Chapter 18
Eighteen
My August vacation went by too fast, and going back to the city in September gave me back-to-school vibes. I saw less of Toby while I was chilling in Rosedale than I thought I might—once he signed the contract with Fernanda and the date of his show in New York was set for March he was suddenly in a frantic race to prepare. Seven months away sounds like a lot, but I work on a publishing calendar where seven months are merely a couple of blinks of an eye.
He’s working on new paintings, I know, but he won’t say what. We developed a routine over the summer, sharing the kitchen during breakfast hours, then he’d go to his studio at Ivy’s house, and I’d lounge around and read before heading to Pete and Jack’s to use their pool. In the afternoons, I would get some work done, keeping up with my clients and their projects, and moving forward on my plans for my agency.
I’m aiming to officially open January 1, which feels both so far away and like no time at all.
And I’ve mostly kept my feelings for Toby under wraps. I assumed living with the man would be the perfect chance to get up close and personal with his annoying habits and off-putting tendencies, which would aid me in getting over my inconvenient crush. Only problem—he doesn’t seem to have any flaws, unless you count doting on his cat. And the fact that he sees his ex-girlfriend of a decade all the freaking time. Am I jealous? I have no right to be anything when it comes to Toby. We’re friends, though, for sure now, and that’s not bad.
So I’ve been irrevocably ruined by seeing him shirtless more times than I can count. So he smells way too good for a man who spends his days around mildly toxic chemicals and barely remembers to do laundry. So his sleepy early morning smile makes my heart flip, and the way we stand next to each other in my kitchen and wash up after dinner together, talking about movies and art and books and our childhoods, makes me constantly wish that we were going to share the same bedroom after finishing up instead of going to our separate ones?—
Other than that, I’ve got my feelings on complete lockdown.
Right.
But now that I’m back to my regular routine in the city, I miss him more than I should. My apartment seems so empty and dull compared to the colors and the noise of the house Toby and I share.
I even miss the cat.
Work is good, at least. Three of my top choices were successfully wooed and all say they’re on board with the Kingston James Literary Agency. All I have to do is finalize the paperwork, find the perfect office space, and pull the trigger.
Easy peasy.
Early October and it’s finally starting to feel like fall in the city, after a late-summer heatwave that kept us inside and out of the humidity. But today the air has a chilly snap to it and the trees in Central Park are getting with the program and donning their autumnal colors. I usually take the subway to the office, but today I walk, wanting to feel the cooler air and think. About Toby—big surprise.
He’s been at my place for over three months and so far he hasn’t mentioned finding anywhere else to live. I’ve never had a roommate for so long—usually when I offer to host people it’s for a few weeks, and I’m normally only there on weekends. This thing with Toby has been the most permanent cohabitation situation I’ve had since college, but I find myself anxious when I think about him moving out. The only rub is his workspace. He’s still going over to Ivy’s to paint since he hasn’t been able to find another space in Rosedale.
The relationship he has with Ivy is… confusing. Not that I don’t know plenty of exes who stayed friends with each other, but they seem closer than most.
Am I jealous—of course. Am I still reeling that they broke up at all—also yes. They seemed so comfortable with each other, like an old married couple. But perhaps that was the problem, or at least that’s what I gathered from the times Pete and Toby himself talked about it. I can relate—Sergio and I were like that, better as friends, not enough spark to keep things going. Sad, but it happens.
But in the last few months, I’ve had to remind myself more than once that just because he’s not with Ivy anymore, it doesn’t exactly make him available. And it definitely doesn’t make him interested in me.
I know he values our friendship. I know he appreciates having a place to live. But beyond that, thinking anything else could happen is asking for heartache.
I’m in town through Friday—want to get a drink?
I read the text before looking at the sender and my heart jumps at the idea that Toby could be in New York. He’d mentioned that he would probably be coming here to meet with the gallery curator in charge of mounting his show. Then I see the text is from Van, which makes more sense. Van’s home base is now Rosedale, but he’s frequently in the city, what with his acting jobs, auditions, and lately fine-tuning the play he wrote that’s in workshop.
I check my schedule and write back.
I’m meeting an editor for dinner tonight. Want to meet me at Da Capo after?
