22. Toby
Twenty-Two
Toby
I come out of my work cave around four o’clock one day in early December to find Kingston in the kitchen making a cup of tea.
“You’re here!” I say, my mood suddenly lifting. Today I was struggling with a portrait of Pete, worrying I might have to entirely scrap what I have. I’d forgotten that Kingston was coming up from the city. It must be Friday.
I haven’t seen him in a while—he went to Atlanta for the entire week of Thanksgiving to visit his mom and sister and her family, then stayed in the city for the past couple of weeks. I spent the holiday at Jack and Pete’s, eating too much food and playing poker with Beck and Van. I texted Kingston a selfie of us at the table with the message, “Wish you were here.”
Because as much fun as I had taking part in an American holiday I haven’t experienced more than a handful of times in my life, it would have been so much more enjoyable if Kingston had been there. I missed his steadying presence, the weight of his gaze on me across the table. Jack and Pete and Van and Beck are fun and interesting, but they’re also close in a way that somehow makes me feel lonely. They did their best to include me, but they can’t help being two cohesive couples while I was their fifth-wheel bohemian friend with nowhere else to go.
“I forgot you were coming back today,” I say. “Is there enough water for me?”
Kingston nods and I get out a mug. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says as he opens a tea caddy.
“Just a very poor work session,” I say. “In fact, I’ve been working far too much this week. You can save me by proposing something utterly frivolous to do. Though, I suppose you might have work of your own. Do you?”
Kingston pours the water over our tea bags. “Of course I have work. The life of an agent means I have homework forever. There’s always something to read, always someone to get back to.”
I pout. “You’re very busy and important, I know. I suppose I can get back out there instead of having fun.”
“Not so fast. I was thinking we should make a plan to go shopping.”
“Shopping?” I lean against the counter and Luna comes up to rub her sinewy body against my legs. When I pat her head but offer nothing further, she abandons me for Kingston, staring up at him meaningfully. She lets out a sharp, plaintive meow.
Kingston, trained as she’s got him, goes for the canister of cat treats on the counter and drops three at her feet. Smugly, she eats them, looking over her shoulder at me in triumph. She’s got him wrapped around her paw and I applaud her persistence.
“You need clothes for your interviews. Now, Rosedale has some options, one pretty decent menswear shop, in fact. We could start there. Or you could plan to come to the city with me later this month.”
“With the holidays coming?”
“It’s the perfect time. New York is magical in December.” He takes a sip of tea. “Don’t you have any holiday shopping to do?”
I had, in fact, been actively putting off thinking about the holidays. In England, I always loved the lights going up around the city, the festive spirit imbued in everything from shop windows to the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree. Ivy liked Christmas, and she’d always make our flat warm and beautiful. The last I heard, she was going to London for two weeks.
But I have no plans besides being here in Rosedale with Luna. My mother’s still in Australia, and the last time I spent Christmas with my father I was fifteen.
“What are you doing for the holidays?” I ask Kingston, suddenly worried he’ll be out of town again. “Going back to Atlanta?”
“No, I’ll send a box of presents for the twins, but I was just there for a good visit. I was thinking I might stick around here. Even if we don’t have snow, Rosedale is a pretty cozy place to spend Christmas.”
I grin. “Wonderful.”
“Jack and Pete usually do Christmas Eve at their place. But my idea of a nice Christmas morning is something quiet and mellow.”
“Sounds perfect.” I belatedly realize he may not want company for his mellow Christmas morning. “That is—if you don’t mind my being here.”
“I don’t mind,” he says lightly, then pivots. “You’re not getting out of clothes shopping. How’s Monday? We can drive in. I’ll make room in my schedule, and you can take the train back Tuesday.”
“My interview with the woman from the local lifestyle magazine is Wednesday here in Rosedale.”
“Perfect timing then.”
“You have everything figured out, don’t you?” I say admiringly.
“Not everything,” he says. “For instance, if we’re going to spend Christmas here, we ought to have a tree.”
“Do you have ornaments?”
“A few.”
“We should get a small tree, one of those potted ones for the tabletop. That way Luna will be less likely to attack it and bring the whole thing down.”
Kingston looks down at the cat in surprise. “Would she do that?”
“Cats and Christmas trees are mortal enemies, didn’t you know that?”
“I had no idea. Well, I think the flower shop sells them. Should we go there tomorrow and pick one out?”
“Let’s.”
Saturday morning is the coldest it’s been this winter. I bundle up in my gloves and tartan scarf, tug a knit cap over my head. My winter coat is a white puffball thing that makes me look like a homeless snowman next to Kingston. His idea of winter layers is a faux-camel hair coat, a cashmere scarf the color of milky coffee, and his fine wool sweater and wool trousers, with dark brown boots completing the look. He pulls on a large flap-eared hat that should look silly but just makes him seem like he stepped out of a GQ ad.
