A Guy Like Him

by Amanda Gambill

  I smiled, nodding, and held up the little drawing we’d created together. We smiled at each other, and I slipped the drawing in my pocket, for some reason wanting to keep it for myself.

  “I loved hearing that story,” I said, knowing it wasn’t something he’d tell at a dinner party.

  He kind of smiled. “Yeah, I haven’t thought about it in a while. Sorry though, I got distracted, I can make you another gift tag,” he said, pulling a piece of paper toward him. I put my hand over his.

  “I don’t need more tags,” I said quietly. “I’m finished.”

  He smiled and moved to sit on the couch, and as I glanced at him, he looked lost in thought.

  I filled out the final tag, the prettiest one he’d made, to put on my last present for Krista. I’d already bought her dresses, scarves, earrings, little things I knew she’d like, but as I’d walked through the mall, a fixed watch on my wrist and an impractical bra in a bag on my arm, I’d paused at the gumball and trinket machines near the exit.

  All throughout our childhood, Krista and I would take turns buying each other “Best Friends Forever” lockets, earrings, necklaces, whatever was available and cheap enough for our allowance money to cover the cost. I still had every half of my pieces, tucked away neatly in a jewelry organizer I hadn’t opened in years. She and I would always exchange gifts on Christmas night, but when she was 16 and had her first real boyfriend, she’d wanted to spend the holiday with him. I should have known that night, as I sat in my room alone waiting on her, that things were going to be different. Right at curfew, she’d come home and sat at the foot of my bed, wearing a shiny silver necklace with a solid heart charm dangling on it, her face beaming, gushing over how nice it was.

  “It’s nothing like the tacky stuff we’ve been giving each other over the years,” she’d said, looking at herself in the mirror. “I know you won’t mind, but I didn’t have time to get a BFF thing this year. We’re probably too old for that stuff anyway, right?”

  I’d nodded, telling her it was okay, she was right, she knew best, I was happy for her that her boyfriend had gotten her something so nice, so unlike what we’d ever given each other.

  But seven years later, standing in a crowded mall, I’d decided I’d already been impulsive, I could try it one more time, sliding a couple quarters in the machine, twisting the knob, grabbing the small ball that fell out holding two bracelets. One half of a heart said “Best Friends,” the other half, “Forever.”

  I taped the tag on her gift and moved to sit next to Dean on the couch. “Thanks for helping me,” I said, wanting so badly, for no reason at all, to touch his hand again.

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said. As if he could sense my unexplained desire, he busied himself with placing some more pens in the jar, not looking at me. “Something to do, you know.”

  I nodded as he picked up the Sun Meadows folder, stacking it neatly under his sketchbooks. He sat back on the couch, running a hand through his hair, and took a breath.

  “Should I take off my sweater again?” I asked with a smile.

  He laughed and leaned his head back on the couch cushion, grinning at me. “I don’t think you’d take off your sweater at a dinner party either. You’re breaking all the rules, Skye,” he said, raising an eyebrow, that trademark smirk on his face.

  I laughed and moved to sit on top of him, running my finger down the velvet of his shirt, fiddling with a button. “Well, you did say you thought I was carefree and wild.”

  “I said I wasn’t sure,” he said, his hands on my hips, bringing me closer. “I need more data, weigh the variables against constants or whatever, you know, all that good stuff,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me as we both laughed, falling down on the couch, forgetting all the rules.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Wait, wait,” I said, fumbling to find my phone in the bedsheets. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to stop, but we have to pause,” I said breathlessly, moving off of Dean and silencing my alarm.

  “What just happened?” he asked, sounding dazed and looking confused, having not even noticed the alarm. “That was so good. Why did you stop?”

  “We aren’t stopping, we’re just pausing,” I said, grabbing the first shirt I could find, a slouchy vintage Fair Isle patterned sweater that was definitely not mine. “It’s The Purge.”

  He sat up on his elbows, watching as I rushed to get my laptop.

  “The Purge?” he repeated incredulously. “What does that mean?”

  I sat back down on the bed and opened my laptop. “You know, when people don’t confirm their enrollment, pay their fees in time, or,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at him, “drop out. Midnight is the deadline. So now, because of The Purge, spots open up for those of us who couldn’t get in a class the first time we made our schedules.”

  He shook his head. “I definitely didn’t know about that. How long do you need to pause and purge?”

  Ignoring him, I logged into my student account and navigated to my schedule.

  Somehow, despite creating my spring semester schedule in October at the exact moment when classes opened up, I hadn’t been able to get the professor I wanted for Introduction to Federal Income Tax. Determined to switch classes, I’d immediately set an alarm on my phone then for this exact moment. Exactly three months ago, when I’d marked the day on my calendar — seven days after New Year’s and seven days before the start of spring classes — I’d never thought I’d be in the barista’s bed, the same barista I would kiss for the first time later that day, when my alarm went off.

  Realizing this would be an extended pause, Dean put on jeans and sat next to me, watching me scroll to find the right one.

  “Wow, you’re really stressed about this,” he said after a moment.

