I looked around the gym. I might have changed in the past 10 months, maybe even before Dean, but standing here — between these two perfect women, at yet another annual volunteer event against my will, a fake smile on my face — was proof I hadn’t broken free yet.
“Hon,” Mom said, glancing at her watch, probably realizing she needed to check on other volunteers, “if you’re serious about this guy, your father and I should meet him. I promise we won’t be as hard on him as you think.”
“Mom and Dad were so nice to Kyle, remember?” Krista said cheerfully. “We even stayed an hour longer than we planned because of how great the conversation was.”
“We just want the best for our daughters,” Mom said, patting my shoulder again. “If you think he is that, then we’d love to meet him.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe she meant it. Maybe they could be happy for me. I thought of how Krista hadn’t totally balked at the details she knew. Emma and Cody, two people from my world, had been impressed by Dean.
I watched her walk away, feeling lightheaded and confused.
Krista looked at me, realizing something was off.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, putting on my best pageant smile, and allowed myself one lie.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Everything is perfect.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I knew it was irrational to be here, unannounced, unplanned, knocking on Dean’s door, but that thought alone hadn’t stopped me. I checked my watch, knowing he would be off work by now. I quickly thought of his schedule, the one I knew so well, and because it was Tuesday, I turned, looking down the stairs as he stepped out of his studio below, confused.
“Hey,” Dean said, the light from the open garage door washing over him. He was covered in paint, splatters on his white shirt and black pants, dotting his arms and hands. Seeing him like this made my heart pound even harder, my breath catching in my throat. “I thought I heard something. What are you doing here, Skye? Did I somehow forget we had plans?”
I rushed down the stairs, throwing my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. He laughed, startled, and wrapped his arms around me.
“Whoa. You just got paint all over your dress,” he said, trying to step away, but I pulled him closer.
“I don’t care,” I said, closing my eyes, pressing my face against his chest, focused on feeling him, just being with him, taking him all in. He smelled like coffee, teakwood, and just slightly of paint, and his body was warm, solid, and felt just right. “I just got incredible news, and I had to tell you.”
“I really don’t think you understand how much paint you have on your dress now,” he said with a laugh.
I stepped back, laughing as I looked down at my navy sheath dress, now smeared with various colors. “Oh, shit.”
“Sorry,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t realize you were coming over or I would have changed. But who cares about that now, right? Don’t keep me waiting. What’s the news?”
“My internship. My boss. They offered me a job. Once I graduate. They want me to work there. They chose just me, they want me to go there, once I have my degree, and do work there,” I said, stumbling over the words, too happy to get the sentence out properly, laughing with excitement.
When my boss had asked me to stick around after work, saying she wanted to talk to me about something important, I’d panicked, thinking back to when Krista had interned here, unable to recall when that had happened to her. My panic subsided after I’d walked out with a standing job offer after I finished my senior year.
“Holy shit, that’s awesome,” Dean exclaimed, picking me up, making me laugh even harder. “You’re going to be a real, certified accountant, Skye. Don’t you actually have to get certified? That’s so cool. You’re so cool.”
I blushed, grinning. “You really think accountants are cool?”
“If you’re an accountant, then hell yeah,” he said, kissing me. He pulled away, rubbing yellow paint off my arm with his thumb. “What did your parents say? Or Krista? How excited are they?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t tell them yet. You’re the first person I’ve told. You’re the first I wanted to know,” I said breathlessly.
He smiled, his eyes sparkling under the dusky sky. “You’re incredible, princess. We should celebrate. I just need to put away my stuff, and then we can do whatever you want.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no, sorry, I totally interrupted. I can go.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly, I’d much rather spend my time with you.” He stepped back to the light spilling out from his studio. “Do you care to wait a sec? More precisely, maybe four to six minutes? The door upstairs is unlocked.”
I hesitated. “Or I could wait inside there?” I asked, pointing to where I’d never been. “With you.”
He looked at me, a slight smile on his face. “I don’t really let people in my studio.”
I smiled at him. “Yeah, but I’m not like most people, am I?”
He shook his head, smiling. “I guess you’ve got me there.” He paused, looking at me as if he was deciding something — something very important — and then he took a step back, reaching out his hand to me. “Okay, Skye, I’ll let you in.”
I took it in slowly, wanting to commit every detail to memory so I could picture him perfectly when I wasn’t here. The space was the same size as his place above, but it couldn’t have been more different. Instead of hardwood floors, the ground was paint-splattered gravel. The only piece of furniture was a large wooden table, covered in worn brushes, some scattered around, some in vintage coffee cans, tubes of colorful paints everywhere, littered with sketchbooks and pens and pencils in jars. What empty spots remained on the tabletop were also covered with flecks of paint. Several easels surrounded the table, and I recognized some of the half-finished landscapes as ones Dean had described to me.
But the walls were the coolest thing about his studio. Canvases of all sizes were hanging on or leaning them. One side was landscapes. The other side was something different, paintings that weren’t quite landscapes.
