I glanced at my watch. After I’d calmed down from fighting with Krista, I left our apartment, texting her once I was in the grocery story that I was going to the library to study, figuring I would sneak in after she fell asleep.
“It’s 10:53. And yes, I thought about it, and I realize you need rest, and I shouldn’t have come by, so I’ll just leave this and let you get back to bed.”
“You’re talking so fast, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m groggy or because you’ve lost your mind,” he said with a smile.
He looked adorable, rumpled and tired from being sick. He almost looked normal in casual clothes, except his joggers were gradient in color, starting white and ending black, rolled at the bottom, revealing an ankle tattoo that I’d either missed or was new, and a tattered v-neck henley, no jewelry in sight.
“I’ll go. I also got this, though,” I said, pulling out a small container of vegan ice cream. “When I was a kid, my parents would always give me ice cream when I was sick. I don’t know if it was for medical purposes or just because it shut me up. So I thought it was worth a shot.”
He laughed, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said slowly as if he couldn’t quite believe I had. I couldn’t either.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, shrugging. “It’s stupid. I’ll let myself out.”
“Wait, Skye,” he said, following me.
I stopped at the door, my back to him. “You’re sick. So that means we won’t have sex, so I shouldn’t stay.”
“Right,” he said. I felt him step away. “I guess that’s the rule.”
I put my hand on the doorknob, looking down at the floor. “I’ll see you later, Dean.”
“You know,” he said, a smile in his voice, “if you leave now and I die, not only are you the last person I spoke to on the phone, but you’re also the last person I saw, in my place, bringing me food. That’s, like, basically an immediate lock-her-away-and-throw-away-the-key situation. Probably wouldn’t even need a trial.”
I smiled, turning and leaning against the door, my hand still on the doorknob. “You’re serious?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah, very serious. You should probably at least split this ice cream with me so I know it’s not poisonous. I’m starting to get suspicious myself. This could very well be the perfect crime.”
I laughed, dropping my hand and stepping toward him. “You’re officially delusional.”
“Come on then, prove me wrong,” he said with a grin, grabbing the ice cream, two spoons, and the cough syrup.
“You first, so we don’t share germs,” he said, passing me the ice cream as he poured himself a cough syrup shot on the couch.
I turned on the heater, moving it closer to him, and picked up the remote from the coffee table, flipping through channels until I found the right one.
“Okay, so in addition to the ice cream, my parents would turn on a game show to keep me busy so my brain wouldn’t turn to mush.”
He laughed. “You still had to learn stuff on sick days?”
I laughed, having never thought about it that way. “It’ll distract you, I promise. You’ll feel better.”
He smiled. “I already feel better.”
I lightly pushed him. “You need to lie down. You know, you’re being sick all wrong.”
“I like this whole nurse fantasy,” he said with a grin.
I scoffed. “Why can’t I be a doctor?”
“I’m down for that, too,” he said as I tossed a blanket at him. He laughed again, stifling a cough, and faced the television. I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile, and focused on the ice cream as we watched a trivia game show.
“How was the Heart Gala?” Dean asked during a commercial break, closing his eyes. “What were you wearing? I’ve heard it’s like black tie or something.”
I rolled my eyes at the memory of my gown. “I was wearing this awful satin dress from my pageant days.”
He opened his eyes and sat up on his elbows, this fact giving him a small burst of energy. “Pageant days?”
I blushed, realizing what I’d said. “Oh god, please forget I said that. I retroactively call Rule 1.”
“You can’t retroactively call a rule,” he said with a laugh, lying back down and coughing. “I can’t believe you’re an actual beauty queen. I mean, I believe it because, damn, look at you, but still. It makes calling you princess so much sweeter.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shut up. I didn’t like doing it.”
“Really? A girl like you, gorgeous and competitive? You probably loved it.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, sounding more serious than I intended.
He looked at me, realizing he’d struck a nerve, but didn’t press.
I sighed. “I had, like, a panic attack every time before I went on stage. I hated it. I never wanted to compete. My mom just figured because my sister liked it so much, I probably would, too. And I never figured out how to tell her or Krista that I wanted to quit.”
“That sucks, Skye,” he said, taking the ice cream I offered. “I’m sorry you had to do something you didn’t want to. That’s not fair.”
I shrugged, looking away. “It’s not a big deal. That’s kind of how it is, you know,” I said, stopping myself short as my voice broke.
He sat the ice cream down and reached out for me. Without overthinking it, without even caring that he was sick, it was late, and I should be at the library, without hesitating or speaking because, somehow, we were so sync, I laid down with him. He wrapped his arm around my waist, and I tucked my head on his shoulder, our fingers interlocked, the blanket covering both of us. I knew that he could feel the air between us had shifted and how my heart was beating fast and hard in my chest. How it didn’t slow down, not even when he fell asleep, still holding me.
CHAPTER NINE
“This is a great song,” I said, laughing, as Dean shook his head.