  “You don’t understand, the professor I have is awful. He cancels classes all the time, he reads straight from the book, all his tests are easy. Like, you can Google his name and class and the tests are right there on the first page,” I said, clicking confirm to drop his class.

  “That doesn’t sound like a class most people would want to drop,” Dean said, wrapping a chunky knit blanket around us.

  “Well, I’m going to school to learn,” I said, switching to the other class, double-checking its time I selected matched the rest of my schedule. “I’m not there to coast and then hope I figure it out in the real world later. I want to be prepared for the future.”

  Dean rested his head against my shoulder as I clicked enroll. Nothing happened. I clicked the button six more times, frantically, before he placed his hand over mine.

  “Just give it a sec,” he said calmly.

  I closed my eyes. “Did it load yet?” I asked after a moment.

  “Uh, it says it’s full.”

  I snapped my eyes open. “What? No, oh my god, this is a nightmare,” I said, hitting refresh, trying it again. “Oh my god,” I repeated, reading it was full with my own eyes. I hurriedly pulled up the class I’d just dropped, needing to reenroll to keep my status as a full-time student.

  It was full.

  “Oh my god,” I said again, feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s wrong?” Dean asked, concerned.

  “This was not the plan,” I said, inhaling a shaky breath, my skin was getting hotter with each second, that familiar panic rising in my chest. “I was supposed to enroll in the good class, and now I’m not in that one or the bad one, and I think I’m going throw up.”

  “Whoa, Skye, breathe, just chill out for a minute,” he said, putting steady hands on my shoulders. “Can’t you take another class? Surely there are tons of … federal income tax classes?” he said, reading off my computer screen.

  “No, there aren’t,” I said, covering my face with my hands, scrambling to think, to figure out how to fix this. From the moment I enrolled in Middletown University, I knew every single class I would take and what semester I would do it, having plotted it out at the kitchen table with Krista on my right side and Dad on my l
eft.

  We had even talked about my upcoming schedule on New Year’s Day, and I had felt so prepared, so assured, already buying my textbooks with my dad’s credit card as he reminded me to send him my syllabi once I had them.

  “Okay, well, can you take another accounting class?” Dean asked.

  I sighed, running my hands through my hair. “No, I’ve already taken all the ones I can do until I’m a senior in the fall.”

  “Such an overachiever,” he said with a smile. “Oh, you know, what about electives? Those are required for all majors, right? I remember I took some sort of organic vegetable gardening class.”

  “I am not taking a gardening class.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, I’m not suggesting that specific course. Have you already done your electives?”

  I paused, thinking about this. I was planning to take Intro to Wine Tasting my senior year, figuring that knowing about wine would help at networking events and at important dinners in my future. I grabbed my laptop, searching for the class. It was full.

  I groaned, pushing it away and flopping down on my back. Dean moved to lay on top of me.

  “Skye,” he said. “Don’t stress. You’ll figure it out.”

  “That’s easy for a college dropout to say,” I grumbled, turning my head away from him.

  “Oh, wow,” he said, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Do you get mean when you’re stressed, princess?” he said and kissed the spot just below my ear, knowing that gave me chills.

  I turned my face back to him and scowled.

  He smiled, unfazed. “Here’s the thing, Skye, I don’t care what anyone thinks about my dropping out. I made that decision three years ago, so my feelings can’t be hurt about it now,” he said, dropping his lips on my cheek, my forehead, my nose, kissing away my scowl.

  “Why did you drop out in the first place?” I asked, still pouting.

  “I already told you, school wasn’t for me,” he said, nuzzling my neck, sending more chills down my spine.

  I bit my lip and shifted away from him, grabbing my phone. Krista was away with Kyle, celebrating their three month engage-iversary, a milestone I didn’t think was an actual thing no matter how many times she said it was. I thought about texting to ask what she’d do, but I didn’t want to bother her. I sighed and dropped my phone.

  “Why don’t you take an art class?” Dean said, lying on his back and looking up at the ceiling. “They’re pretty fun.”

  “School isn’t for fun,” I said, sounding just like my dad.

  Dean laughed. “Okay, how about this argument then — it will make you more well-rounded. You could learn a new skill. Think about all those accounting majors you’ll be competing against for jobs and their resumes. I bet they all say the same thing. And you could have photography or pottery or something cool in your skill section, totally surprising the boring person who’d be interviewing you. And they’d be like, ‘wow, this girl is a math genius and super talented in the arts. We gotta hire her, pay her double.’”

  I sat up on my elbows and looked at him.

  He grinned. “Or whatever,” he said with a shrug. “Just go to the accounting department and explain the situation. I bet they’d let you in one of the classes.”

  “Why are you being rational?” I said, unable to stop staring at him. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, looking at me somewhere between amused and puzzled.

  “I’m not an irrational person, Skye. Why do you think that?”

  “Well, you…” I trailed off, not sure how to put it into words.

  “I’m what?” he said with a smirk. “A barista that dropped out of college? You think that makes me irrational?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I said, frowning at him.

  He raised an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling, knowing he was right.

  “It’s not just that,” I said with an eye roll. “I mean, you have all these tattoos, you willingly live in a place without heat, you smash pumpkins in parking lots—”

  “Actually, you smashed that pumpkin,” he said with a laugh.

