A Guy Like Him Read online

  A Guy Like Him

  a novel

  Amanda Gambill

  Copyright © 2019 Amanda Gambill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the copyright owner, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019905578

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Mary Scarlett LaBerge

  Author headshot by Allison Hammond

  Printed in USA

  amandagambill.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Contract

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dedication

  To Robert Allen. For countless writer walks in Germantown. For creating me a Slack channel called #willyoumakemecoffee. For reading every single word in every single draft approximately one thousand times. For being someone who is always there, no matter what. For being the guy I fall in love with more and more each day. For making me believe this was something I could do, and more importantly, for always knowing I would.

  To Mom for reading that first terrible 20-page book I wrote when I was five on our shitty computer in the kitchen after the very moment I typed ‘the end.’ For believing in me then and never stopping, not even for a second.

  To Stephanie for letting me borrow that Sarah Dessen book on your bookshelf that inspired me to be a writer. For always looking out for me, for inspiring me then, and for inspiring me forever.

  To Dad for bragging about every single thing I’ve done (even if it isn’t impressive) to just about anyone who will listen in Food Lion. For still doing it now. Thanks for being proud of me, Dad.

  To Megan for long car rides, long walks, and even longer conversation. For dessert wine at the farmer’s market even after it closed, dissecting every piece of my first draft. For your cheerleading, analysis, mentorship, and, most importantly, incredible friendship.

  To Ashley for crying when I said you could read my draft in Nashville. For crying over skull cocktails in Indy after you had. For laughing and crying in the back of Lyfts because of how much we respect and support each other.

  To everyone who heard I was writing a book and properly freaked out. Specifically, Aleah, Sara, Maggie, Jen, Reagan, Lisa, Nikki, Kevin, and Crema.

  A Guy Like Him

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was quite possibly on the worst date of my life.

  I nodded, sitting up straighter in my seat, and flashed a smile as he kept talking. He was going on and on about what he just learned in class, some sort of concept on moral philosophy.

  “Right,” I said, nodding again, subtly glancing at my watch.

  I always wore watches on dates so I could easily track how things were going. Every guy would start off with a courtesy 30 minutes, 45 if he was cuter than I expected, 1 hour if he was actually interesting.

  Samuel was at 43 minutes and 56 seconds.

  I yawned, not too much, not enough to seem rude, but enough where he stopped his sentence, subconsciously feeling the urge to check the time. Time flew by when these guys were having fun, I’d discovered.

  “Oh, wow, it’s getting kind of late. I guess I should get going.” He smiled at me, reaching his hand over the table to touch mine. “I had a lot of fun tonight, Skylar.”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling politely and gently pulling my hand away. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  I always had dates at the campus coffee shop, only on weekdays, starting right at 8:45 p.m. It was the exact perfect time — too late for a dinner date, but too early for a nightcap, an 8 a.m. class the next day an easy excuse. And, like clockwork, at 9:30 the shop would get ready to close by 10, signaling the end of the date if the guy just didn’t get that it was over.

  I stood, and Samuel did the same. He pointed over his shoulder to the direction of the dorms. “I’m that way. I’d be happy to walk you to your dorm, too?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I actually live off campus,” I said, opening the door just enough so he felt compelled to reach forward and take the load off.

  “I’ll text you,” I said with a smile, letting him give me a hug.

  After he walked away, I went back to my table, pulling out my notebook and flipping to a clean, new page:

  October 1 - Samuel:

  Pros: He was handsome. Perfect teeth, great hair, smelled fresh. Polite.

  Cons: Boring. Philosophy major. Dorm dweller. Hadn’t asked, but rather, assumed I wanted regular coffee instead of decaf when I’d said coffee … so maybe impractical. That could also imply he is a night owl, which would totally throw off my schedule.

  I tapped my pen against my notebook, glancing around the nearly empty coffee shop, before scribbling down a few more cons. Then I pulled out my accounting textbook, feeling the pressure of tomorrow’s exam, knowing my dad would ask how I did when Krista and I came over for family dinner this weekend. I was focusing so hard that I barely heard the barista from the counter.

  “Hey, we’re closed.”

  “Oh, sorry, I guess I lost track of time,” I said, startled, glancing at my watch and realizing it was past 10.

  “I was beginning to worry when you didn’t start packing up at exactly 9:50,” he said with a laugh as I quickly stood to gather my things. Krista was probably wondering why I hadn’t called her yet with an update.

  “Sorry, what?” I said, not really hearing him as I hurriedly stuffed my textbook and date notebook inside my backpack.

  “Nothing. Have a good night,” he said as I tossed my full cup of coffee in the trash, already walking out the door, dialing my phone.

  “Wow, you must have met Mr. Right!” Krista exclaimed once she picked up. “That’s the longest date you’ve been on in months.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t plan the wedding yet. I just got caught up with homework.”

