A Guy Like Him

by Amanda Gambill

  “My brand?” he laughed. “I just paint landscapes. I don’t know how to be a brand.”

  “But I know this world, Dean,” I said, tapping the wine bottle as a reminder. “Junior League, charity ball people are in awe of you.”

  “Are you included in that roundup?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  I laughed and rolled my eyes, pausing to clink my glass with his.

  “I’m just saying I think you’re really talented, and I know that these people would pay a ridiculous amount so they could say they have a Dean Cross original. And they would probably pay more if they got to interact with the Dean Cross. But I’m not trying to give you business advice or anything,” I said quickly.

  He smiled. “No, it’s cool. It’s something to think about,” he said, considering what I said. “So you think I should get into this whole wine-and-dine thing? Network and shit?”

  “Yeah, let these people connect with you. And then they can go to their next Junior League meeting and brag that they got to have dinner with an original artist, which will gain you more leads, and then they pay you an insane amount because they want the whole package,” I said, looking him up and down, accidentally blushing. “Lean into your brand, be that extravagant artist that can charge a lot for perfect paintings.” I paused and grinned at him. “You know, this is the kind of stuff they teach you in business school,” I teased.

  He laughed and lightly pushed me, picking up his glass.

  “Well, I’m glad I have you then. Hey, look at that, somehow I still don’t need a degree,” he said, kissing my cheek as he walked past me to the living room area. “Now tell me about this wine, princess.”

  We moved to the couch, losing track of time as I pretended to know all about tasting notes and tannins in an exaggerated way. He played along, finding the whole thing funny. We refilled our goblets as we searched for love songs to add to our shared wedding playlist, playing songs the other didn’t know, songs we actually listened to, completely nontraditional. None of them would work, but we added them anyway.

  “So you never want to get married?” I asked, refilling our glasses.

  “I never said that,” he replied, joining me at the island.

  “You kind of did,” I countered, splitting the last bit of the wine between our goblets, pausing to admire how cool they looked. “When you picked me up from my sister’s engagement party.”

  “You kind of said that, too, that night,” he said, looking right at me, his eyes the richest brown, making me feel weak. “You said you wanted fries instead. And I got you some.”

  I laughed, covering my mouth, thinking that was so funny. He laughed, sitting the glass I offered down, and kissed me. We ended up on the floor, laughing and making out, pausing when I banged my knee against a cabinet. I laughed, grabbing my knee, my fingers covering my scar, not really feeling the pain as he kissed the spot before we became tangled together on the hardwood.

  “Skye,” he said, his mouth close to my ear, his voice low. “I think we’re buzzed.”

  I laughed, turning my face to him, thinking he was so attractive, feeling like I was floating on air, cheeks flushed, body tingling.

  “Yeah, I think we are. Everything is approximately twenty-two percent funnier than average,” I whispered.

  He laughed, making me laugh, until we were both just lying on the floor on our backs, tears in our eyes, staring up at the ceiling.

  “What time do you think it is?” I asked after a moment.

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Sounds about right,” I laughed, sitting up to look for a clock.

  “No, wait, don’t go,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me back down.

  As he started to move his arm, I grabbed it, keeping it around my waist. “No, wait, don’t move. My knee still hurts,” I pouted.

  “Let me see,” he said, sitting up, steadying himself with his palms on the floor before reaching out to touch my knee, his touch so light. “Well, you have a pretty big scar here. We both know it’s not from my kitchen. But only one of us knows how you got it.”

  I exhaled a heavy breath and sat up, resting against the cabinets.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you,” I said, giving in this feeling, to total honesty.

  I told him the whole story, how everything felt, how my dad had cheered on my sister when I hadn’t even realized it had been a race, how he hadn’t listened when I said I was hurt, how Krista had been so mad at me for taking the spotlight away from her, how falling had been such a shock after feeling such freedom. And then, suddenly, as I finished the story, I was crying, right there on the kitchen floor.

