“I’m not sure how helpful my thoughts would be. Photography isn’t my focus. I’m a painter. You’ve got all the technical stuff down anyway,” he said with a shrug.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t need to tell you about aperture and aspect ratio and all that. That stuff makes perfect sense to you. It’s textbook,” he said, nodding for me to follow him.
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked, somehow feeling even more self-conscious even though he’d paid me a compliment.
“It’s not a problem. It’s just … not something you can find in a textbook or learn in a classroom. Let me see if I can explain this. Look at this tree,” he said, stopping and pointing in front of us. “What do you see?”
“A tree.”
He laughed and stood behind me so we had the same perspective.
“Okay, but what else?”
“Branches?”
“You’re just describing a tree, Skye. You aren’t looking at it.”
I faced him, annoyed I was getting this wrong. “What are you talking about? It is a tree. I know I’m right about that fact.”
He laughed and put his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me back to the tree.
“Yes, I know you know what a tree is, I’m not questioning that. But really look at it. Take a deep breath, stand here for four seconds, and don’t think about anything else but looking at it. Seeing it.”
I shook my head. “This is stupid. Professor Edison has never said to do that.”
“Give me your camera. I’m having a hard time explaining this, but once you get this part, everything is going to change. You’re just glancing at this tree, assuming it looks like every tree you’ve seen before. You aren’t looking at it,” he said, taking the camera and adjusting some settings. “You’re not seeing the sunlight streaming through the branches or how the chestnut bark contrasts perfectly with the crimson leaves. If you just take a second and look, and not just snap a photo really fast, you’ll know what to focus on to capture the details of this particular tree.”
He snapped a photo and handed me the camera. “See the difference?”
I stared at the image. Somehow, he’d captured the branches curving just so, almost cupping the light that streamed through the leaves, the feeling of the stillness on the trail, the slight chill in the air.
“How did you do that? That’s not what it looked like.”
“It takes time,” he said as I stared at the tree in front of us, seeing what he’d captured in reality, what I’d overlooked.
“All your photos are great,” he said, stepping away from where we were standing. “And I’m not just saying that. It’s clear that you understand the beauty of symmetry. But you move too fast, just trying to get it done like it’s a check on your to-do list. You’re distracted by everything around you. The next photo you take, just take a moment, breathe, take it all, appreciate the little details, and then take the photo.”
“No one told me that,” I said quietly. “That wasn’t in class.”
He smiled. “I know. It’s more of a feeling kind of thing,” he paused, looking at me carefully. “You know your best photo?”
I shook my head.
“It was the one of a woman,” he said as we walked side by side, rocks crunching under our boots. “I’m not sure who she is, but all the details are there, front and center, capturing who she is in an instant. Her hair, her smile, even how her hands looked, resting just so on her hip. Whoever that is, you know her. You see her.”
I stopped, making him turn to look at me. “That’s my sister.”
“Oh,” he said and nodded. “Yeah, then that makes sense.”
We walked in silence as I felt a way I couldn’t explain until he stopped. We were standing exactly where his painting began. He sat down on the leaves on trail’s edge and patted the spot next to him.
“We have to wait for the sun to hit just right,” he explained. “It won’t take long, promise.”
I sat down next to him and looked at the tree-line, trying to see it how he did.
“So you took this class, too, right? What photos did you turn in?”
He glanced at me and grinned. “Well, I actually didn’t exactly follow the assignment guidelines, if you can believe it.”
I laughed. “Of course. What did you do?”
“I only turned in one photo,” he said, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his photos. “Even though that was like five or six years ago, I think I took a picture of it a few months ago when I saw it. Yeah,” he said and handed me his phone.
I took it, looking at a photo of a framed photo. It was of an older man in a suit standing in front of a large, white Colonial style house. He had his hands in his suit jacket pockets, his head thrown back in laughter. I could instantly tell he was caught at the exact moment when he was happiest. His shadow stretched across the grass that looked golden from the sunlight. I felt like I could hear the laughter, feel the warmth from the sun, the happiness in the air. Something about the photo seemed so bright, so hopeful. The photo made me believe he was the kind of man you wanted to get to know, the kind you knew had amazing stories to share.
“This photo is stunning. Who is this?”
“My dad,” he said, his gaze on the trees in front of us. “Past, future, love, inspiration. That was the day after he was diagnosed and, yet, he still found something to laugh about.” He glanced at me. “Don’t look too sad. It’s okay,” he said with a smile. “Also, I got a hundred on the midterm. So it paid off to break the rules.”
I kind of laughed, resting my head against his shoulder.
“Dean, I’m really sorry about your dad,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what to say about the whole situation, and I don’t know if you want me to say anything. But you can always talk to me about it. Even if that means breaking Rule 1.”
He smiled, kissing the top of my head. “I know, Skye.”
We sat in silence for a moment until he shifted, leaning back on his palms, squinting at the scene in front of us.
“This is it,” he said, nodding to the trees. “This is what I’m going to paint. The light just like this. You should practice taking some photos. This light is golden. Any shot you take is going to be perfect.”