“That’s my gallery stuff,” he said before I had to ask.
I stepped closer to the massive paintings, having never seen or heard about what he was specifically working on.
They were realistic looking places, they even looked familiar, but something about them weren’t like his commissioned landscapes. One was of an elementary school, and I felt like it could have been the first day of school all over again. The morning sunlight and the details felt so real, but the scene faded at the edges, half of the building lighter than the rest, disappearing almost into thin air. Another painting was the trail at the golf course, but the middle was blank, interrupting the trees, cutting off the sunlight right where it would hit you in the eyes.
“I feel…” I looked at Dean over my shoulder. He was watching me carefully, not saying anything. “I know this sounds like an insult, but I really don’t mean it as one … I feel confused when I look at these. Like, my mind is playing tricks on me.”
I looked at another painting, where the edges were black, almost eating away at the beautiful scene of buildings downtown.
“Like, I feel like I forgot what these are. What they’re supposed to be. Like they’re distant memories,” I said, my voice growing quiet.
My eyes fell to another painting. It was of a large, white Colonial style house, a shadow stretching across the grass that looked golden from the sunlight. Where an older man should have stood, his head thrown back in laughter, was nothing.
I faced Dean. “These are your dad’s memories, aren’t they?”
He looked at me and then back at the paintings. “Yeah.”
I nodded, facing them again, mesmerized. “These are incredible. Absolutely perfect.”
I couldn’t believe almost a year ago, I hadn’t even wanted to know him, I’d judged him, thinking he was just a barista, a college dropout, irrational. Now, I was stunned. Stunned by him,
by his talent, by his depth, by everything he was, inside and out.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. He’d moved to straightening his work area, gathering his brushes and walking to an industrial sink in the back. I walked around, studying the other paintings, not caring how long I had to wait because I wanted to be right here, in this world.
“So how excited do you think your parents will be for you?” he asked as I made my way back to him. “Perfect daughter lands dream job before graduating.”
I glanced back at his gallery pieces, chewing on my fingernail, knowing that when my parents thought of a perfect daughter, it wasn’t me who came to mind.
“Honestly? I’m kind of nervous to tell them.”
“Really? Why?” Dean asked, confused, as he washed one of his brushes against his palm, a beautiful blue swirling down the sink.
I sighed, thinking this was yet another anxiety-inducing secret to keep from my parents. “Well, the plan has always been that I intern there, but then I work at the same firm that Krista works at. It’s the same place my mom and dad started.”
Dean paused, looking at me, seeming even more confused. “Yeah, but this is still an accounting job, right? It’s not like you’re dropping out to be a painter,” he said with a laugh.
I laughed and shook my head. As much as Dean cared and listened when I talked about my parents and how strict they were, part of him would just never understand, not having the history, the memories — the feeling of disappointment that could so easily be applied with one look from my dad — that came along with being their daughter.
“It’s, just, not part of their plan,” I said with a sigh.
He shook his head, still not getting it, and picked up another brush. “But what about your own plan? It’s your future, not theirs.”
“But I’m their daughter. They mapped out my life the moment they decided to have me.” I sighed again, feeling my chest tighten. “I just want them to be proud of me, and I feel like I keep messing it up,” I said quietly.
He sat down his brushes and faced me. “I know I don’t know your parents, but if you told them this news, and you were just as excited as you were when you told me, with that kind of smile on your face, how could they not be happy for you? Even if it’s not what they imagined. Isn’t part of being a parent wanting the best for your kid, even if it’s not exactly what you had in mind?”
I nodded. He was right, but it wasn’t that easy.
I looked at him again, thinking if his dad had been more like mine, Dean would probably be in a suit and tie, tattoo-less, fresh out of law school, at a young professionals networking event right now. In another world, maybe I would have met him there, maybe he would have been friends with Michael, maybe his profile would have made it through my now-deleted dating apps, his qualifications easily sliding through the perimeters I’d set. Maybe I would have been so bored, sitting across from him at my table at the coffee shop, counting down the minutes on my watch, wondering if I’d ever meet someone interesting in my life, someone who made me feel something.
He turned off the water and dried his hands, facing me, his arms still flecked with paint, dotting his tattoos. “So you never answered.”
I met his gaze, his words pulling me out of my distracted thoughts of how different things could have been. “What was the question?”
“What do you want to do to celebrate? I mean, we might have to get you out of that dress first,” he added with a laugh.
“I want to … just be with you,” I said slowly, nodding, so sure. “You exactly as you are. Then maybe get a thousand French fries.”
He laughed, a great laugh I knew I’d do anything to hear, and reached out, pulling me toward him, not caring I was the one getting paint on him now. “I can do both of those things for you, princess.”
Once we were back upstairs, having washed the paint off our skin, the overhead lights off, the candles next to his bed lit, their flickering glow casting a romantic golden light over everything, I turned to him.
“Dean, can I ask you something? You can call Rule 1, if you want.”
