Chapter 12
Twelve
Being in Kingston’s cottage without him is odd. I’ve stayed in strangers’ houses before, those furnished vacation rentals that make you feel like you can’t actually touch anything. But Kingston isn’t a stranger, even though we’ve only interacted a handful of times in person. We text often enough I probably could have asked him myself about staying here. But still—we’re a different kind of friends than me and Pete. I’m not quite sure how to define it, except to say Pete’s energy is firmly that of a friend who gets my challenges as an artist, whereas Kingston’s energy draws me in and makes me want to be a part of it, somehow.
And now I have that energy all around me.
I find the guest room easily. Clean sheets are already on the comfortable bed. I brought my clothes, toiletries, all of Luna’s stuff, but there wasn’t much else in our house that was mine besides art Ivy and I collected together. One of these days, we’ll have to split those pieces up, I suppose. Perhaps when I have a more permanent home to move to.
I make sure the door to Kingston’s room is closed securely before letting Luna out of her carrier to explore the rest of the place. She sniffs the furniture, then hides under the couch. As long as she doesn’t use it for a scratching post, I think we’re okay.
I wander into the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea. Everything Kingston owns is good quality, well designed, and with a hint of flamboyance. His tea kettle is clear glass, his mugs all match. I recognize them as coming from the Met museum gift shop. He clearly values the items he surrounds himself with, and I feel his presence wrapping around me, even though he’s three thousand miles away at his California conference by now.
Being here without him makes me miss him with a sudden, inexplicable ache.
And it’s not until I’m trying to fall asleep that night in the guest bed, Luna curled up in the parenthesis of my body, that I realize it’s odd that Kingston is the one I’m missing, not Ivy.
The next day, I screw up my courage and call Fernanda. She doesn’t pick up, but I leave a message with someone who says they are “one of her assistants.” How many assistants could the woman have? Then I’m back to waiting.
In the meantime, I go to the Art Center and inquire about renting studio space. I can’t afford it forever, but since I’m not paying rent to Kingston, I can swing it for a while, and it’s not fair to Ivy to keep taking up her space.
Unfortunately, they have a waiting list, so I put my name on it and ponder alternatives. Then I go to the grocery store because Luna needs food, and I forgot to buy it yesterday.
I get the usual assortment of produce and Luna’s food, then swing by the tinned foods—beans are a reliable staple. I fill my cart with them before wandering by the fancier foods. I like a particular brand of olive tapenade they carry, and I decide to splurge and get a couple of jars. I wonder if Kingston likes olives. Before I can talk myself out of it, I locate my phone in a pocket of my jeans and text him.
Do you like olives?
I’m deciding between boring healthy cereal and the sugary kind I still have a taste for when my phone rattles.
Yes.
The terseness of the reply disheartens me. If my aim was to engage him in a text conversation, he’s not leaving me much of an opening. I do the math—it’s midmorning in California. He’s probably working and I’m bothering him. I sigh. What am I even doing?
I put one of each kind of cereal in my cart and am on my way to the checkout when my phone buzzes again.
Green are my favorite, especially stuffed with garlic. But kalamata are delicious also and those mild green ones make a tasty sauce—Castelvetranos. But you can’t beat a good old-fashioned black olive. I used to put them on the tips of my fingers when I was small and pretend they were long nails like my aunties’.
Do you like olives?
I grin and smother a laugh, then pull my cart to the side of the aisle as a grocery store employee comes through restocking.
I consider how to respond, then type.
I love them.
Tapenades are my favorite but I agree you can’t go wrong with an old-fashioned black olive. Especially on pizza.
I bite my lip, then dare to send a follow-up.
Be honest—did the name Castelvetranos simply roll out of your impressive brain, or did you have to look it up?
I wait, but there’s no reply right away and I get nervous. Did I go too far with the impressive brain thing? Is that saying too much?
But when I’m in the checkout line, the phone buzz has me fumbling for it so fast I drop it. Thankfully, I’ve cracked enough phone screens in my life I now have the NASA-approved case and there’s no new damage.
I read Kingston’s message and tap my credit card at the same time.
I knew it.
But I googled it to make sure I had the spelling right.
I laugh out loud and the checkout employee gives me an odd look as they hand me my receipt.
And now I want olive pizza. Thanks for that. I’m stuck at this conference and there’s no decent food.
I wish Kingston was only as far away as his home and I could swing by Nina’s and grab a pizza on the way to surprise him.
But he’s in California and I’m going home to a cat.
Maybe you could order out. When do you get back to the east coast?
I fly to New York next Thursday. But I won’t be coming to Rosedale on the weekend, if that’s what you were wondering. Place is all yours for the time being.
The disappointment is swift and real. I think about how to respond as I load the groceries into the back of my wagon, then slide behind the wheel. It’s warm with the late June sun coming through the windscreen, but I don’t turn Helen on yet. Her air-conditioning is weak at best, anyway.
I hope you aren’t staying away on my account. I wouldn’t want you to think you can’t be at your own house.
I see the dots that indicate he’s responding, but then they stop. I imagine him at the conference, probably being stopped by people every few minutes to talk. Perhaps he’s even presenting or has some important meetings. And here I am texting him about olives.
I tell myself he wouldn’t have written back if he didn’t want to.
By the time I get the groceries home and inside the kitchen, the day’s gotten warm enough to send me to the thermostat to check that the air-conditioner is on. Pete gave me a thorough tour of the place yesterday when he handed over his key. Hot and humid is not my preferred weather, so I hit the button to activate the air-con. A pleasantly cool draft immediately starts emanating from the floor vent in the kitchen, and I fall in love with the cottage all over again. I don’t think I’ve ever lived somewhere with central air.
Luna winds her way around my legs, as if she knows I have treats for her in one of my shopping bags. I rip open a package of them and offer her one, because I’m not above bribing my way to love. I got her a couple of new toys, too, and I toss a hot pink feathered ball at her once she’s done chewing her snack. She immediately attacks it and rolls with it into the living room. She’s still a kitten at heart; I ought to spend more time playing with her. Sometimes I wish Luna had a sibling I could have adopted at the same time so they could occupy each other, but Ivy probably would have gone apoplectic.
Ivy doesn’t get a vote anymore, I realize. And I get sad all over again. I guess I’m not entirely embracing this new reality. Maybe I never will fully, but I know time will help.
And work. Lots of work.
When I check my phone later, I see I’ve missed Kingston’s reply.
Sorry, had to duck into a meeting. And don’t worry, I don’t feel like I can’t come home. I have engagements keeping me in the city.
I have to trust him that he’s not only saying that to lessen my guilt. Still, I wonder how long it will be before I see him again. It shouldn’t matter. I should be relieved that I have the place to myself for at least a few weeks. But I’m not. Maybe I’m in need of a distraction, but the idea of spending the next several weeks here alone is rather depressing.
I don’t know how to tell Kingston I’d like to see him without it sounding strange.
But then he texts again.
I’ll be back for Pete’s birthday barbecue. Jack said since they’re going to be out of town for the Fourth, they’re going to throw a big bash at the end of July. Sound good, roomie?
The end of the month? I swallow hard, but what else can I say?
Sounds good. I’ll look forward to it.
He doesn’t write back.