A Guy Like Him

by Amanda Gambill

  “You know how to bake?” I asked skeptically.

  “Well, I’ve lived alone for five years, so I’m pretty aware of how ovens work. And I can follow recipes,” he said with a laugh. “You do remember I’m literally paid to wear an apron for at least forty hours a week and follow recipes?”

  I laughed, kissing him so he’d stop proving me wrong. He kissed me back, lightly pushing me against the island.

  “This is going to take forever. Approximately two hours and twenty-seven minutes,” he teased.

  I laughed. “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m not going to be able to stop doing this,” he said, kissing me on the mouth again.

  The oven beeped, signaling it was preheated, interrupting us.

  “Okay, let’s focus,” he said, shaking his head and pulling on a shirt. “You keep distracting me.”

  I laughed. “I’m distracting you?”

  He nodded and grinned at me.

  “I’ll make muffins, you do the cookies,” I said, sitting the eggs, milk, and butter I’d brought from home and the recipe book I’d borrowed from my mom in front of him.

  “So,” he said once he’d turned on some music, and we had worked side by side in silence for a moment, “are you ready for the photography showcase?”

  I avoided his glance, feeling my chest tighten.

  I had been shocked to find out that my photography class final wasn’t an exam or even an assignment to submit more photos. Instead, on Friday, the last day of finals, we had to matte the photos we’d submitted for our midterms and hang them in the student gallery on campus, graded on talking to guests about what the photos mean to us.

  Professor Edison encouraged us to invite our friends, family, and significant others, saying it was easier to show our art to strangers than the people closest to us. The real challenge would be to look at the people who knew us best and bare our souls, she’d explained. My pulse had quickened at the idea, thinking of the photo of Dean I’d submitted. I’d stayed after class to confirm we didn’t have to invite guests, unsure if I was panicking more at the thought of Dean seeing the photo or my parents, not positive who would freak out more.

  Professor Edison had seemed confused at my question. “Why wouldn’t you want to, Skylar? Your photos are great. They all tell a real story that is worth sharing.”

  “Thank you,” I’d said, nervously adjusting my backpack on my shoulder. “But our grade isn’t specifically determined by how many people we personally know showing up, right? I can bare my soul to strangers, I promise.”

  Her confusion had only seemed to deepen. “No, technically, your grade will be based on if you show up and participate.”

  I’d nodded, feeling relieved. “Great. I’ll be there.”

  Before she could ask anymore questions, I’d rushed out, saying I was running late for my next class.

  “How did you know about the showcase?” I asked Dean, realizing he was waiting on an answer.

  He shrugged. “I just assumed if you had the same midterm as I did, you’d have the same final. Are you excited?”

  He must have noticed a difference in my expression because he then asked, “Oh, are your parents coming? Are you nervous?”

  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t invite them.”

  My dad had called, frustrated, asking me to explain what the syllabus meant when it said the final was to ‘demonstrate real-world knowledge about the presentation of art.’

  “We just have to stand up in front of class and present our photos,” I’d said, having practiced this line several times before this phone call. “It’s just a presentation, like the ones I have to do in economics.”

  He’d scoffed at the idea that my economics and photography classes were in any way similar. “Do you know the rubric? Does this professor even give out real grades?”

  “Yes, I talked to her after class the other day,” I’d said honestly.

  “Your mother and I will be excited when this silly class is over,” he’d said with a sigh, weary of this constant battle, but satisfied enough by my answer. He’d switched gears before I could respond, asking about my other courses as I breathed a sigh of relief that my secret would be safe.

  “Maybe you should consider inviting them,” Dean said casually, not looking up from what he was doing. “Maybe if they see what you’ve been working on and how good it is, they’ll get it.”

  I sat down my whisk and took a deep breath, the photo burned in my brain. “No way. They would freak.”

  “What about your sister?”

  I shook my head.

  “And your loud friend doesn’t get an invite either?”

  I laughed. “Absolutely not. She would probably find a way to accidentally insult everyone there in less than five minutes.”

  Dean laughed. “So it sounds like you’ll be alone.”

  I nodded, so grateful I’d pulled it off.

  “Okay,” he said slowly, sitting down his bowl and facing me. “So then if I dropped by, I could be Dean Cross and not a random barista or the idiot guy you tutor?”

  I froze. “Wait, what?”

  “I’m asking if you would care if I showed up.”

  I looked at my muffin mix, trying to keep my expression neutral, thinking of that photo. If he saw it, things would get complicated. It would be the biggest Rule 4 violation we’d ever faced. I wasn’t ready for this whole thing between us to be over.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  He was looking at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze.

  “Well, I’ve done gallery shows before, and I know how good it feels to see a familiar face. I thought I could be supportive.”

  “Supportive,” I repeated as if I’d never heard the word before. I wasn’t sure I had.

  “Yeah,” he said easily, picking up his bowl again, ahead of me, already placing perfectly sized scoops on a cookie sheet. “I know this class has been different for you, and I think it’s awesome that you’re killing it. But if you feel like it’s weird or somehow a Rule 3 thing, don’t worry about it. I get it.”