  “Oh god,” I said, covering my face. “I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing. Please ignore me.”

  He put his arm around me and held my hand, his fingers interlocked with mine, not letting go but not saying anything, knowing there weren’t any words to heal this kind of feeling, a weight I’d carried for years, internalized until it was just as much as an ugly scar as the one on my knee.

  I rested my head on his shoulder and took a deep, shaky breath.

  “Sorry,” I said again, wiping my face. “I never cry, so I think that was just a system malfunction or something.”

  “You aren’t a computer, Skye. You’re allowed to feel.”

  I groaned and shook my head. “Blegh, no. It’s not a big deal. Just a stupid memory I wish my brain could erase.”

  He half-smiled at me, resting his head back against the cabinet.

  “Memories can be pretty powerful,” he said, looking down at his free hand, twisting one of his rings with his thumb. I watched him, suddenly feeling really bad for what I’d said, thinking of his dad.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that,” I said, squeezing his hand.

  He glanced at me. “I know. Really, I’m not upset. My dad has been sick for almost six years,” he said, slightly sighing. “It’s not a fresh wound that I can’t look at or handle. I’ve learned how to turn it into a positive.”

  “How so?”

  He shook his head. “I’m calling Rule 1 purely on the account that I’m too buzzed to explain just yet. I’ll show you someday, though.”

  He smiled at me as I nodded, believing him.

  The music changed to a slow song, one that couples would dance to in front of their friends and family under sparkling lights. And we sat there, my head on his shoulder, his hand locked with mine, both of us humming ever so lightly, reminded of our own pasts, feeling the present, thinking of someday.

  ★☽★★☽

  “Tell me about one of your tattoos,” I said, sitting down my phone, feeling better about it being past midnight now that Krista thought I was staying late at Lindy’s, and Lindy thought I staying late at Brad’s when, really, I was buzzed on Dean’s kitchen floor.

  “Which one?” he asked, pulling the woven blanket he’d grabbed from the couch over our shoulders and picking up his goblet from where it rested on the floor.

  “Which one was your first?” I asked, feeling incredibly comfy against the cabinets even though there was no reason in reality that this should be cozy.

  “Okay, I got this one,” he said, twisting his sleeveless arm and pointing to a small tattoo of the Big Dipper right above the inside of his elbow. “Eight years ago when I was eighteen—”

  “You mean seven.”

  He looked at me, confused. “No … I think I mean eight.”

  “I know I’m buzzed, but I can still do math. You’re twenty-five, right? That minus eighteen is seven.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess. I mean, yes, you’re right,” he said quickly, laughing, when he saw my scowl at the notion that I was wrong. “But my birthday is in a couple weeks. So I think it’s closer to eight years. But yeah, maybe it’s technically seven. I don’t know, all those numbers kind of just run together in my mind.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me your birthday was coming up?”

  He sat down his empty wine glass an
d thought about this. “Well, I didn’t think that was something you would want to know. Because of the contract.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, nodding, looking down at the floor. “So what are you doing for it?”

  He shrugged. “I think just getting together with some friends at a place downtown. It’ll be pretty chill. You could come if you wanted.”

  I glanced at him, staying quiet.

  “I mean, we’re friends, right?” he continued slowly. “You and me.”

  I nodded, keeping my gaze on my wine glass, focusing on how the light glinted off the silver, ignoring how hard I was blushing.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Yeah, so it’s whatever. I’ll text you about it later when I have a real plan. Come or not, it’s cool,” he said, shrugging, turning his face to mine, kissing me soft and slow, exactly how you wouldn’t kiss a friend, as we laid down on the floor.

  “I should go,” I said afterward, feeling extra tired.

  “You can’t drive,” he said, equally sleepy. “Just spend the night.”

  I paused, knowing I could have called a Lyft.

  Instead, I said, “What about Rule 5? It’s the clearest rule, Dean. It just says ‘no staying over.’”

