Chapter 13
Thirteen
With the deadline of Kingston returning to Rosedale for Pete’s birthday party, which I have officially been invited to by Jack via text, I have a reason to put my ass in gear and finish the painting I owe Kingston so I can move on to the one of Pete and Jack’s Cape-style home. My dance card is pretty full, so I’ve forgotten I never heard back from Fernanda until I absent-mindedly answer a call one day after lunch and have a full-throated woman’s voice in my ear.
She says she’s traveling, but she’d like to see what I’ve been working on, and we arrange for her to come by the studio a few days after the party. I wait to panic until I’m off the phone, then I call Pete, who agrees to come over and help me curate what I have, so when she gets there I’ll put my best foot forward.
In the meantime, all I can do is paint.
I’m careful to text Ivy to let her know in advance when I’ll be in the studio, and she’s never there when I arrive. The painting of Kingston’s cottage gets finished within a week, and when it’s dry enough to move, I bring it over to his place and put it in a place of honor in the living room so that Kingston will see it first thing when he gets home. I’ve already decided not to charge him for it—it’s the least I can do after his no-questions-asked yes to letting me, and Luna, stay here.
I work on the picture of Jack and Pete’s house as well. Their place is a little more polished than Kingston’s, neater and more manicured, but it still has charm, and I add Cleo, their dog, which gives the thing a more personal feel. It’ll be close, but I should have it done to present to them at the party.
I hold off on finishing Kingston’s portrait. Something’s stopping me, and I’m not sure what it is.
And Kingston and I keep texting.
At first, it’s just check-ins about the house, him making sure I have everything I need.
Then I send him a picture of Luna sunning herself on his kitchen floor.
He sends me a picture of the laughably tiny fork that came with the salad he bought on the plane back to New York.
I ask him about his nephews, and he sends me some pictures of their latest antics—their mouths stained blue from ice cream truck popsicles.
Looks like they ate a Smurf.
EXACTLY what I told my sister.
The month zips by. I get a text from Pete the day before the party.
Just letting you know Ivy said she’s coming tomorrow.
I already knew it, since she and I talked about it when I was there working yesterday. But I appreciate the well-meaning heads-up.
Kingston texts me, too.
I’ll be getting into Rosedale around dinner time.
I rush around tidying, even though the place isn’t messy, per se, just my usual stacks of magazines and doodles, plus Luna’s cat toys everywhere. I make sure the fridge is stocked, and I make a run downtown to get a box of sugar cookies from Beck’s cookie store. I also stop by my friend Shay’s flower shop to get a bouquet of summer blooms—strong, vibrant stalks that remind me of Kingston. I set the bouquet on the kitchen table and then rethink it. It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
I leave it alone, come back, decide it’s fine. He’ll probably appreciate the gesture. Unless he’s allergic to flowers. That hasn’t come up in our sometimes hours-long text conversations. And now it’s too late to ask. Besides, he’s driving, and I don’t want to distract him.
Instead, I order dinner for delivery, hoping the timing works, and go to shower off the day. It’s been sticky hot all week, with frequent enough rain showers that when the heat ramps up, everything steams.
When I get out of the shower, my hair a sodden lump on my head, I hear a noise from the front room. I hope it’s not Luna getting into trouble, so I pad out to scold her and perhaps corral her in my room. But instead of Luna I find Kingston, big as life, standing and staring at the painting of his cottage where I propped it on the mantel in front of the subpar watercolor he’d hung there. A Louis Vuitton overnight bag is resting on the floor by his feet and he’s wearing milky coffee brown linen trousers, a linen shirt the color of freshly fallen snow. He’s got a trim beard, too. That’s new. How long has it been since I’ve seen him—two whole months?
It’s only when he turns fully my way and his gaze drops approximately to my navel that I remember I’m wearing nothing but a towel. My hair drips onto my shoulders.
“Tobias Eric Wheaton,” he says, uttering my full name in his big voice to great effect. Everything in me snaps to attention, my gaze sharpening on his. My nipples feel conspicuously hard in the air-conditioning, and my grip on the towel tightens.
“Kingston James,” I return as smoothly as I can. “Welcome home.”
He takes a step toward me, and for a moment of horrible anticipation, I think he might touch me. And if he did that, I’d embarrass myself for sure. But he doesn’t reach out and I give him a crooked smile. “I thought you were Luna. I’ll get dressed.”
“Wait—”
I pause mid-turn.
He gestures to the painting. “It’s finished.”
“Yes.”
“It’s perfect, Toby.”
I let out an invisible sigh of relief. “You like it?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Well, it’s a lovely cottage. I’ve enjoyed staying here.”
“I’m glad,” he says warmly.
“There’s—ah.” Suddenly my idea of a welcome home thank you dinner feels oddly inappropriate as I stand here nearly naked, Kingston watching me with his all-knowing eyes. Texting and all the hours I’ve spent painting his face aside, we’re still relatively new friends.
And I just got out of a relationship.
And he might not even be interested in me the way I can’t seem to help but be interested in him.