  Finished with his task, he turned back to me. He knew I was being weird, but he didn’t seem upset about it.

  “You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it,” he said with a shrug.

  I looked down at my mixing bowl, not even close to finished. “You beat me,” I said, still dazed by his question.

  “Oh, yeah, whatever. It’s not a competition,” he said with another shrug, kissing my cheek before walking into the living room area to change the music. I quickly finished what I was doing, double-checking the recipe, before joining him on the couch, kissing him soft and slow, until the oven beeped, signaling our cookies and muffins were done.

  “Do you want one?” I asked, nodding to the muffins.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, vegan thing. I’m sure they’re great.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, nodding to my soy milk, bananas, and almond flour. “I was trying out a vegan recipe. It’s also gluten-free. I, uh, remembered you ordered gluten-free toast that one day. So I thought you could taste test one. It’s probably stupid,” I said with an eye roll, feeling vulnerable by the surprised way he looked at me.

  “Well, good, because that makes me feel less stupid for doing this,” he said with a laugh, handing me a chocolate chip cookie.

  The chips were lined up perfectly to form a seven. I looked at him, realizing the date, smiling. Seven months.

  Before I could respond, he continued, “You and your numbers,” he said with an eye roll. “It’s like you said a date, and now it’s stuck in my head and I can’t help it—”

  I interrupted by kissing him, pausing to laugh as we almost knocked over the baked goods as he lifted me to the counter.

  Five days later, I was standing in the gallery as far away from my photos as possible, trying to remember to breathe, wondering if this had been a mistake. He hadn’t asked me about it since we’d baked. I didn’t have any exte
rnal pressure to include him. There had been no logical reason for me to text him Thursday night to say it was cool if he wanted to drop by. But I hadn’t been able to get his words out of my head, that he wanted to be supportive, that he wanted to be just Dean Cross with me in public.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked as he walked up, his smile replaced with concern.

  I looked at my watch. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “You said it started at six, right?”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time, a move I’d never seen him do in the seven months I’d known him.

  It was 5:59.

  “You’re early,” I said, shaking my head.

  He looked confused. “Yeah, I set two alarms,” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t want to miss it. You look great.”

  In a maroon pencil skirt, a sleeveless white silk shirt, a black blazer, and heels, I looked like someone who would buy the art, not make it. He was wearing a deep purple, almost black, faded blazer rolled at the sleeves, a palm leaf button-up, fitted black jeans, his brown leather lace-up boots, an equal mix of black, gold, and silver jewelry. Everyone in my class looked more Dean’s vibe than mine, a reminder that I didn’t really belong here.

  I watched him as he looked around the gallery. My photos were displayed in the third room, the farthest from the entrance, a room that, at this moment, I was hoping he’d overlook.

  “I’ll leave you alone so you can mingle and do your thing,” he said with a smile. “I don’t want to get in your way. I know how important grades are to you, princess.”

  I nodded, watching him walk away, already taking in the other photos, pausing to look at each one, talking to the photographer, actually curious in everyone’s story. I ignored the pit in my stomach and walked to the room with my photos.

  I stared at them on the wall, chewing on my fingernail, a terrible habit that would make my mom angry, knowing the photo on the wall would make her even angrier.

  “It’s a great photo, Skylar,” Professor Edison said behind me, making me jump. “I noticed the subject is here.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say, not sure how to explain who he was. Not positive if I even knew.

  “Is he the reason you didn’t want to invite guests? Or is he the guest you didn’t want to invite?” she asked as I wondered if all artsy people were as perceptive as she and Dean were.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “Both, I think.”

  We looked at the photo, the sunlight so golden, so warm and bright, spilling over him in the scene. I chewed on my nail harder.

  A few strangers walked up, and she patted me on the shoulder before walking away. I righted myself, focused on my grade, putting on my best pageant smile, answering questions as needed.

  The showcase lasted only an hour and a half. Knowing Dean, he would probably spend two to three minutes on each photo, meaning he would get to my section with only five minutes to spare before we would all be ushered out. I’d played this scenario out in my head a thousand times last night, still unsure of the exact words I would use to explain the photo.

  I checked my watch. It was 7:21. I smoothed my hands over my skirt and took a deep breath, deciding if I was going to show him this photo, then I couldn’t wait any longer.

  I walked out of the room to find him in the second room, talking to my professor, discussing one of the photos in front of them. He turned and smiled when he saw me.

  “Hey, where are your photos? I haven’t seen any that look like your style.”

  “Um,” I said, trying to think of the right words. I bit my lip, my heart banging in my chest, feeling slightly lightheaded. I was terrified that after 7:30 whatever was between us would be over. I didn’t want him to see that he was my inspiration and realize that maybe he meant more to me than the contract allowed.

  “Your grade is based on participation, Skylar,” Professor Edison reminded me before I could speak. “Discussing the artwork with interested parties.”

  I stared at her, my face flushing.

  Dean smiled, not sure what was happening but sensing something was different. “I’m an interested person, Skye,” he said, stepping forward. “A very interested person.”