“Rule 1? Didn’t that rule disappear, like, five months ago? You can ask me anything.”
He smiled, expertly finding the zipper on my dress, sliding it off of me as he gently kissed my neck, sending chills down my spine.
“How many other people have seen your studio?” I asked, taking off his shirt, pressing my lips against his collarbone tattoo.
He looked at me, his eyes the richest chocolate brown, my absolute favorite, making me melt. “No one,” he said, his voice low and soft against my skin. “Just you. Only you.”
We kissed, softly and deeply, and even though we were both doing the same motions as before, us knowing each other so well this way, I knew that this time was, and every moment after would be, different.
★☽★★☽
I focused on the pot roast in front of me, trying to think of any question to keep this conversation going. Because I knew once Krista stopped talking, it would be my turn to give some sort of life update, and I wasn’t ready to share my good news yet, still unsure how my parents would react. So I was trying to run out the clock.
“What about your bouquet? Describe how the flowers look like again,” I said, smiling at Krista.
She beamed, taking another breath, launching into an overly detailed description of every flower that would be at her wedding, a mere 37 days away. I glanced at Dad where he was making careful mental notes, probably cataloging every thing she said since he was the one paying for every detail.
“That sounds absolutely wonderful, hon,” Mom said, smiling, opening her mouth to ask another question, but Dad held up his hand.
We all paused, waiting for his direction.
“Krista, we’ve barely heard from Skylar tonight. Why don’t we let her have the last five minutes of dinner to give us an update.”
Krista and I exchanged glances, and she lightly shook her head, answering my silent question. I’d told her about my job offer after her bachelorette party — powered by the excessive alcohol and cheery mood from the wine tasting class I’d decided on — and after she’d finished jumping up and down in excitement for me, I had sworn her to secrecy.
I glanced at Mom, unsure if she’d told him I was dating someone since I’d told her nearly two weeks ago and it hadn’t come up yet. Maybe she felt she didn’t have enough information to share, wanting me to field the questions instead.
I had four minutes and 45 seconds left to figure out a way to please Dad during the last family dinner of the summer.
“Well, um, things are great,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“How was the last week of your internship?” he pressed, not satisfied with my vague answer.
Part of me wondered if he somehow knew that on my last day, Dean had sent me flowers, the exact bouquet from his painting. I wondered if my dad could sense how my heart skipped now, just thinking of the note that had been paired with the arrangement, reading “Skye — I wanted you to have the real thing.”
“It was awesome,” I said, glancing at Krista again. She smiled, and I tried to remember just exactly how we’d practiced how I would tell him my good news.
“You seemed to do well there.”
I took a silent breath, avoiding his gaze. “Uh, they offered me a job,” I blurted out, closing my eyes, annoyed because that wasn’t how we’d said I would start this conversation.
Mom gasped. “Oh honey, that’s amazing! We’ll definitely need to go shopping to get you new outfits. We have time, right? You’ll start after graduation?”
I opened my eyes, surprised. “Uh, yeah, in seven months.”
Krista squealed and clapped her hands. “I am so excited for you, baby sis! You’re growing up so fast,” she said, placing her hand over mine and squeezing it lightly.
“Way to go, Skylar. You must have been pretty impressive to get approached so early,” Kyle said with a smile. “One of my buddies works there. He told me t
hat they serve nearly seventy percent of Fortune Global 500s.”
“You are so right,” Krista said, beaming at him. I smiled, knowing she’d told him my secret and probably what supportive lines to say, too. “It’s so prestigious. If I wasn’t so happy at my firm, I’d totally want to work there.”
I smiled at her, grateful we were on the same team.
And then we all looked at Dad, who had been silent this whole time, waiting on his approval.
“I thought you wanted to work at Krista’s firm after graduation,” he said, his brows furrowed. “The one your mother and I started at.”
I held my breath, wishing I was back with Dean who had just been happy for me without needing me to convince him.
“Um, well, I thought that’s what I wanted,” I said slowly. “But I think this is what I want.”
“You think?” he repeated. “So you aren’t sure?”
I opened my mouth and closed it. Until this very instant, I had absolutely thought this is what I wanted, but seeing the way he looked at me, a familiar sense of doubt creeped inside me.
“Do you think it’s the wrong choice?” I asked quietly, confused.
Before he could answer, Krista kicked me under the table. It was the most impolite, irrational thing she’d ever done. I jerked my leg back, staring at her in shock. She frowned at me. This wasn’t going according to our plan.
I sat up straighter in my chair and took a deep breath. “No, sorry, I meant ‘I know.’ I know this is what I want, not think. Know. For a fact.”
He looked at me and then Krista, considering this. And then he stood, dinnertime over.
“Okay,” he said as we all stood. “We’ll talk more about this once it gets closer. Salary negotiations, contract negotiations, etcetera.”
“Contract negotiations?” I repeated, feeling shellshocked.
“Well, if you’re going to take this job, your mother and I want it to be the best option for you. We’ll have to get you prepared.”
A Guy Like Him Page 30