I stood, stepping away from where he sat. I tried to practice what he said, taking in the details, slowing down, but I could feel myself overthinking, holding my breath, unable to focus. I turned to ask for his advice, realizing I’d walked several paces away from him.
He was leaning back on his tatted hand, his arm flexing just so, his other arm propped on his knee, his sleeve tattoo looking extra bright against his white v-neck, the colors almost matching the yellow and red leaves on the ground where he sat, his fingers twisted in his dark hair, his earrings thin silver hoops, his expression serious, his chocolate brown eyes focused on the sky. He was absolutely right — the light was golden, washing over him, little pieces of dust sparking around him like magic. I took a breath and held up my camera.
★☽★★☽
“Skylar, come on, we don’t want to be late. Why this is locked?” Krista said, trying to open my bedroom door, shaking the knob. “I want to borrow your jean jacket.”
“One sec, sorry, I’m changing,” I said, hovering my cursor over the submit button on my photography class’s dropbox.
I rolled my eyes at the fact that my final photo — labeled inspiration — was undeniably the best one, ignoring that I was blushing at the same time.
“Skylar,” she said, knocking on the door again. “Kyle is going to be here any minute to pick us up.”
“Krista, geez, I’m coming,” I snapped, taking a deep breath, hitting submit, and snapping my laptop shut.
I opened the door, handing her my jean jacket, and pulled her away from my room, terrified she’d open my laptop for some reason and see the photo I’d taken of Dean, the only one right for my final submission.
“You seem out of it tonight,” Krista sa
id once we were in Kyle’s car. “Are you stressed about midterms?”
“No, I feel good about those,” I said, distracted, as a text from Dean popped up.
“Uptown Girl” — classic love song, right? Even if pining is involved. What are you doing tonight?
“Hey, can I play a song?” I asked, switching to his suggestion after Krista passed me Kyle’s phone.
We had been texting throughout the day, debating love songs between casual conversation. He had shared the most ridiculous orders from the coffee shop as I tried to explain why I liked my Principles of Management Information Systems class so much. He’d sent me photos of weird things at an estate sale he’d stopped at on the way to the gym while I’d shared photos of my old pageant dresses as I cleaned my closet. Just light dinner party topics.
“Your song suggestions have been killer,” Krista said.
Family dinner. Pot roast and prose. Just kidding, trying to be poetic, but really I just sit there and count down the seconds until I go home.
You’re the only person I know that would mean that literally. Exactly how many seconds?
I smiled, doing the math in my head, and typed back.
“Skylar, come on,” Krista said.
I glanced up, realizing we were in our parents’ driveway.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head, feeling like I’d been in a trance since yesterday. After we’d returned to his place — and I’d tucked away my camera, saying I was too self-conscious for him to see any of the photos I’d taken — we’d quickly become distracted by the unlimited amount of time we felt like we had together, not leaving his bed for seemingly hours. I had to tear myself away, running late for dinner with Lindy, but as soon as I’d gotten home, we had started texting each other, not stopping until now.
“Honey, no phones at the dinner table,” Mom reminded me.
I put it in my pocket as she continued her story about redecorating the guest bedroom. I was barely listening to the conversation around the table — feeling the weight of my phone, trying to think of a witty comeback to Dean’s last teasing text — until Kyle addressed me.
“Were you at the golf course yesterday? I thought I saw you.”
Everyone looked at me, and my focus immediately snapped back to reality.
“What?” I said, mid-bite, trying to think of something, anything, to say, to push past how frozen I felt.
“Yeah, in the parking lot? I thought I saw you, but you were with some guy I didn’t recognize. He had a bunch of tattoos.”
I chewed my pot roast slowly, begging it to last longer, knowing Mom would be horrified if I spoke with food in my mouth.
“Surely not,” Mom said immediately, aghast at the thought.
“Skylar was at spin class when you were golfing, babe. She wouldn’t be with some guy with tattoos,” Krista said with a laugh.
He nodded, having never questioned her in his life.
“Yeah, you’re so right, babe. Honestly, Skylar, seeing you now, she didn’t really look like you,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. “This girl looked different.”
I swallowed my food, nodding, still at a loss for words.
Mom laughed with Krista, relieved, and shook her head at the idea that her youngest daughter, the one who tried so hard to be perfect at all times at any cost, would be seen with a guy with a bunch of tattoos outside the country club.
I glanced at Dad. He wasn’t laughing with the rest of them, but instead, looking at me the same way he looked at his calendar, his notes, studying every detail so he would never be caught off guard.
His knowing gaze was the reason I opened my mouth, desperate for the only distraction I knew would work, the words tumbling out before I had a chance to stop them.
“So, um, I was thinking of reaching out to Michael to see if he wanted to get coffee. And I thought you all would be excited about that. So that’s why I was on my phone,” I said, glancing at my beaming mother. “Sorry,” I added, feeling guilty for too many reasons to accurately count.
CHAPTER TEN
“You know, it doesn’t matter how many times you do it, it’s not funny,” I said, trying to hide the smile on my face.
Dean laughed, tossing my empty coffee cup in the trash. “Oh, come on, those dudes don’t even notice.”
