A Guy Like Him
Page 35
Roe looked at me, slightly confused, but nodded, stepping away from the register. I took several deep breaths, counting the seconds. Five. Ten. Fifteen. I looked around, wondering if I’d gotten this all wrong, that he wasn’t going to come out.
Seventeen.
That he knew it was me.
Eighteen.
That he didn’t want anything to do with me.
Roe walked back out alone. I took a deep breath, realizing my hands were shaking, closing my eyes.
He wasn’t going to come out.
This was over.
I took a shaky breath, trying to calm down so I could at least walk out without tears streaming down my face in front of all these people.
“What are you doing here?”
I opened my eyes, seeing Dean standing there, just barely out of the door where he must have stopped in his tracks, completely surprised.
“Dean,” I said, exhaling. “We have to talk.”
“I’m at work,” he said, his tone slightly cold. “And you don’t exactly look like you’re staying for coffee. So why don’t we do this later,” he said, placing his hand on the door.
I winced, realizing he wasn’t going to make this easy on me. No little jokes to bail me out.
“No,” I said, my voice louder. I felt several eyes on me. I shifted, my skin already feeling like it was on fire. “I can’t wait any longer, Dean. I’m tired of waiting, too, just like you said.”
He looked at me. Unlike the last time he saw me in this dress, I could easily read his expression now. He was not amused.
“I’m not doing this here,” he said, his voice calm and low. “There are like twenty people in here staring at us.”
He pushed open the door behind him, turning to walk away when I blurted out, “Three hundred sixty-three.”
He turned back.
“Are you seriously trying to correct me on that?”
I shook my head, feeling every single gaze in the shop on me.
“That’s how many days we’ve been doing … whatever we’ve been doing,” I said, gesturing between the large space between us since I was somehow standing in the exact middle of the shop. “Kissing, sex, dates, boyfriend girlfriend, our relationship. Three hundred sixty-three days. I’ve been counting.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, not responding.
“Because no matter how much it frustrates you, and no matter how much I’ve changed over those three hundred sixty-three days, I still think dating is like a big math problem.”
He rolled his eyes.
Someone behind me shifted in their seat, and someone else whispered to their friend. There was no turning back now. The spotlight was totally and completely on me.
“Constants and variables, you know? And three hundred sixty-five days ago, you said that I was the only consistent thing in the equation. But you were wrong.”
He scoffed. “So you are here to correct me.”
“No, I’m here to tell you that I’m not the constant. I’m the variable, and I never accounted for that during this whole thing. The girl that kissed you then isn’t the same girl now. And that’s because of you, Dean, and all your cons.”
“My cons,” he repeated evenly.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m here to tell you that I’ve been focused so long on getting all of this data. The pros and cons lists, the date notebook, all those things so I could find the perfect guy, the one with no cons. All those other guys I’ve been on dates with, they were supposed to be the perfect ones. But every guy I’ve ever met, no matter how many pros they think they have and no matter how many pros my parents might see, they all have one major con.”
He looked at me, waiting.
“They aren’t you, Dean,” I said, choking on my words, hurriedly wiping away a tear, a streak of mascara coming off on my finger. “And somewhere along the way, I started to fall for all your cons instead. So I’m the variable. Because I like the way you dress because that means you’re an artist, and you don’t give a shit about what everyone else thinks. And I like that you have tattoos, and I want to know each and every story behind all twenty-three of them. I like that you don’t know a single thing about accounting, but you’ve always encouraged me to be the best at it, and you’ll listen to me talk about 1120s all night. I like that you live in a place without heat because that means you have an art studio. I like that you’re a barista because you’re a responsible hard worker, and I really think you could own your own shop one day, and I want to be the person you tell those sort of dreams to. I like that you don’t have traditions because maybe we could make our own together. I like that you’re a painter because you aren’t afraid to do what you love, and I love seeing your work, and I want to be the person you share your dad’s memories with and your memories with, too. And, Dean, I like that you never know what time it is, because it doesn’t matter, because you’re always there, no matter what, when someone needs you. And so, yeah, to me perfection and what I want is the same thing. The thing I got wrong, though, is that all those cons, somehow in a math problem I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to figure out, makes you perfect. And so it’s you. I want you.”
I exhaled, knowing for a fact that my makeup was totally ruined.
Dean looked at me, and I couldn’t read his expression.
So I took another deep breath and looked around the shop once more, having no idea if I’d ever come back here again, never wanting to sit at my usual table if he wasn’t sitting across from me, having no idea what the future held, or, really, what my plan was if he said no or nothing at all.
I looked right at him, everything else fading to the background.
I decided it was time.
“And all I want to do is lose track of time with you,” I said as he stepped forward, coming from behind the counter, my heart bursting in my chest. “Because a girl like me is in love with a guy like you, Dean. Totally and completely in love with you. Just you, only you.”
He didn’t wait for me to say anything else. He didn’t wait for the people in the shop to react to what I said, everyone suddenly bursting into cheers and claps, making me blush. He didn’t wait for me to catch my breath. He didn’t wait one split second to take me into his arms, kissing me right there, in front of everyone, a kiss that felt like he knew me, a kiss that said he loved me, too.
And then he said it, just for good measure.
Just for clarification purposes.
“I love you, Skye. Skylar. Skye. Whoever you want to be, princess,” he said, kissing me again as we broke into smiles.
We pulled away after a moment, becoming slightly aware that we were in the middle of the coffee shop. Dean laughed at my blushing face and glanced over his shoulder at Roe.
“Uh, hey, I’m going to … go. Is that cool?”
Roe nodded, slightly shocked by what had just occurred. We walked out of the coffee shop hand in hand, laughing, completely overwhelmed by what had just happened, our breath coming out in white streams. The October night was chilly, just like it had been almost a year ago, feeling almost the exact same, except everything was so different.
Dean looked at me, and I looked at him.
“So what’s the plan?”
I looked up at the sky, the stars so incredibly bright, and back at Dean, looking him up and down. He was wearing a black button-up, rolled at the sleeves, and fitted cuffed black jeans, his brown boots, gunmetal rings, black studs, silver hoops.
“I have an idea,” I said with a smile. “We’d be breaking Rule 1, 3, 4, 7, 8, and probably 5 later … but do you feel like going to a wedding? There’s probably time for one more dance.”
He laughed, his rich brown eyes sparkling. “I’m in. But before, let’s add another rule. One last rule, and then we never talk about our contract again.”
I nodded.
“Rule 10,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “You and me, we love each other, forever and always, and all other rules and amendments are null and void. Deal?”
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I smiled, holding him tight. “Deal.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The two best things that have ever happened to Amanda Gambill was when she won a year’s worth of free coffee and when she published this novel. As a former journalist, published poet and award-winning public relations professional, she now runs a content marketing agency. She lives in downtown Nashville with her boyfriend, Robert, and her cat, Crema.