Chapter 20
Twenty
My resolve to keep things with Toby on firmly friendly footing (say that three times fast) lasts until our second glasses of wine and the delivery of our entrees. I chose an Italian place I’ve never been to about halfway between the gallery and my apartment. The fact that Italian is Toby’s favorite had nothing whatsoever to do with my decision.
He’d arrived full of smiles, wrapped in a baggy rust-colored cardigan and a tartan scarf, a black messenger bag over his shoulder, and it had taken everything in me to hold back from enveloping him in a hug, or kissing his cheek in greeting. If it had been anyone else, any of my other male friends—straight, gay, or other—I’d have given them the full Kingston treatment. But with Toby, I can’t let myself get that close.
He didn’t seem to notice, and we got seated right away while he told me all about the meeting with the gallery curator. We ordered, we talked, and it was all good.
But now he’s holding his fork out to me with a piece of his brown butter sage ravioli speared on it, expecting me to lean across the table to taste it, and I freeze. Taking it would be like touching my mouth to his mouth, through the law of transference. But not taking it would be weird and douchey. So I lean over, snatch the bite off the fork as quickly as I can, while he smiles at me encouragingly.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” he enthuses. “This is honestly the best ravioli I’ve ever had in my life. I’m so glad you suggested this place. Thank you, Kingston.”
I swallow with difficulty, barely tasting the ravioli.
“Of course,” I manage to say, instead of, “will you go out with me?” We’re already out, anyway. And we live together. What else do I fucking want? Besides, maybe, some actual fucking.
I’d settle for a kiss, actually. Toby’s pink lips look perfect for kissing. I wonder if he’s a good kisser. Sometimes really attractive people are subpar kissers because they’ve never had to perfect their technique. On the other hand, he and Ivy were together for so long, it’s hard to believe she’d let him get away with being a lousy kisser. She’s the kind of person who would give her partner gentle, encouraging, and relentless feedback until they turned into the kind of kisser that fulfilled their potential.
But thinking about kissing Toby is exactly what I told myself I wasn’t going to be doing tonight. It’s just difficult to keep my mind off it when he’s insisting on feeding me, giving me compliments, and fairly glowing with excitement after his big afternoon.
“So, tell me, was Fernanda there?”
“No, but Galia and Grayson were, her assistants. They’re very… efficient. And they really do have everything organized. They’re lining up interviews with some magazines and maybe the Times . They want me to meet with a media trainer, which honestly would make me feel so much better.”
“I know a good one, though she works mainly with authors. Do the G-twins have someone to set you up with?”
“If they don’t, I’ll let you know. Oh, and I have to make a list of people I know to invite to the opening party. Influencers, celebrities, people like that. I’ll have to figure out if I know anyone who meets that description. And I need something to wear. I was hoping you could help me with that.”
“You mean since I moonlight as your stylist now?” I joke.
“Yes—please, please, tell me you’ll help me.”
Toby’s eyes look like liquid gold tonight, more tempting and teasing than any of the actual bling I have in my jewelry cases at home. How can I deny him anything, even though my heart feels so full of yearning for him that it’s starting to hurt.
I smooth down my beard and chuckle, trying to sound casual about it. “Of course. We’ll have you turned out for your big night. There’s plenty of time for that. Though you could stand to get some outfits now if you’re going to be meeting with journalists in person. They might want to take pictures—correction, they will want to take pictures.” They’ll want to show off the artist who’s just as beautiful as the works of art he creates.
Toby scrunches up his nose, but it doesn’t mar the overall effect. “Shopping is not my thing.”
I laugh. “Lucky for you, retail therapy is my favorite type of self-care. Leave it to me.” The idea of taking Toby shopping and dressing him like a Ken doll shouldn’t be as arousing as it is.
“Thanks.”
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, shoving aside my perversions and focusing on what I can do for him.
His gaze flicks down to the table. “Oh?” He twirls the stem of his wineglass, then lifts his eyes to me. His lashes look soft. I want to feel them on my skin.
“Your work situation. I know you’ve started some new pieces, and I was wondering, well, if it wouldn’t be a good idea to get you set up in a studio closer to home. Why don’t we put up one of those pre-made sheds? I looked into it a little bit.” I don’t mention I have one ready to order and an installer already lined up. “It’s got built-in AC and heat. And it would fit perfectly on that slab. I don’t even need a permit—Rosedale passed a backyard zoning amendment a while back.”
Toby’s lips part and his mouth forms an incredulous “o.” “You want to build me a studio?”
“Technically, it comes already built. But essentially. Yeah.” For a long second I think he’s going to see through the gesture and call me out for being irreparably, inappropriately gone for him.
Or say no.
Or both.