Definitely. See you there.
My meeting goes well—it looks like my client Reed Bennet’s first YA novel will find a home with our top choice of publishing houses—so I’m in a great mood when I arrive at Da Capo. Van’s already there at a two-person table in a dark corner. He’s nursing a beer, so I order a glass of wine on my way over.
We exchange a hug, and I shed my London Fog overcoat. “I haven’t seen you since you and Beck got engaged. Congratulations, again, in person.”
He smiles, wide and open, and I can’t believe how he’s changed since he met Beck. He used to be the biggest slut on Broadway and thought marriage was for suckers. Now he’s engaged and looks like he can’t wait to sign on the dotted line.
“Thanks, Kingston. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re not in a rush or anything, but we’re thinking about getting married in the spring. And we’re hoping you’ll perform the ceremony.”
“What?” Me, officiate their wedding? “Why?”
“Because you helped us get where we needed to go. I’ll always be grateful for that,” he says, taking me aback with his serious mien.
“At the time, you were less enthusiastic about my contribution to the situation.”
“Your meddling, you mean.”
“I hardly meddled,” I argue. “I just made you both admit what you already knew—that you two lunkheads were in love with each other.”
“Potato, potahtoe,” Van drawls. “Point is—it would mean a lot to us if you did it. You mean a lot to us. And we can hardly ask Jack—he’d blubber through the whole thing.”
“Well, that’s true.” I think about it for a second while the server delivers my red. “I guess so—I mean, what would I have to do?”
“You get one of those internet certifications and write a few words.”
“I’m no writer?—”
“Don’t pull that. It doesn’t have to be much. Just write about how much we love each other, how Beck made me fall in love with him by baking me cookies and I wooed him by being grumpy and emotionally unavailable. Stuff like that.”
I laugh. “You’re the writer. How about I take a stab at it and then you can polish it up and make it sound pretty?”
“So you’ll do it?” he asks, tacitly accepting my terms.
“I’ll do it.” I’m still not sure I’m the right person for the job, but I can see what an honor it is to be asked. I sip my excellent Barolo. “How exciting. A wedding is definitely something to look forward to.”
“I’m getting married,” Van says, sounding incredulous. “I’m getting married .”
“It was your idea, from what you and Beck told me,” I say, suddenly worried he’s getting cold feet.
“Oh, I proposed all right. Beck’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
The stab of jealousy is so painful it feels like an actual knife between my ribs. I glance down, but my shirt is pristine. No knife. No blood.
“That’s… great, Van.”
His faraway expression vanishes at the tone of my voice. “Now, what about you? My actor friend is still single and looking, by the way.”
“No,” I say, the thought of making the effort to get to know someone new entirely exhausting. “Thanks.”
“How’s it going with Toby?” he asks without commenting on my refusal.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been staying with you for a while. Everything good?”
“It’s really good,” I say cautiously. “I think. Except—he needs a place to work. I was thinking about putting up one of those prefab units. I already have the slab ready to go, and we’d only need to install electricity.” The idea came to me one day when I parked Daniel in my invisible garage and realized it would make the perfect spot for a studio.
“So he’s staying?”
“As far as I know,” I say.
“And you two are—” He stops and waves his hands in a vague manner, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting I know what he’s implying.
“What?”
“Friends?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Just—well, no reason. I guess.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dude, nothing. If you say you’re just friends, that’s cool.” Van sounds suspiciously unbothered, as if he knows something I don’t.
“Of course we are. He’s not—” I pause. Finishing that sentence seems dangerous.
Van’s blue eyes sharpen on me, his thick black brows creasing together to form a hood of speculation. “You know he’s not straight, right?”
“Not straight?” I had suspicions, but Toby has never said anything definitive.
“Bi. He told me a few months ago.”
My world narrows to a point. “Oh.”
“Not that it matters, because you’re just friends.”
I reach for my wine and my skin slides impotently against the glass. When did my palms get so sweaty?
“That’s right. Just friends.”
Van lets it go, but I have trouble following the rest of our conversation. Knowing for sure that Toby’s not straight isn’t great for my concentration. I’ve worked so hard to keep things purely friendly between us. I’ll just have to keep trying.