I rolled my eyes. Ever since he’d gained control of the coffee shop speakers, he thought it was hilarious to play “Closing Time” right as my dates wrapped up. Without fail, no matter how long they lasted, he always got the timing down perfectly. As soon as the first notes would start over the speakers, I’d glance at him, but he’d already be moving on to something else, opening a bag of beans, making a latte, straightening cups, as if every time was pure coincidence.
“Yeah, but I notice,” I said, sliding my date notebook in my backpack. “It’s distracting.”
He grinned, not bothering to respond, as he walked back to the counter. I watched him from my table as he finished closing the shop, studying the way he moved so easily, a lightness in every motion, the way he held things, delicately and focused, and I realized it was probably because he was more a painter than a barista.
He looked over at me as he punched out at the register, catching my gaze with a smile. I stood, tossing my backpack over my shoulder as he came around the counter.
“So you waiting around, does that mean you’re coming back to my place?” he asked, opening the door for me before locking it.
I grinned and shook my head. He rolled his eyes, wrapping his arm around my waist as we walked to our cars.
“Okay, the next silly little date you have, I won’t play it. Does that make you happy? Now will you come back to my place, princess?”
“I can’t,” I said as we leaned against my car. “I have to get up early tomorrow morning.”
“I’m not asking you to stay over,” he said, kissing my neck, moving down to my collarbone as his hand moved up my shirt. “Rule 5, remember? It’s Friday, midterms are over, your Spring Break starts on Monday. Between me working doubles and you studying every hour, we haven’t seen each other in a week. I miss you,” he said lowly, his breath against my skin, sending chills down my spine.
“You make a really compelling argument,” I said with a laugh. “But I really can’t this time. I’m getting an early breakfast with Krista before I help her register for wedding gifts tomorrow.”
He shook his head, not understanding, but knowing me well enough to not even ask why I was so involved in wedding planning.
“What about Sunday during the day?” I suggested, thinking we could see each other before I had family dinner.
“I can’t. Gotta take care of some dad stuff.”
I nodded, knowing him well enough not to ask him to elaborate.
“You and I will figure it out. It’s not like we’re going anywhere,” he said, kissing me soft and slow, the kind of kiss that made me feel nervous, my heart beat hard in my chest, wanting to push him away because of how much I liked it.
But instead, I pulled him closer, telling him I’d rethought his argument, and it really was compelling. So compelling that I ended up in his bed 14 minutes later.
Afterward, he came back to lie beside me, kissing me that way again, making me melt.
“Dean, stop,” I said, laughing. “Rule 4, Rule 4.”
I squirmed away from him as he laughed, reaching for me again.
“I didn’t realize that kiss was a Rule 4 situation,” he said with a grin, lying on top of me.
I rolled my eyes. “You wouldn’t kiss someone like that unless you were feeling Rule 4.”
“We can feel rules now?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “That’s an interesting development to the contract.”
“I don’t know. My brain is mush from midterms. Let me up.”
He rolled off of me as I pulled on my clothes and walked into his kitchen to grab a glass of water. On his island sat a bottle of wine with a red ribbon aro
und it.
“What’s this?”
He sat up on his elbows and looked over at me. “Oh, yeah, this woman who’s commissioning a landscape gave it to me when we met to discuss it. I think she’s trying to bribe me to move up the timeline I gave her because I kind of have a lot of paintings I’m working on now. Actually, do you want it? I rarely drink so it’ll probably just sit there unless you take it.”
“Is that a vegan thing?” I asked with a laugh, studying the label. “This is good, by the way. We drink this on special occasions. Like at dinner parties,” I said with a grin in an exaggerated snobby tone as he rolled his eyes.
“No, it’s not a vegan thing,” he said, laughing as he came over to me, grabbing water for himself. “I just don’t drink much. I try to eat and drink cleanly, you know?”
“You should at least try this. It really is good wine.”
“Are you trying to tell me about fancy wines since you couldn’t get into that wine class yourself? Trying to show me something I can talk about at dinner parties?”
I laughed, nodding.
“All right,” he said with a grin. “Teach me your ways, princess.”
He opened a couple drawers, eventually finding a wine opener, as I searched for wine glasses. Of course, he didn’t have traditional glasses, but rather, vintage embossed goblets of various colors with an intricate silver-plated design on the stem.
“You know, it’s pretty cool you’re in such high demand that you’re getting free wine just to bump someone up your queue,” I said as he poured us glasses.
He kind of laughed, shrugging. “Yeah, it’s cool, I guess.”
I thought of the Heart Gala when I’d ignored Michael’s request to meet up for coffee and my hovering mom, just focused on seeing the painting one last time before I’d left that night. I couldn’t help but notice that the painting he’d been so nonchalant about had sold for $8,565, the most out of all the ones there. I couldn’t believe I used to see what he did as just a silly hobby.
“You have this whole brand, you know?” I said, taking in his tattoos, his piercings, his stylish bedhead, thinking of all his creative outfits. “I mean, I bet people would love to know more about you. Have you over for dinner, get to know your story. You could totally lean into that. These people want to experience the original artist as much as they want to pay for the art.”
A Guy Like Him Page 17