  I blushed and looked away. He grinned.

  “Ah ha, gotcha. You know, doing what you want doesn’t make you irrational. Sometimes it makes you feel good. See, like this,” he said, kissing me as I laid down, pulling him down with me.

  Two days later, I thought of what he said as I sat in the coffee shop, having arrived too early for my appointment with the accounting department chair. Somehow, I’d found myself on the university’s fine arts department webpage, looking at the class offerings, wondering which ones Dean took before he dropped out. I glanced over to where he was leaning next to the register, talking to the other barista.

  I stood, quickly scanning the dead coffee shop, and walked to the counter. He glanced at me and turned, tapping the register screen.

  “Hey, want another coffee?”

  I glanced at the other barista who had moved to opening a bag of beans, not paying attention to us. “Were you an art major?”

  Dean looked at me, slightly confused why we were having an open conversation in public. “Yeah, why?”

  I slid my cup across the counter. “What was your favorite class?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” He picked up my cup but didn’t move to refill it.

  “Well, which one do you think someone who is not great at art should take? To be … well-rounded.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I haven’t made a decision yet,” I said, rolling my eyes. “So don’t get too cocky. I just wanted to know all my options. Like, do you think a photography class would be miserable?”

  “Do you like photography?” he asked, turning to pour my usual.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I guess. I thought about taking an intro class when I was a freshman,” I said, not revealing more. Not saying that when I’d floated that idea past my dad two years ago, he’d never looked more disappointed, saying there was no future in that, asking why I would waste my time on something so frivolous.

  “Krista never took a photography class,” he’d said, looking up from the schedule we’d been creating together, his brows furrowed. “Why would you want to do that?”

  I’d wanted to explain that I’d always liked the idea of photography, preferring to be behind the camera instead of in front of it, but the way he looked at me, so disappointed, so confused, as if he didn’t even recognize me, I’d agreed, deciding to take a wine class during my senior year instead.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t you do it?” Dean said, sliding my cup back to me. “I always liked my photography classes. They were fun. But I also learned a lot, so don’t freak,” he added quickly with a laugh.

  The other barista wandered over to us, and I grabbed my cup. “Uh, how much are refills again?”

  Dean shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Hey, let me know what you decide, I’m curious,” he said, stepping away from the register as I turned to walk back to my table.

  I didn’t tell Krista or my dad. I could barely say it out loud to the accounting department chair after he’d said he could let me in the class I’d asked for, but that it was fine to wait until next semester instead if I wanted.

  If I wanted, I repeated in my head later that night.

  As I sat on my bed, my door closed, my room dark except for the night sky behind me and my bright computer in front of me, my cursor hovering over the Intro to Photography class, I clicked enroll.

  ★☽★★☽

  Romance was in the air, love songs played over the speakers, dim lights twinkled above, red candles cast a soft glow on all the heart-shaped decor. Even the champagne I held was in a pink-tinted glass.

  It was Valentine’s Day. And I felt like I was going to be sick.

  “So, what do you think?”

  I blinked at my mom, having been lost in my own thoughts.

  “Oh, yeah, I think this is great.”

  “It’s a shame your sister couldn’t help,” sh
e said, smoothing her sparkling evening gown. “She looks so beautiful in a gown.”

  We were at the annual Heart Gala, a charity ball that my mom had been co-chair of ever since I could remember. The past several years I’d been with Michael, an easy excuse to get out of volunteering. But this year, I didn’t have a date or a boyfriend, so I had no reason I couldn’t say yes when she asked if I could help, saying Krista obviously couldn’t.

  “Are you and Brad not doing anything?” Lindy had asked when I complained about the gala as we walked out of class earlier today.

  I’d rolled my eyes. “No, that’s, like, way too serious,” I said before changing the subject, asking what she and Brandon planned.

  I doubted Dean even realized what the day was, and regardless, I knew we wouldn’t see each other tonight anyway. I figured being around each other on Valentine’s Day, even just for sex, veered too close to our no romance Rule 4. I already felt like I’d been pushing it on the last holiday, Christmas Eve night, when I’d realized it was snowing. I’d impulsively texted him that I was thinking of him and hoped he had a Merry Christmas, immediately regretting it the moment I hit send. He’d replied, right at 11:34, saying: Miss you, too, Skye. xoxo.

  And now, snow had been replaced with hearts, and I felt like I was in a pageant all over again in a fitted satin gown — something I’d found shoved in the back of my closet — makeup, nails, and hair professionally done, heels uncomfortable, making me shift as I stood near the bar. I looked beautiful, but I’d never felt more out of place.

  “So, honey, I was thinking you could help with the silent auction,” my mom said as she scanned the crowd.

  “I don’t know anything about the stuff though,” I said slowly.

  “You just need to be a pretty face, hon,” she said, smoothing her hands over my shoulders and adjusting a curl of my hair. Her face lit up, spotting someone behind me. “Oh, and Michael can help you. His mom signed him up to volunteer, too. He didn’t have a date for Valentine’s Day either.”