“Shall I drive?” I suggest. “That way we won’t get any needles or anything in Daniel.”
He grins. “That’s a great idea. Thanks.”
We go to the flower shop first. Shay Brierley, the shop owner, is working today, and his boyfriend Connor is helping him.
“We have tabletop trees over here,” Shay says. “And also, if you want something different and out of the box and totally chic,” he says, eyeing Kingston’s hat, “rosemary trees. They’re quite sturdy and they smell amazing.”
“Are they okay with cats?” I ask.
“No guarantees that Luna won’t want to play with it,” Connor says, “but in terms of toxicity, it’s fine. You still have to be careful with what ornaments you put on. Nothing too breakable.”
I feel better with the veterinarian’s blessing, but glance at Kingston. “We’ll be careful,” I say. “What do you think? The rosemary tree?” I lean close and breathe in the sharp herbal scent.
“It’s smaller than I had envisioned, but it is a pretty color,” he says. “Is it what you want?”
“I love it. And look, felt ornaments. Maybe we should get some of these. That way, if Luna decides she wants to play, they won’t get hurt. Or hurt her.”
Kingston looks at the felt cactus, the sunflower in a pot, the tulip, and the felt Christmas tree, then takes one of each. He picks up a big heavy ceramic mug that says “plant dad” and asks Shay, “Does Pete have one of these, do you know?”
“I don’t think so,” Shay says as he rings up the rosemary tree and the ornaments. “But it’s perfect for him.”
“You’re good at gifts, aren’t you,” I say to Kingston. “I wish I had that trait.”
“What are you talking about? You’re an artist. You can make people gifts,” Connor says.
“It’s not quite that easy, but yes, I suppose I could do that,” I say, realizing I need to get Kingston a Christmas present. Something special. Something that shows him how much I appreciate everything he’s done for me. Something to let him know how much he means to me. Without revealing how much I wish for more.
But what to get him? I think on it as we put our Christmas tree and ornaments and the mug for Pete in the Volvo, then walk around the corner to Hot Brew.
I can’t get Kingston something as prosaic as a mug, and I already gave him a painting. The cottage sits in its place of pride in the living room, and I think it’s one of the best examples of my architectural work. He likes clothes, music, books, and cars. But he buys himself everything he needs and wants. Instead, I have to find something for him that he would never even think to get for himself.
I push the challenge to the back of my mind as we order hot drinks from Meadow at Hot Brew. Kingston quizzes her on her and Melissa’s Christmas plans. “We’ll be at Jack and Pete’s Christmas Eve,” Meadow says. “You two?”
“We’ll be there,” Kingston says. “See you then, Miss Meadow.”
“So, should we get some lunch? We have leftovers at home,” I say, trying to picture the contents of the fridge. “I think.”
“We can eat after one more stop,” Kingston says, opening the door to the sidewalk.
“What’s that?” I ask, noticing he’s not wearing gloves. Maybe he needs a new pair. Are gloves a good present?
“We’ll go to the menswear shop—just to look around,” Kingston says, setting off at a brisk pace. I have no choice but to follow.
“Do we have to?” I’m aware I’m whining, but honestly, clothes shopping is at the bottom of my list of favorite ways to pass the time, just after dental work and sharing an awkward pint with my father.
“Let’s take a look. And if we see something promising, we’ll go from there.”
“I thought we were doing this in the city on Monday.” Not that I want to do that, either.
“I try to shop local when I can. It’s good for the economy.”
“Fine,” I say grudgingly. I’ve never been inside this shop, but it’s warm and we’re greeted even more warmly by a middle-aged man in a waistcoat and tie. “Kingston, so nice to see you.”
“Jerry, hello my friend,” Kingston says, launching into his effusive man about town persona. It’s quite entertaining, really, to see him schmooze Jerry. I like that side of Kingston, the person who can sweet talk a lion, but I prefer the softer version of him, the one who reigns at home, unconcerned and unguarded. Now that I know him better, this Kingston persona seems like an act, one designed to only allow people to get to know him a millimeter deep, when the truly interesting stuff is layers beneath the surface. But it’s such a charming, beguiling surface, others can be forgiven for only focusing on that.
I feel lucky to be included in the group granted access past the first layer, and I wonder how many more layers there are that I haven’t been privy to yet.
Jerry and Kingston examine me critically and start pulling items off the racks—shirts, trousers, sweaters, blazers—and I passively let them poke and prod me, talking about fabrics and colors as if I’m a paper doll they’re going to dress up. While they work, I wish with a fierceness that surprises me for a chance to get to know the rest of Kingston’s layers. The more I get to know him, the more I simply want to know him forever.
I want all of Kingston with an ache that startles me—an edge that scares me. Because that desire isn’t going away. And he’s right here—close enough to touch, if I were brave enough to ask his permission.
But I’m definitely not brave enough. What if he says no?
Even worse, what if he says yes?