CHAPTER TWELVE
“You can’t come here looking like that,” Dean said with a laugh, glancing up from the cup he was holding. “You’re distracting, and I don’t mess up latte art.”
I laughed, smoothing my hands over my navy suit and adjusting my blazer, and watched as he made a perfect foam leaf.
“It’s my first day, so I thought I could drop by to ask for luck.”
He sat the latte on the bar, calling it out, and smiled at me.
“You don’t need luck, though, because you have actual talent, math genius. Do you want a coffee or do you have your awful little to-go cup with you?” he asked with a laugh, reading the symbols on another cup and moving to the espresso machine.
“I would love a coffee,” I said with a smile.
The start of summer meant the campus coffee shop was short-staffed and closed at 6 instead of 10, completely rearranging every barista’s schedule, turning Dean’s mostly night shift into an all-day shift starting at 5 a.m.
It had been tricky for us to see each other these past few weeks. I hadn’t realized how much he’d painted during the day while I’d been in class last semester until he admitted he was stressed out about falling behind, asking if we could shift some of our planned weeknight hook-ups to the weekends just until he got caught up. I’d agreed, needing to spend most of my time prepping for my internship interviews between balancing Krista’s wedding planning fever and wrapping up my final SGA obligations.
“What do you want? Your usual or something new to kick-off your super elite new internship?”
I smiled. After three rounds of interviews and beating out 134 applicants, I’d landed an internship at a noteworthy accounting firm downtown. My parents couldn’t believe it. Dad had even planned for me to intern in his accounting department as a backup while I couldn’t have imagined a worse fate than my overbearing father also being my CFO boss. Krista had been excited for me, giving me pantsuits and blazers she didn’t want anymore, only mentioning a few times when she’d interned there.
“Just my usual,” I said, watching him make foam, waiting on my favorite part, when he made latte art.
I leaned over the bar, watching him closer. He laughed, rolling his eyes at my interest, as he held the pitcher of foam over the cup. The past few times I’d dropped by the coffee shop, either on my way to print extra copies of my resume at the library or headed to the SGA office, I’d noticed him making latte art, something I’d overlooked since I always stuck by the register with black coffee. It was another talent of his I hadn’t been aware of, and now I was obsessed, mesmerized.
He made a foam feather and called another name, before pouring my light roast coffee. As he came around the counter and handed it to me, our fingers brushing, he looked me up and down and shook his head, smiling.
“Uh, I’m going to take a break now,” he said over his shoulder to Roe at the register, not seeming to care that it was 6:54 a.m.
“What’s your schedule look like this week?” I asked as he walked outside with me.
He sighed, leaning against my car. “Finishing some paintings, working all week, figuring out some dad stuff. But I still want to know about your first day,” he said, brushing his fingers against my wrist. “I wanna hear all about 1040s, 1065s, and 1120s.”
“You have no idea what those numbers mean,” I said with a laugh.
He laughed. “Yeah, I know, not a clue. I’m thinking, like, the number of forms or codes for … bills, maybe?” He laughed again and shrugged. “I’m just repeating back what you said during all those practice interviews when we were supposed to be having phone sex.”
I laughed, blushing, as he grinned. While we were good at most sexual acts together, we’d discovered phone sex was not one of them. Instead, we would end up just talking on the phone at night, always breaking Rule 6 — the one that said we shouldn’t talk on the phone unless it was sexual. Because of this, our inability to sync our schedules, and my interview prep obsession, Dean probably knew more accounting terms than any painter in existence.
I glanced at my watch, needing to go if I wanted to arrive early. Without my having to say anything, he read my mind.
“I’ll see you later, Skye. You’re going to kill it today. Did you remember to charge your calculator? Got your abacus? Do you bring the 1120s with you or do they supply those?” he joked, running his hands up and down my arms, the closest thing to a hug without breaking Rule 4.
I laughed even harder than before, grateful for him to calm my nerves. “You’re insane,” I said, leaning forward and kissing him quickly. “But maybe I could call you later to talk about it? I promise I’ll say at least two sexual things. I could describe what’s under this pantsuit.”
He laughed and pushed off my car, stepping toward the coffee shop. I’d never heard of a six-minute break before, but I didn’t call him out on it.
“I’d much rather see you, but I’ll settle for a phone call,” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Good luck, princess.”
The week flew by, filled with new internship experiences and long dinners with Krista where I’d try to tell her about my day as she’d interject with seemingly random wedding questions. She was in full panic mode, her wedding only four months away. She’d look like she was focusing on me and then, suddenly, she’d ask a question about flowers, cake, songs, dresses, always something to throw me off, like I hadn’t studied for a test I should have known was coming.
“So I think that I’ll actually be putting in tax returns and maybe even communicate directly with some clients—”
“What do you think about gift bags?” she asked on Thursday, dropping her fork on her plate as if the lasagna in front of her was suddenly all wrong.
I looked up, confused. “What?”
“Gift bags,” she repeated, walking over to the poster boards on the living room wall. She inhaled sharply. “I didn’t write that down. All these people are coming in out of town, and I don’t even have gift bags for when they arrive at the hotel block. I don’t even know what we would put in them.”