  “Well, what about Amendment 5.1,” he said simply, sitting up and running his tatted fingers through his messy hair.

  “There is no 5.1,” I said, picking up my shirt from the floor. “Plus, even if there was, I can’t. I don’t have my contact solution or a contact case, I don’t have a toothbrush, I just can’t ‘stay over.’ I’ve never understood how people in movies do this whole thing spontaneously. Do they just always carry around their nighttime supplies or—”

  He interrupted me with a kiss, saying I was talking way too fast. Then he opened the Lyft app on his phone. I nodded, glad one of us was thinking rationally. As we got dressed, I tried to figure out a plan to get my car from his place tomorrow before breakfast with Krista, plotting out the timing between spots on my maps app.

  “Okay,” Dean said, reaching out his hand. “Our car is here.”

  I followed him outside and down the stairs, focused on setting my alarm an hour and a half earlier than I had it originally. Then I looked up from my phone as he opened the car door for me, actually hearing what he said.

  “Wait, what? Our?”

  “Yeah, come on,” he said, getting in the car and pulling on my hand as I stared at him.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered, putting my phone away.

  He smiled. “We’re getting you that stuff you listed. You know, it’s weird being in the backseat with you and not being able to do anything,” he whispered in my ear.

  I wasn’t sure what to blame — the wine, the sound of his low voice saying all the things he wished we could do, making me blush, or that it really was so much easier to stay over instead of wasting time going back and forth tomorrow morning — but by the time the car stopped in front of a 24/7 convenience store, I was on board, deciding to not overthink it.

  As we stood in the travel section, I found myself staring at Dean in his strange, cool outfit — cuffed torn jeans, a barely buttoned baroque patterned shirt, a drape cardigan rolled at the sleeves, red suede loafers, beaded necklaces matching the dozens of beaded bracelets on his wrists, all his earrings gold — not understanding how someone like him existed in the same world as me.

  “What?” he said with his trademark dimpled half-smile, noticing I’d been staring.

  I shook my head, biting my lip, unable to explain.

  He reached for me and pulled me close, humming a song, something I didn’t recognize, and before I could ask what was happening, I fell into step with him, right in the middle of the aisle, laughing as he kissed me, spinning me around, not caring that anyone could walk by, that anyone who saw us probably thought we were crazy, dancing at 1:07 a.m. in a convenience store to a song only we could hear, that only existed in our world.

  ★☽★★☽

  My alarm was loud, a tone I’d intentionally chosen years ago, something jarring and jolting, determined to wake me up on the first beat as to not waste time.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dean mumbled, reaching for my phone before I could grab it, turning off the alarm, and tossing it to the side. “Oh my god, that sound was horrible.”

  I laughed and sat up as he rolled on his back. “What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his head, not bothering to open his eyes.

  “5:15.”

  He groaned. “No, that’s not acceptable. You can’t wake up this early. Veto,” he said, pulling me back down on the bed.

  “Veto?”

  “Yes, veto,” he said, still half-asleep, rolling on his side, his arm heavy and solid around my waist. “My bed, I call veto.”

  “Our contract doesn’t outline any sort of veto power,” I said as he squeezed my side, making me laugh, before he pulled his arm away.

  “Add it in. My bed, my rules. Sub-amendment to 5.1,” he said, smiling but still not opening his eyes.

  “And what exactly are you vetoing?” I asked, turning to face him. He looked so attractive, adorable even, in the morning light.

  “I’m vetoing the idea that you’re waking up at the crack of dawn when we fell asleep four hours ago. Vetoing you getting out of this bed,” he said, grabbing my phone and dropping it next to me. “You can set your alarm for an hour from now. Not a minute sooner,” he said sleepily, closing his eyes, lightly kissing my shoulder.

  “You weren’t even going to sleep in this bed four hours ago,” I reminded him, brushing my fingers over his patterned tattoos.