“It’s a cheesy romance song,” he said, leaning against the counter, straightening a stack of cups. “Are you planning a cookie-cutter wedding? Every wedding in the history of the world has played ‘My Girl,’ and no one remembers one experience from the other.”
I picked up my empty coffee cup and walked over to him. “I have to choose classics. No one wants to dance to a song they don’t know.”
He picked up his phone, switching to “Build Me Up Buttercup.”
“Okay, how about this? A song about a guy who likes a girl who doesn’t even notice. That’s romance, right?”
I rolled my eyes in response as he poured me coffee.
As a peace offering to Krista, after a week of the silent treatment, I’d offered to help come up with wedding song suggestions. And after Dean caught me humming “I Can’t Help Myself” for the twentieth time, he became involved, playing love songs over the coffee shop speakers while I studied at night.
“It kills two birds with one stone,” he’d explained one night before we made out against his car. “You can study, listen to cheesy songs, and I can help you so you don’t only choose cliche ones. So I guess technically it’s three birds, math genius. Just don’t expect me to play love songs when you have your silly dates,” he’d said with a grin, kissing me before I could react.
At first, I’d make notes about the songs to myself, but then, as the nights grew later and the coffee shop became empty, leaving just us, we would find ourselves debating the selections, me at my table, him at the counter.
“You keep choosing songs that aren’t really love songs,” I said as he handed me my cup, our fingers brushing. “You keep choosing pining songs. Do you even know what love is?”
I pointed at the speakers overhead, my point proven, as he switched the song to “Linger” by The Cranberries. He laughed, ignoring where I tried to hand him money for my refill.
“Oh, right, you’re the expert on love. Let me see that date notebook of yours again.”
I laughed, trying to scowl. “And to answer your question, yes, I kind
of am planning a classic, albeit cookie-cutter, wedding. If you knew my sister, you’d know that’s exactly what she wants.”
“So then I guess you’re nothing like your sister.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, surprised by that assessment.
Before he could answer, my phone rang at my table and a couple walked in the shop. I glanced over my shoulder at him as he took their order and moved to make lattes, still caught off guard by someone thinking I was different from Krista.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile as he started asking about midterms, going down the list of my courses, making sure I was prepared. He was even more focused on me than usual because at family dinner, Krista, still upset with me from our fight, had said because I was staying late at the library so much recently, I must be totally overwhelmed.
“You need to explain this one to me, Skylar, because it just sounds like a made-up assignment,” Dad said once we got to my photography class, his exasperation apparent over the phone. “How is this a midterm? There isn’t even a rubric.”
“Hold on, let me see,” I said, scrambling in my backpack to find the syllabus. I kept it on hand, referencing it almost every time he called. I flipped through the pages and held back a sigh. “Okay, yes, I do see that there isn’t a rubric, but the assignment made sense when my professor explained it. I promise, Dad, I’m not just—”
“I just don’t understand,” he said, somewhere between confused and disappointed. “It sounds like you’re just supposed to take a bunch of pictures. How are you learning anything?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
I tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen, launching into his usual lecture on how now isn’t the time to slack off, there would be time to have silly fun once I was retired, but right now, I should be working toward my goals, didn’t I want what he and my mom had, what Krista and Kyle had.
I mumbled my agreement, watching Dean straighten chairs and wipe down tables, getting ready to close the shop, as The Cure’s “Friday I’m In Love” played over the speakers.
After I’d hung up, the sound of his disappointment still vibrating in my head, I looked down at my crumpled syllabus, knowing I’d never admit to him that even though I was learning and hadn’t had this much fun in a class in my life, I was also struggling on this midterm. I could ace any test any day, but this assignment had thrown me for a loop.
We were supposed to take four photos, one to represent past, future, love, and inspiration. To showcase the past, I’d taken a photo of all the halves of my BFF charms, stacked perfectly on my bedroom dresser with an old family photo blurred in the background. For the future, after I met Krista for lunch to go over floral arrangement ideas, I’d taken a photo of her accounting firm, the sky gray behind it. For love, I’d easily convinced Krista to let me take her photo, her smile bright, hand on her hip, hair curled just so, in a beautiful dress, a perfected pose.
But I didn’t know what to do to represent inspiration. I had taken exactly 57 photos, trying to find the perfect shot of just about anything in my apartment, on campus, even at my parents’ house, but nothing felt right.
“Skye, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, pulling away as we made out against his car after he’d closed the shop.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “Sorry. I was just thinking about school.”
Dean looked at me, waiting on me to explain.
I shook my head again.
“If you tell me, you’ll feel better, and then we can both feel really good,” he said, lightly kissing me. “Or are you still avoiding my place?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not avoiding your place. I told you, my sister is getting on my case about staying out late. She threw me under the bus at family dinner, saying I’m ‘staying late at the library so much.’ So I just need to … be normal for a while longer.”
I hadn’t been back to his place since he’d been sick two weeks ago — untangling from our embrace after one more game show, telling him I had to go but I would see him again soon. Since then, we were back to how we’d been five months ago, fooling around in his car after he closed the shop.