His smile turns bright for a second, then disappears. “Well, I—I want to say yes.”
“So say yes,” I tell him, because closing deals is my forte.
“I feel like there’s something you should know first. Before, well. I mean, I’ve been trespassing on your generosity for a while at this point. I guess I didn’t want to—you’re okay with me staying with you for a little longer?”
I knew the offer would force the issue, and I take a deep breath. “I am,” I say calmly, though I feel like I’ve traded pulses with a galloping horse. “It’s been… I mean, you’re a decent roomie, roomie.”
“I’m freeloading,” he says unselfconsciously. “But if things go well with the show?—”
“Which they will.”
He makes a face. “I really want to believe that.”
“There’s no way the world isn’t going to fall in love with your art the second they have a chance to see it.” That I know for sure. The certainty in my voice seems to bolster him.
“If things go well with the show, I’ll have options.”
“You’ll be able to do anything you want.”
He chuckles. “I was thinking I could at least pay rent.”
“You keep me stocked with ice cream and cat hair,” I say lightly. “That’s good enough for me.”
“And now you want to put a studio on your property. I thought you were going to build a garage there. Doesn’t Daniel need a home?” He looks at me and I want to hide my face, sure that he’ll be able to see every useless feeling in my heart written on it.
“Daniel’s not about to make his art world debut,” I say. “I just thought you could use the space. It’s really not a big deal.”
“It’s a good idea,” he says softly. “I’m touched.”
“So we’ll do it,” I say, before he can think too hard about it.
“Wait—there’s still something you should know. Maybe two things?—”
I look at him expectantly, trying not to anticipate the worst, like he’s getting back together with Ivy or he met Bowen Yang on the way over here and they’re running away together. I try not to hope for the best, either. That he has feelings for me, that the way he looks at me like he’s always happy to see me isn’t purely out of friendship.
“Dessert?” The server interrupts us with the offer of a sugar infusion. I have no appetite, but Toby glances over the menu and orders chocolate mousse.
“Guess I have a sweet tooth tonight.”
I wave my hand. “Go for it.”
“Also, I’m clearly procrastinating.” He shifts in his chair. “So here’s the thing—what I’ve been working on since Fernanda’s visit. Portraits. I’ve been putting together a collection of them for the show. And it all started because this spring, when I took the pictures of your cottage, I took pictures of you, too. Remember?”
“I remember.” The day that Toby came into my house and made me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long time is seared into my memory. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I painted you. From the photos. A portrait. And I should have asked you if it was all right, but it was just something I had to do.”
I have a hard time processing what he’s saying. It’s not what I thought he was going to say. Not what I hoped he was going to say. It’s some strange third thing.
“You painted me?”
“Yes. A portrait of you. And I guess I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure how you’d react. It’s silly. But if I put it in the show?—”
“You’re putting a portrait of me in the show?” I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this.
“I was going to check with you first. So yeah.” Toby grimaces. “This is me checking with you, I guess. Sorry. I fucked this all up. I should have brought you to see it earlier. Again, I’m not sure why I didn’t.”
“When can I see it?”
“As soon as we’re back home, of course,” he says earnestly.
It smarts. Back home. We share a home, but we don’t share a life, not the way I want to.
“Okay.”
The server delivers Toby’s mousse, but he just stares at it, looking miserable. “John Singer Sargent once said, ‘every time I paint a portrait I lose a friend.’”
I laugh at that, puncturing some of the tense mood. “Stop being so melodramatic. I’m not mad. I’m… getting used to the idea. Is it a good painting?”
He looks at me square on. “Yes.”
“Well, then. I’m sure I’ll love it. And even if I don’t, you can put it in the show. It’s your art. You don’t need my approval.”
He lifts his spoon and takes a half-hearted swipe of mousse but doesn’t put it in his mouth. “I wish I had a picture of it on my phone, but I don’t.”
“It’s all right. I know what I look like.” But after I say it and the conversation moves on to lighter things, I wonder if I’ll recognize the person in Toby’s painting. How does he see me?
Later, I settle the bill over Toby’s protests, then we walk back to my apartment. It’s gotten cold, and Toby’s jacket isn’t really adequate, but I refrain from offering him my herringbone overcoat. We’ll get there soon enough, and I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself for one night. But I did get him to agree to the studio—didn’t I?
As we pass through the lobby of my building, I greet the night doorman, Franklin, a former college linebacker who doesn’t blink an eye at the handsome white boy on my arm. He’s seen me bring all types up to my apartment.
When we’re in the elevator, I say, “You said you had two things to tell me, but you only mentioned the one.”
“Oh.” It’s dim in there, but I can see a bit of a flush on his cheeks. “Never mind.”
I sigh but say nothing. Yeah. That’s what I thought.