  “Oh, right, Dad mentioned you had an accounting test tomorrow. You have Professor Hall, right? I had her. I might still have my notes if you want to borrow them.”

  I sighed, walking to the parking lot behind the coffee shop, my breath coming out white against the first chilly night of the season. “No, it’s cool. I think I’ve got it.”

  “Well, just in case. You know I made an A in that class.”

  I nodded, knowing. I knew all her grades from every class because, two years later, I was taking the exact same ones. And I knew what I needed to get so my dad wouldn’t freak.

  “So, tell me first, what did your date look like?”

  I stopped in front of my car, closing my eyes. “He was really cute. Blonde, athletic, clean cut, you know the type. My type. But he was a philosophy major, Krista.”

  “Ugh,” she said with a laugh. I imagined her shaking her head
, tucking her light brown hair behind her ear, the phone on speaker in front of her. She was probably lying on our living room floor, the television muted behind her, playing the yoga DVD she’d bought when we were teens and still used to practice out of habit.

  “I know, right? I just can’t figure out what kind of job he would get with that,” I said, pressing my palms against my eyes, realizing just how stressed I was about my accounting exam. “And yes, I know that’s judgmental. But also, what would Dad say if I ever brought him home? What would they possibly talk about?”

  “Totally. Kyle and I wouldn’t be together if he’d been a philosophy major. And Dad would totally freak. Hey, pick me up some food? I didn’t eat dinner yet.”

  “I know. Lemonade or Diet Coke?”

  “As if you have to ask.”

  Ever since we moved in together two years ago — when I started my freshman year at Middletown University as she finished her senior year — we had this routine. We would share French fries on Mondays, going over the week to come, and split chicken nuggets on Thursdays, recapping and catching up on what we’d missed. Even when she graduated and started her job at an accounting firm, we still did this. And every single time, she would remind me, as if I didn’t know this was our tradition, as if it was her idea every time.

  I opened my eyes as the car next to me beeped, being unlocked. The unexpected noise made me jump, and the barista noticed.

  “Sorry,” he said as he untied his apron, pulling it over his head, walking to his car.

  “Skylar, are you with someone?” Krista said in my ear.

  I glanced over at the guy. His back was to me as he opened his car door, sliding in and closing the door.

  “No, I’m alone,” I replied, annoyed she was always checking up on me, even when she knew where I was and what I was doing. We knew each other’s routines like they were our own.

  It was dark out here, the moon not bright enough to splash light over anything, leaving just the parking lot lights to cast a dim, orange glow over our two lone cars. I got in my car, glancing at the guy again, not really able to make out his face. He looked familiar, and I realized he was probably the same barista who worked on Mondays, too. I wasn’t sure, having never really paid attention.

  “Okay, so, can you pick me up some chicken nuggets?” Krista said as I started my car, backing up, right on schedule.

  ★☽★★☽

  My first real memory — the kind where I can remember all my senses — is of me running down the sidewalk in our neighborhood. I must have been around six, maybe seven, and I can vividly remember how crisp the air was, the sound of leaves crunching under my feet, my shoes slapping against the concrete, my hair flipping around, knocking in my face, catching against my lips, my lungs feeling like they’d burst. I was breathless, not because of the run, but because of how hard I was laughing. How light I was, how freeing it all felt. Dad was cheering from the front lawn, more surprised than impressed by my speed.

  And then Krista ran up behind me, her steps louder, even her laughter louder, and she passed me, so much faster, like a bolt of lightning. She jumped in Dad’s outstretched arms, cheering with him, having won a race I hadn’t even realized I’d been participating in.

  And then I stumbled, distracted by her laughter and our dad praising her. Maybe I tripped over a stick — that’s the part I can’t quite remember — and I fell, scraping my knee against the pavement hard, dirt and little concrete pebbles embedding in my skin. I screamed, closing my eyes, feeling a shock of pain, tears flooding my eyes, my whole body letting me down in this moment.

  I remember screaming again, wailing, and how, at first, they thought I was just upset because I’d lost. How Dad said, before he saw the blood, that I shouldn’t be a sore loser, it was just a friendly competition. How Krista stood with her hands on her hips, scowling at me, not noticing I still hadn’t moved from where I’d fallen, and said that I should be happy for her. Why wasn’t I happy for her.

  I blinked at the memory — how vividly it came back whenever I saw the scar on my kneecap and had a moment to think — as I sat in my apartment parking lot, trying to take in a few moments of silence before I knew Dad would call.

  Like clockwork, my phone rang as I balanced a Diet Coke and lemonade in one hand and walked up the stairs to our apartment. Knowing exactly what time I would arrive, Krista opened the door, taking the lemonade as I answered the call.