He sighed, leaning against his car and squinting up at the sky.
“Is that the only reason? Because I’ve told you if you feel weird about me breaking Rule 4 when I was sick, just remember I was drugged out my mind. From the drugs you brought me,” he teased, lightly nudging me.
“No, it’s not that,” I said honestly. “Midterms are next week. I’m just stressed.”
“I’ve never seen you stressed out about school work,” he countered. “And especially not tests.”
“Well, it’s not a test.”
I groaned as he gave me all his attention, listening, caring.
“Fine,” I said, giving in, telling him all about the assignment, how I couldn’t find what inspired me, how each photo made up 25 percent of my grade, and there was no way I could settle for a 75.
“That’s a C,” I reminded him. “I don’t make Cs. You know that.”
“I know,” he said, his fingers brushing my wrist. I scooted closer, wishing it was below 20 degrees so we could touch. But winter was disappearing, spring slowly breaking through the air, and I didn’t have a good enough reason to take his hand. “Why don’t you turn in one of the, what’d you say, fifty-five photos you took? I’m sure one of them is good.”
“Fifty-seven,” I replied. “I can’t just turn something in, Dean. It has to be perfect.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said, facing me. “Maybe you’re so focused on perfection that you’re overlooking something great.”
I looked up at the sky, trying to count the stars, but the lights from campus made it impossible.
“Well, maybe you could help me.”
“Of course,” he said easily, moving back in front of me. “I don’t work tomorrow. And it’ll be Saturday, so surely you can make up some excuse to sneak away. Maybe we could actually see each other when the sun is out.”
“Like, during the day?”
“That’s usually when the sun is out,” he said, a smile in his voice, kissing my neck, twisting his fingers in my hair. “Just once, I don’t want a coffee counter and a table between us or to race against a clock you keep checking.”
He kissed me again, leaving me breathless, making me nod, agreeing without a second thought, knocking on his door the next day. He smiled when he opened the door.
“So tell me, what excuse did you use today? Library? SGA? Volunt—” he started, but I cut him off, pulling him close, kissing him the second I stepped inside.
We didn’t waste any time getting to the bed, only breaking apart to say how much we missed each other, not taking the time to correct ourselves, that we meant just this, just sex.
★☽★★☽
I stared at the canvas, trying to distract myself from feeling self-conscious as Dean flipped through the photos on my camera.
“This is beautiful,” I said, taking in the painting. It was another landscape, this time of some sort of rocky trail, leaves and lush bushes dotting the path, skinny evergreen trees in the background, the sun bursting through the branches, almost as if it was hitting me in the eyes.
He glanced over at me. “Yeah, it’s not done,” he said, distracted.
“Really? It looks finished.”
He sat down my camera on the coffee table and stood behind me, crossing his arms.
“I need to fix the light,” he said as if I could tell.
I turned to look at him as he studied the painting. I couldn’t believe I’d thought this had been just a hobby for him, unable to stop wondering what else I’d gotten wrong.
“So does this exist in real life?” I asked after a moment. “Like how your Heart Gala painting was a real place?”
He nodded and moved back to the couch. “Yeah, it’s a trail nearby. The one near the golf course?”
I nodded, knowing exactly where he was talking about, having been to
that golf course a thousand times — working as a drink girl in the summers during high school, learning how to play with Dad and Krista, celebrating Father’s Day and Easter with my family in its country club. I had no idea there was a trail near it.
“So when are you going to finish this painting?” I asked, really wondering when he was going to tell me his thoughts on my photos.
“Whenever I go back out there. I need to see it one more time to get the sunlight just right.”
“Will you show me?”
“Show you what?” he asked, flipping through the photos on my camera again, still not saying anything about what he saw. He must have hated every single one.
“Show me the trail. It’s a two-birds-one-stone situation. I’ve decided that nothing inspires me. It’s just not something that I think is part of who I am, you know? I’m the kind of girl who is inspired to finish assignments because I’ve been assigned them. I don’t think there’s a secret deeper layer. So what if you helped me take the perfect photo? I can get an A on my midterm, and you can see the trail again to finish your painting?”
He looked at me, a slightly surprised expression on his face. “What about Rule 3?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a date if it’s for school. I just need to get an A, you know?”
He stood and shrugged. “Okay, whatever you wanna do. I have a couple more paintings I need to start next week, so it would be awesome to finish this one this weekend.”
He grabbed his keys from the kitchen island as I grabbed my camera, both of us already in motion, not stopping to overthink.
“So are you going to tell me what you think about my photos?” I asked once we stepped on the trail.
I couldn’t believe this place was something that had been here my whole life, something I’d overlooked every single time I’d been at the golf course, missing the sign right at the edge of the parking lot pointing to where it started.
“I mean, it’s clear by your silence you think I suck,” I added.
“I don’t think that at all,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“So why haven’t you given me feedback?”
A Guy Like Him Page 16