And and and and…
But none of that matters. I did arrange dinner, and I owe more than a simple meal to him. Besides, I’m greedy for his attention after having to make do with scraps for so long.
Trying to sound in command, I say, “There’s bubbly in the fridge, and I made cucumber water, too. If the pizza arrives, I already paid them. I’ll be back in a sec.”
I retreat to my room before he can demand further explanation and throw on some clothes, a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that I’m certain I haven’t worn since I washed it. I rub as much water as I can out of my hair with the towel, finger comb it away from my face, and wish I’d thought to get a haircut, but whatever. This isn’t a date. It’s not anything, I tell myself. It’s only Kingston. The man who I haven’t once fallen asleep without thinking about while lying in this bed for the past month.
Fuck me sideways.
I’ve built this up in my head and now I’m freaking out.
Which is stupid because as far as Kingston’s concerned, I’m just the loser he’s letting stay in his guest room for a while.
I swipe on some deodorant, don’t bother putting on shoes or socks, and return to the living room, where Kingston’s shutting the front door. He turns toward me with a pizza box in hand.
Only thing to do is brazen this out. “Great, it came. I hope you’re hungry. I made a salad, too.”
Avoiding meeting his gaze, I take the pizza and go to the kitchen, where Kingston must have gotten out the two glasses that sit next to the bottle of bubbly I picked up on Pete’s recommendation.
“Toby?” Kingston leans against the counter and crosses his arms.
“Yeah? Do you like your salad dressed?” I put down the pizza and pick up the jar of vinaigrette I mixed together earlier. I shake it like a maraca to get the oil and vinegar to blend.
“What’s all this?” Kingston doesn’t sound mad or confused. Maybe a little amused.
I’m nervous, which is completely stupid, because—one more time for the cheap seats in the back—this isn’t anything. “I really appreciate you giving me a roof over my head. And this is a small thank you. So, thank you.”
He peers at me as if he doesn’t quite believe me, but finally he says, “You’re welcome.” Then he opens the pizza box and lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
“Olive,” he says.
“What else would it be?” I ask with a grin.
And after that, it’s as easy as our text conversations. We talk, we drink, we eat. And it’s all frighteningly wonderful.
We’ve put away the leftover pizza and finished off the salad. “Dessert? I got sugar cookies from Beck and ice cream.”
I open the freezer, and Kingston looks over my shoulder. “I’ll say.”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked.” To compensate, I basically got one of everything in the freezer aisle.
“I like…”
I wait, my hand hovering over the containers, waiting for him to finish the sentence. But he just hums. “I think I’m good, actually.”
“Okay.” I pull out some vanilla ice cream for myself. I pick up a spoon and a dish and take a scoop, then plop half of one of Beck’s outrageous sugar cookies on top.
“Fine, I’ll have some, too.”
I grin and hand him that dish and make a second one for myself with the other half of the cookie.
“So, what happened with Ivy?”
The question gets tossed out there as if he’s asking about tomorrow’s weather and I almost choke on my bite of ice cream.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Kingston adds.
“I don’t mind.” I’m surprised, because he never mentioned her before in any of our text exchanges. He never once asked me why I needed to move into his place. I assumed Pete filled him in.
“Pete didn’t tell you?”
“He said you and she broke up, but that was it. It’s none of my business, but call me curious.”
“No, of course. What happened was…” I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, plus my weekly therapy sessions to help make sense of it in my head. “I was so scared of turning into my father that I overcorrected. She and I ran our course a long time ago, and I was too oblivious to realize it. We’ll always be friends, but that’s all we’ve been for a while. I couldn’t stay there. She deserves a chance to move on properly.”
“What about you?”
“I’m… working through some things. It was a bit of a rude wake-up call to realize I’ve been dragging my heels on truly growing up. But better late than never, right?” I try to make it sound like an opportunity rather than a burden.
“That’s what they say,” Kingston says neutrally.
“So, that’s why this,” I wave my hand around to indicate the entirety of Kingston’s generosity, “has been such a life saver. I’ve been able to focus on the future. But you only have to say the word and I’ll find someplace else to live.”
“On that note, I’m planning to be here for most of August,” Kingston says, and my heart sinks. He’s going to throw me out. It’s not that he owes me a chance, but I regret not being able to spend more time with him. “We’ll really be roomies. I’m cool with it if you are.”
He’s not tossing me out. The relief is strong and makes me facetious. “How do you know? I could be a terrible roommate.”
“You bought flowers, the place is clean, and you filled my freezer with ice cream. Even your cat is all right.”
Luna’s mostly kept out of our way this evening. “She’s been on her best behavior, thankfully.”
“And you don’t have to tiptoe around me, Toby. I want you to feel at home here.”
“That’s not the problem,” I mutter. I feel so at home I never want to leave.
“What’s the problem, then?” he asks, not letting my comment slide.
I look down at my empty ice cream bowl instead of at his face. Wanting to stay, wanting to find out what his lips feel like. Those are problems. But they’re not his problems, only mine. I force my gaze up to his and plaster on a grin. “No problem at all, roomie.”