  He shushed me, not bothering to respond further.

  Once we’d returned from the store last night, as I brushed my teeth with my brand-new travel toothbrush and toothpaste set, I’d asked, “Oh, what is Amendment 5.1 anyway?”

  He’d shrugged. “I don’t know, I just said that,” he’d said with a laugh, taking off his necklaces and bracelets. “How about it’s that you can spend the night when you’re buzzed? That seems good enough.”

  I’d laughed, stepping back inside the bathroom to take out my contacts as he tossed a pillow and blanket on the couch. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “I figured you wouldn’t want us to sleep in the same bed.”

  I’d rolled my eyes, thinking this was a one-time thing anyway so what did it matter, the rule was already broken. “Okay, I’m calling 5.2. Make it whatever you want. Just no cuddling.”

  We’d followed that rule once we’d laid down, him on one side of the bed, me on the other, but somehow, as the night turned into morning, we kept finding ourselves accidentally tangled together, waking up every so often to move off of each other, blaming the alcohol even though we were both sober by the fifth time it had happened.

  Exactly an hour later, my alarm woke me at 6:17. I silenced it before Dean could stir, jumping out of bed despite being tired and slightly hungover. As much fun as I’d had last night, knowing Krista would be waiting on me at 8 a.m. sharp across town made me hurry through a modified version of my morning routine, brushing my teeth, putting in my contacts, pulling on my clothes, digging in my purse for makeup.

  Dean sat up on his elbows, watching me. “Do you always move this quickly in the morning?”

  “Well, I don’t like to waste time,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “What about appreciating time?” he countered, walking to the kitchen and scooping up our empty wine glasses from the floor.

  I shook my head, not responding. In the morning light, I was reminded of how different we were. Especially when I asked if I could grab a travel coffee cup, saying I would return it the next time I saw him. He looked at me, confused.

  “I don’t have travel cups,” he said as if that made perfect sense.

  I blinked at him. “What? Okay, where do you put your coffee?”

  “In a mug,” he responded, giving me a weird look.

  I looked around, realizing I didn’t see his coffee pot. “Wait, where is
your coffee pot?”

  “I don’t own one,” he said with a laugh. “Aeropress or Chemex?”

  “Are you serious? This is the one thing you’re a snob about?”

  He laughed again. “I’m not a snob. I just don’t buy into the whole concept of drinking subpar coffee because the world says we all need to be on the go all the time. Coffee is meant to be appreciated, not guzzled. We aren’t machines desperate for fuel.”

  “That’s me. You just described me, Dean,” I said with a laugh.

  He raised an eyebrow, turning to the Chemex in front of him. “I just don’t believe that, Skye.”

  As we waited for the water to heat, I walked over to the canvas propped up on his easel. It wasn’t blank, but it also wasn’t a landscape, just lines and swatches of colors.

  “What is this supposed to be?”

  He kind of laughed, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me. “I just started it. I know it looks messy.”

  I nodded, having never seen this part of the process before. “So all your paintings start out like this? It doesn’t look like anything.”

  He laughed again. “Yeah, how something begins doesn’t mean that’s how it’s going to end. You have to trust the process, Skye,” he said, turning back to focus on the coffee he was making. “Things change. It’s not perfect yet, but it will be. You just have to be patient.”

  I thought about this as I watched him move so easily in the kitchen, taking his time with everything he did. He faced me again and smiled, and I wondered if he’d felt me staring, unable to put into words what I was thinking and feeling.

  “Come here, princess, I can finally serve you actual good coffee.”

  I rushed over, reaching out, but he pulled my mug away.

  “Just promise me you’ll sit here and actually appreciate it.”

  I rolled my eyes, agreeing to sit with him before I had to leave.

  We sat on his steps outside, taking in the sun and fresh spring morning, and I found myself appreciating how time seemed to move slower with Dean, taking note of the coffee, how it did taste better, like magic.