriller. There’s also a very intriguing romantic subplot.”
Ian wasn’t one of those avid readers who devoured book after book after book, but he did enjoy a good novel and was more than a little curious about Phil’s work.
“You sure I can take it? ”
“All yours! Let me know what you think!”
“I will. Thanks, Georgia.”
* * *
He hadn’t expected the story to have a female protagonist, nor that he would end up growing so fond of her so fast.
Alba Kendry, senior Sociology student at UCLA turned improvised detective, was a grumpy, foul-mouthed loner with an uncanny penchant for making people uncomfortable with inappropriate jokes about her prosthetic leg.
Ian had had no choice but to spiritually adopt her within the first fifteen pages.
He’d never come across a thriller that was also so amusing and full of heart.
He could see Phil through Alba’s clever puns, quips, and jabs, in the vibrant descriptions of people and places, and more than once he found himself chuckling at a line, thinking ‘That’s so you, Phil’ .
He tore through the pages even in those passages where Alba’s beau made him want to throw the book out of the window.
It was almost midnight when he started the last chapter before the epilogue and couldn’t resist texting Phil.
You
This Alba is a powerhouse
A reply came almost at once.
Handsome
Are you reading one of my books?
You
17 seconds of sun
Had a call out at a bookshop and it was right there
Handsome
So you like it ?
Ian could picture Phil’s face looking at the screen, pleased and perhaps slightly nervous.
You
Depends Is Paul going to die soon?
Alba’s aspiring boyfriend was a straight-up arsehole — to put it mildly. Ian just wanted to see his toxic guts spilled on the ground, but the creep had already survived a beating and a stab wound and hope was withering.
You
If he lives I’m going to burn this fucking book
Handsome
It’s the first in a trilogy, have some faith
You
So you’re saying I’m going to have to burn the book?
Handsome
Or I can get you the other two and you can judge when you’re done reading them all
You
I’ve got 20 pages left, better have them handy
Need to know what’s in store for my new daughter
Handsome
You mean MY daughter
Ian tutted. Phil may have created Alba, but his parental care left a lot to be desired.
You
I’ll fight you for custody, you put her through too much
Handsome
You and Alba would make a devastating duo
Yo u
In a good way
Handsome
In a “the world should be scared of our combined sass” kind of way
Ian smirked smugly. He was typing out his joint custody conditions when another text arrived:
Handsome
I’ve got a free trial at the gym you recommended tomorrow afternoon
I can drop the books off at yours along with the tupperware and your precious bag before I go home
The gym in question was in Ian’s neighbourhood. It was a small business run by his old friend Najeer, the ideal place for someone with Phil’s issues with crowds and strangers.
You
Gym huh?
Planning to outhandsome yourself?
Handsome
Shut up
Ian couldn’t tell Phil there was no way he could get any more attractive than he already was.
It wasn’t about looks or any specific physical traits: it was about the light that took over Phil’s face when he smiled, broad and genuine, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened, displaying a joy his forced smiles couldn’t fake, the bright twinkle of intelligence of those eyes that almost turned green in the sunlight.
It was about the strength and the courage of a man who’d chosen to stand through the pain and limp on rather than give up.
A sculpted physique could never make him more charming than he already was, but this wasn’t Phil’s goal: working out was a natural remedy for mental health issues and Phil deserved nothing but praise for wanting to get himself back on track.
You
Go do your thing
I’ll be waiting for your old carcass to drop on my mat
If Ian had to live with a bleeding heart, he was glad it was for a man like Phil Hanson.
* * *
The following day, like all Fridays, was hectic and tiring and left very little time to indulge in leisure activities like reading.
Ian went to the gym during his lunch break, but his favourite metal playlist blaring in his ears wasn’t loud enough to distract him from his obsession with Alba’s story and her fate.
He’d left her lying in a hospital bed with several cracked ribs and a crushed spleen after a shady car accident.
The book had ended in a cliffhanger, with a nurse bringing a flower delivery while Alba was being questioned about the accident by Detective Beauchamp, leaving Ian with an abundance of theories and zero answers.
When the doorbell finally rang around 6 PM, he had a whole day of pent up frustration to vent.
“I’ve got questions,” he said as soon as the door opened to Phil, who arched his brows, bike leaning against his side.
“Good evening to you, too.”
He was dishevelled, a light flush lingering in his cheeks, and Ian remembered about the gym. He stood aside, motioning for Phil to carry the bike into the flat.
“The wheels are wet.”
“It’ll be gone in minutes if you leave it outside.”
So the bike was brought in and propped to the wall. Ian ignored the muddy trails the tires left on the linoleum; he’d noticed the helmet hanging off the handlebar: the black paint had long silvery scratches along one side.
“Ah.” Phil eyed it apologetically. “Yeah, it was a pretty timely loan.”
“What happened?”
“Slipped in a puddle of soggy leaves.”
Ian ran a fingertip along the deepest scratch, where the paint was grazed so deeply it peeled off in minuscule curls. His jaw tightened. “This could’ve been your head.”
“Yeah,” Phil admitted sombrely. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
Ian couldn’t have cared less about the helmet. “I told you it’s yours. Give me those books and we’re even.”
“Oh, right.” Phil wrangled the duffel bag off his torso and rummaged into it until he extracted the flowery bag, which he handed to Ian, more full than when he’d borrowed it. Inside it were the empty tupperware and two brand new books.
“Something’s missing,” said Ian, and looking up he realised that Phil had the something in question pulled down on his head.
“You didn’t say I had to return the beanie.” The innocent lilt didn’t match the mischief in Phil’s look. The only reason Ian let it slide was that he didn’t hate the idea of Phil wearing something his .
“Fancy a drink?” he asked instead, but a loud growl from Phil’s stomach made him rephrase: “Or something to eat?”
Phil blushed. “Didn’t think about bringing a post-workout snack and the vending machine only had processed crap.”
“Will crackers and cream cheese do?”
“I’d eat your cat right now.”
Ian cast him a murderous look before inviting him to the kitchen with a nod.
Phil was indeed ravenous. As soon as Ian set down the food in front of him, Phil tore the crackers box open, popped the cream cheese lid, and eagerly started working his way through them like a starved lion.
His relentless crunching and the way he’d occasionally lick some dip off his fingers, with a side of quite obscene throaty moans, were so mesmerising that Ian forgot about the books and all the questions that had been bugging him since the night before.