“Krista, I’m trying to tell you about my day.”
“Yeah, but I already know what you’re saying,” she said, waving my comment away with her hand. “Do you need a plus-one?”
I stood, no longer hungry. “What?”
“A plus-one,” she said slowly, looking at me like she was seeing me for the first time in months. “Wait, are you dating someone? Doesn’t Lindy keep mentioning some Brad character?”
I shook my head, knowing she wasn’t listening closely enough to even try to lie. “There is no Brad.”
She placed her hands on her hips, cocking her head, staring at me even more. “No Brad,” she repeated, turning back to the poster boards, her focus already gone. “Kyle still hasn’t told me what flavor cake he likes best.”
I put my arm around her. “Sis, you have got to chill out.”
She shook her head. “You haven’t been going on as many dates as much anymore.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m not in school right now so I’m not really hanging around the campus coffee shop. I’m focusing on my internship.”
“So you’re single,” she said, writing on a red sticky note and standing on the couch to slap it on the poster board. In all caps it said ‘gift bags’ in black ink, meaning it was a problem we would solve together. I sighed. I guess I had time.
“Yeah, I’m single,” I said, rolling my eyes.
She didn’t notice, moving to write ‘cake choice’ in red on a sticky note, slapping it over the note that read ‘order cake.’ I knew my sister well, but I couldn’t identify with whatever this was. I hugged her, telling her that I wished she would take some time to relax.
“Wait,” she said as I put away our leftovers. “What did you say about the coffee shop? Are you still doing your experiment?”
I didn’t bother to respond, knowing she wasn’t looking at me or even listening anyway. Later, I turned on a movie, trying to zone out a
s she wrote more sticky notes and added more to-dos to our list. Our parents called after, and I put the phone on speaker, trying to tell them about my day, but the newness of my internship had already worn off, both of them hyper-focused on Krista’s gift bag crisis.
“Hey,” Dean said, answering on the third ring once I was in bed. “How was your day?”
“It was good,” I said, turning to look out the window. “I’ll actually put in tax returns and maybe even communicate directly with clients.”
There was a pause, and I wondered if maybe this just wasn’t interesting, that I should keep this kind of stuff to myself.
“That sounds cool. You’d be awesome at communicating with clients, no doubt. What does putting in tax returns mean though, specifically? And be as specific as possible,” he said with a laugh.
I closed my eyes, explaining it, describing what the office and my desk looked like when he asked and the little routines I’d already created for myself, like how I found myself warming up my daily coffee at exactly 9:43 a.m., a fact that made him groan, and how if I leaned back in my chair at just the right time, I could see the sun begin to set, the moon already in the sky.
“Tell me about the paintings you’re working on,” I asked after.
Since we’d been talking on the phone almost nightly since summer started, I could clearly picture where he was. I’d learned that what I’d assumed was a garage or storage below his place was actually a studio he’d created for himself and was where he spent most of his time. I knew that when we talked on the phone, he would step out, sitting on the staircase outside, and that he could see the same sky as me.
He told me about the landscapes he was painting, trying to describe the exact shade of red he’d been working to get just right for days. I listened intently, wishing I could see it. When he was finished, I opened my eyes, looking at the clock.
“Shit, Dean, we’ve been talking for fifty-seven minutes, and we haven’t even tried to have phone sex.”
He laughed. “Damn, we’re so bad at this.” I heard him yawn. “I’m kind of too tired for it right now, is that lame? I have to get up in, like, four hours or something.”
“Four hours and thirty-two minutes.”
“Right,” he said, his voice a smile. “And I’m not even finished with what I’m working on. Let’s save it for something real. What do you think? Are you free tomorrow night?”
I smiled. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”
The next night, I rushed in my apartment after my internship, energized by how good of a first week I’d had, excited to tell Dean all about it in person, wondering if the landscapes I’d pictured in my head would look anything like the ones in real life, already thinking of the right outfit to wear over my red bra, trying to think of some silly joke about if that was the red he’d been looking for.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” Krista asked, sitting chips on the coffee table as I burst in.
I took a deep breath and paused in front of the couch. “Sorry, I think I had too much coffee at work. What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for game night. Actually, can you help me?”
I glanced at my watch and sighed. I still had an hour before I needed to leave. “Sure, what do you need help with?”
She pulled out snacks and wine in the kitchen, asking me to put them in cute bowls and make sangria. As she picked up the living room, she asked me what I was up to tonight. It had been months since she’d asked me something like that, and I faltered, not sure what excuse I could use.
“I think I’m just going to go to the library,” I said, hoping she was distracted enough to not really pay attention to the details.
She fluffed a throw pillow on our couch, glancing at me. “It’s Friday night. Plus, why would you do that in the summer?”
I looked down at the apple I was cutting for sangria, annoyed. She hadn’t questioned this exact same excuse during my winter break.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to catch up on some stuff.”
“Catch up on what?” she asked, coming back into the kitchen. I glanced at her. She was watching me with a determined expression.