  We hadn’t planned on something like this happening. Something with such a label — inspiration. And he was about to find out. This was a mistake. But, I reminded myself, I had planned to do this, and I was no one if not a girl who stuck to a plan.

  I took Dean’s hand, surprising him since the professor was still standing there, and stepped back. “Uh, they’re over here.”

  I glanced at my watch. 7:25 exactly. I stopped at the doorway, feeling the pressure of this internal battle in my chest.

  “Wait, I just need a minute. Rule 1 and all that.”

  “Don’t worry that I’m going to judge your artwork,” he said with an eye roll. “I’m an artist, I get the creative process is subjective. Whatever the photos look like, just know, I’m proud of you, Skye.”

  This was the last thing I expected him to say. I opened my mouth and closed it. Then I cleared my throat, sure I’d heard him wrong. I’d never heard those words directed at me.

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m proud of you,” he repeated as if it was obvious. “This was a huge step, doing a showcase by yourself, even signing up for this photography class. I know it was out of your comfort zone. I mean, you’ve been blushing like crazy since it started,” he teased. “But seriously, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, you should be proud of yourself, too.”

  I stared at him, unable to move from my spot. No one had ever said those words to me before, and him saying them now didn’t help slow my heart. I looked at my watch again. 7:26. My minute was up.

  He smiled, squeezing my hand. “Okay, since you still haven’t spoken, how about an amendment? I won’t say anything about your art. I’ll just look at it and stay silent. No critiques, no questions. Nothing. It’ll be Amendment 1.5? 1.6? I forget what we’re on.”

  I nodded, taking a deep breath, and pulled on his hand again.

  We stepped into the third room together.

  My face was on fire, my heart clanging in my chest, my pulse beating in my ears.

  He looked around, seeing other photos that weren’t mine, his expression neutral, curious. Then his gaze fell on the photo, right there between my BFF bracelets and Krista’s smiling face. He wasn’t able to hide his surprise at seeing it, seeing himself, labeled inspiration by me.

  We stood side by side, looking at the photo in silence for exactly 23 seconds. Then he took a breath and faced me. I braced myself for his words. That this was too much. That this was not what he’d signed up for when we made the contract. That this was not the plan. That this wasn’t just sex anymore, that I’d ruined everything. I had trouble meeting his gaze, this feeling something I’d never experienced before, having never been this vulnerable, having no idea how he would react or what would happen in the future.

  “Damn, I really wish I hadn’t made up that amendment,” he said quietly.

  I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand, the noise louder than I anticipated because we were in the gallery alone.

  “I really wish our contract wasn’t so rock solid,” he said with a laugh, slightly squeezing my hand.

  I took a breath. “Yeah, sometimes I think that, too.”

  I paused for exactly four seconds, lost in this moment, realizing his rich brown eyes said more than he would because of Rule 1, Rule 3, Rule 4. All the rules stopping us.

  “Thanks for showing up,” I said, my voice hushed.

  “Thanks for asking me to be here,” he said, smiling, stepping closer, gently brushing my cheek with his free hand. I stepped forward, our bodies almost touching. I hadn’t planned for this part, but I knew, instantly, this kiss was going to be different, wanting it to be different.

  The overhead lights flashed, signaling the night was over, as Professor Edison walked in. Almost instinctiv
ely, we stepped away from each other.

  “Dean, how do you like the photos? It’s not every day the artist becomes the subject.”

  He kind of laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at the photo instead of looking at us. “It’s not every day an accounting major becomes an artist either.”

  I laughed, shaking my head, my body still reeling from the rush I’d just experienced. The professor wished us goodnight, and Dean and I walked out of the gallery together, pausing on the sidewalk.

  He smiled at me. “I have an idea. A way to celebrate your first gallery show.”

  I laughed, falling into step with him. “And my last gallery show.”

  “No more photography classes in your future?” he asked as we walked across campus.

  I shook my head, thinking of my parents, knowing if I mentioned them now, this spell between us would be broken. That this conversation wouldn’t be just about my choice of courses.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He glanced at me, not saying anything, and part of me felt like he knew what I was thinking. Instead, he took my hand, and I followed him, curious where he was taking me.

  I burst out laughing once we stopped walking, standing in front of a fast-food restaurant across campus.

  “Dean, we’re way too dressed up for this.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who cares. You deserve this.”

  “This is embarrassing,” I whispered as we stood in line, surrounded by people in t-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes. I tried to picture us — a girl in heels and a skirt, a boy in a blazer and boots — under fluorescent lights on a dingy tile floor.

  He laughed, barely noticing how people were looking at us.

  “Don’t you love fries? You say you crave them once a week.”

  I smiled and rolled my eyes, unable to come up with a reason to say no, allowing myself to let this experience happen, finding myself laughing as I sat across from him in a booth, eating fries and sipping a Diet Coke that he’d paid for.

  “You don’t eat fries, do you? Because you only eat clean foods?”

  He shrugged. “Not really,” he said, picking one up and smiling at me. “But I will with you. You can be the exception to my rule.”