  “Hi, Mom, hi, Dad,” I singsonged, turning off the television where a woman was frozen in child’s pose. Krista grabbed my date notebook out of my backpack, flipping to the newest page, already laughing at my notes.

  “Did you find out what you made on your economics test yet?” Mom asked immediately after greeting me. I knew they were sitting on the couch, Dad watching the nightly news as she worked a crossword puzzle, his phone between them on speaker.

  “Not yet. Probably tomorrow.”

  Krista pointed to my note about the decaf coffee, stifling a laugh with a chicken nugget.

  “Did you get your presentation finished?” Dad asked. “You said you were stuck on the ending. Did you ask your sister for help?”

  I rolled my eyes, glancing at her as she flipped back several pages to review my past notes on the guys I’d been on dates with.

  “I finished it, Dad. No worries.”

  “Well, you know you can always ask her,” he said, and I could picture him shaking his head, wondering why he always had to remind me of this. “She’s done this before. She knows what to do.”

  “I know. I’ll ask her next time.”

  Krista glanced at me. I opened my mouth, so she tossed a chicken nugget at me. I missed completely, it bouncing off my cheek and falling into my lap, making me laugh despite Dad’s disappointment. I said goodbye to my parents, passing the phone to her.

  She smiled, talking sweetly into the phone. She told them all about her day at work, how she was sure she was getting a promotion soon, how well she did at closing out the quarter, how Kyle had complimented the blazer she wore today, thanks, Mom, for sending it in her care package.

  I tuned her out, picking my notebook off the couch and flipping the pages backward, reminded of all the guys who didn’t make it past the first date and of those who did, how it never took long for their cons to outweigh their pros.

  Once Krista hung up, we dissected every part of my date, discussing over and over the ways it could have gone differently, how if he’d been just a little bit different, maybe he would have been perfect, until it was 11 p.m. and that meant it was time for bed.

  If only they could be perfect, I thought with a sigh as I sat in my bedroom alone. I carefully tucked my notebook in my backpack, waiting until I knew Krista was most likely asleep before quietly opening my window. I knew if she heard she’d tell me it was impractical to let in the chilly air when we had the heat on.

  I sighed again and stared at the faint glimmering stars, the moon too bright for them to really shine on their own, unable to shake the feeling that, once again, I was the stars, and my sister was the moon.

  ★☽★★☽

  When our mom opened the door, she gasped, as usual, as if we didn’t always show up for family dinner every other Sunday.

  “Oh, honey, you look beautiful,” she said to Krista, pulling her in for a hug. “That dress fits you like a glove.”

  Krista did look beautiful, having fretted over her appearance more than usual as we got ready for dinner. I’d asked her why she cared so much as she curled and re-curled the same ringlet.

  “It’s just Mom and Dad,” I said with an eye roll, pulling on a faded Middletown University sweatshirt. I’d already worn my cutest clothes on my dates this week and hadn’t planned to do laundry until Monday afternoon, right after econ, so I could study for my upcoming stats test while I waited for my clothes to dry. “Why are you wearing a dress?”

  “Sometimes it’s nice to look nice,” she said with a smirk, looking me up and down, her perfect eyebrow raised at my
outfit.

  I explained the laundry thing, and she rolled her eyes, examining her freshly polished nails, uninterested.

  I squinted at us in the mirror as we stood next to each other. She and I looked similar, some people even mistook us for twins, but even so, it was a fact that she was the prettier one, having won more beauty pageants than me when we were teenagers.

  But tonight, I was unable to stop comparing myself to her, feeling like our differences were more prominent than ever. I stared at her light brown hair, always styled in perfect curls, as I examined my blonde that always fell into messy waves more than ringlets.

  As she put foundation on her perfect porcelain skin, I wished I didn’t have a sprinkle of sun-kissed freckles across my nose and cheekbones. She was shorter than me, but had more poise and was rarely found without heels. She was also built like our delicate, petite mom whereas somewhere in the gene pool, I’d received long legs and curves.

  She smiled at me, and I made an ugly face, making her laugh.

  “Stop, I need to focus,” she said, swiping mascara on her long lashes, her mouth in a perfect O as she concentrated.

  We had the same eye color, light green, but hers sparkled with a distracted joy, and mine were filled with self-doubt, not so sure about my choice of clothes anymore.

  There was a knock on the door, and I went to let Kyle in as Krista finished her makeup.

  “Hey, Skylar,” Kyle said, not stepping inside our apartment, knowing we would leave right at 7 and it was already 6:58. He wasn’t one to waste time, always focused on what was the most efficient, a perfect fit for his job as a financial analyst. “How’s school?”

  I pulled on my shoes, knowing I needed to hurry, hearing Krista coming down the hallway, and shrugged. “School is school.”

  “That’s a pretty laissez-faire view,” he said, raising an eyebrow. He’d graduated at the top of his class and couldn’t take a joke.