“Um,” I said, unsure why she was giving me this much attention, asking questions she should have asked almost eight months ago. “SGA stuff?”
She shook her head. “Lindy is coming over tonight. If she gets to have a fun Friday night, shouldn’t you, too?”
“I also have … intern stuff,” I said, scooping the fruit mix into a pitcher.
“Like what? I don’t remember working Friday nights when I interned there,” she said, brushing away the mess I’d made on the kitchen counter and handing me a wine opener.
I took it, feeling like I was moving in slow motion, unable to think quickly. I was out of practice for coming up with excuses, and now that the spotlight was on me, I was falling.
“I don’t know, Krista,” I said with an easy shrug, hoping it was a good enough response, knowing it wasn’t.
She smiled, looking like she’d won a game I hadn’t been aware we were competing in.
“Great, so you can stay here tonight then,” she said, placing the snack bowls on the coffee table.
“What?” I said, laughing at the idea. “No, I don’t want—”
My phone buzzed in my pocket, interrupting me. I read the message from Dean, then reread it, my heart sinking. He was canceling, saying he was so sorry but he had to deal with something that came up with his dad, and he wouldn’t have time tonight.
“You don’t want what?” Krista asked as I stood in the kitchen, shocked by this sudden change of plans.
“I don’t want to join game night,” I said, annoyed that what I wanted wasn’t a good enough reason. “I wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“But you just said you aren’t doing anything tonight,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “And I want you to join.”
I stared at her, confused how this was becoming an argument.
“I just said I was doing something and that I don’t want to join.”
I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, a calendar reminder of fallen plans. I was completely thrown off guard, not sure what was happening between Krista and me, and feeling like I shouldn’t care this much that the guy I was just sleeping with had canceled on me. It wasn’t like it was even a date, I reminded myself.
Kyle knocked on the front door, a distraction I took advantage of, pouring a glass of sangria and ducking into my bedroom before the argument I could feel bubbling between us erupted.
After I texted Dean back, telling him I hoped everything was okay, I sat on my bed, trying to think of something to do. I hadn’t had a night with nothing to do since after Krista’s engagement party, when Dean and I had laid in his bed, his arms around me.
I heard Lindy’s loud voice in the living room, signaling the start of game night, so I decided to just clean my room, turning on “I Want You to Want Me,” a song that had been stuck in my head since Dean and I had baked together. I was so focused on organizing my desk that I almost didn’t hear the knock on my door.
I sighed, turning down my music, already annoyed at Krista for bothering me again. She knew I didn’t want to be a fifth wheel. She knew I didn’t want to participate in game night.
“What?” I said, opening my door in a huff. “Oh shit,” I said immediately.
Michael smiled. “Hey, Skylar, game night is starting, you don’t want to be late, do you?”
After I’d recovered from my shock, I was furious, mad at Michael for showing up, but even angrier at Krista for inviting him.
“What the hell, Krista?” I said, pulling her into the kitchen. “And then you sent him to my bedroom to get me? That’s exactly something Mom would do.”
“I thought it was romantic.”
“That’s romance to you? My ex-boyfriend showing up at our apartment unannounced, knocking on my bedroom door?”
I looked into the living room where he was sitting on the floor, holding a beer, talking to Br
andon and Kyle as if this was two years ago. I looked back at Krista, scowling.
“Well, I invited him, so he wasn’t unannounced,” she said with a light laugh. “You told me that you were stressed about not having a plus-one. I thought this was a great solution.”
I wanted to scream. “You’re stressed that I don’t have a plus-one. Not me,” I said through gritted teeth.
“What’s the difference? If I’m stressed, you’re stressed,” she said, reminding me that I was her maid of honor, her sister, I should be in this with her. I shook my head, refusing to follow this logic. “Well, he’s here now, and I’m not kicking him out. Mom would be horrified at such bad manners.”
I grabbed another glass of wine, unable to even handle how angry I was. So I stormed out of the kitchen, sitting down hard next to Michael.
“Are you still really good at Cranium?”
He smiled. “If you’re my partner.”
I took a deep breath, looking at Krista smiling pretty across the room next to Kyle, holding his hand, her ring sparkling on her finger.
“Fine,” I said, looking back at him, sitting up straighter, pulling my hair into a ponytail, trying to keep my hands busy so maybe they would stop shaking. “Just make sure we win, okay?”
★☽★★☽
I felt awful, and my slight hangover wasn’t to blame. I felt pangs of guilt and waves of nausea, wishing I could take back the whole night. I rolled over in my bed, covering my face with my hands, trying to push the memories from last night out of my head.
The night had started innocently enough.
I’d told myself I would beat Krista and Kyle in just one game, a simple way to get back at her. A little sisterly fight, I rationalized. Beating her in Cranium was better than pushing down my anger and us really fighting later, saying words we couldn’t take back.
But then the rush of beating her hit me hard, the shock on her face when Michael and I won such a satisfying feeling, just as good as it felt when we’d been a couple and won everything. So when Krista challenged us to a rematch with a trivia game, I couldn’t say no.
A Guy Like Him Page 23
