25. Kingston
Twenty-Five
Kingston
January brings the biggest change to my professional life since I became an agent. I officially open the proverbial and literal doors of the Kingston James Literary Agency. I don’t quite believe it until I see the notice in Publisher’s Marketplace.
Kingston James has left Fenster Agency to open the Kingston James Literary Agency, which will provide its agents with salary and benefits. Stephanie Collier, George Wu, and Julie Davis will also be working under this model, bringing together representation for children’s, middle grade, YA, commercial adult fiction, film and television rights, and foreign translations.
Our first all-hands-on-deck meeting goes well, even though I feel like I’m bullshitting my way through most of it. But later that week Julie closes her first television rights deal for the high six-figures and one of my authors wins a Caldecott Medal, which is huge. And it feels like this wild idea just might work.
But one January Friday, I look around the tidy office space I’ve leased off Columbus Circle and realize I’m the only one there. My assistant is working from home today. In fact, everyone is working from home today. We have a flexible schedule, with the only requirement being in-person meetings once a month. I don’t want people to feel obligated to come into the office when they could accomplish their work just as well from home and save themselves the trouble and expense of navigating the city. On the other hand, it’s nice to have a place to go and focus on work. I’m glad I decided on the smaller space, though, one that has manageable rent, as long as we hit the projections for our first year’s revenue, because right now there’s no one at the big conference table or any of the desks. I actually have a lighter day as well. No meetings, just the usual stack of reading.
I leave around noon for Rosedale, looking forward to sleeping in my Rosedale bed tonight, where Luna will probably inveigle her way in. Depending on what Toby’s doing, we could order some dinner and I can hear about the preparations for the show.
When I walk into the house, it’s grown dark outside, but there are no lights on inside. Luna greets me as I flip on the lamp in the living room, meowing urgently, then padding into the kitchen. I follow, intending to give her some treats, when I see Toby sitting at the kitchen bar in the dark, his head in his hands.
I flip on a light, and he looks up at me, his face drawn. Luna hops up on the counter, nosing Toby’s arm, until he lifts his hand and drops it clumsily on her back. There’s something wrong.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding. “Bad news?”
“Um, hey,” he says. His voice is rusty, and he clears his throat, tries again. “Hey. No, it’s nothing. Something stupid.”
By his posture and mood, it’s clearly something serious. “What is it?” The urge to go to him and put my arm around his shoulders is so strong I have to lock my hands together to stop myself.
“My dad. He heard about my show and wrote me an email. He was—I haven’t heard from him in like two years. He was… nice, I guess?” Toby looks lost and I don’t know exactly why his dad emailing him would send him down this path, but I hate Nathan Wheaton on principle, anyway. “He implied that he’d like to come to New York to see the show.”
“And how do you feel about that?” I ask carefully.
“I don’t know.” With nothing more forthcoming, I cross the kitchen and fill the kettle.
“Tea?”
Toby nods, and I pull mugs and tea bags down to the counter.
“Let me order something from Nina’s. The usual?”
“Not really hungry,” Toby says, but I know if I put his favorite order of ravioli in front of him, he’ll eat it.
I make a quick phone call to the restaurant while the water’s boiling. Then I go to my room and change out of my work clothes into soft sweats and a hoodie. When I come back out, Toby’s pouring the water, more color in his cheeks, and I’m so relieved that he’s not the zombie he was when I first got home.
“Sorry. I’m being dramatic. It’s—whatever.”
“It’s not whatever. It’s your dad. And it sounds like you don’t particularly want him to come to the show.”
“I just don’t know why he’d be doing it. Is it because he wants to see me? My work? Or does he only want to see my art so he can compare himself to me? Does he think it’s going to be a success, and he wants to associate himself with that?” Toby folds his arms over his chest, juts his bottom lip out. “Or does he think it’s going to be a failure and wants to see it firsthand? Rub my face in it?”
“Why would he do that?”
“My father is the most competitive man on the planet,” Toby says bitterly. “It’s why I almost didn’t even pursue painting. Except that in the end, I couldn’t not. You know?”
“I do know.” Toby, without his art, is unthinkable, like Luna without her fur.
“He’d want to constantly compare our output, our styles, our successes. I avoided it as best I could. But I never got the impression he wanted to help me get better. He only wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be better than him. So no, I don’t really want him to come.”
“Can you tell him that?”
Toby makes a face and sips his tea.
“I’m thirty-three. I should be able to tell him.”
“It’s not always easy to tell people the truth.” I think about us, standing in the kitchen, and all the things I haven’t told him. All the things I’m too scared to say, all the things I’m too selfish to give up.
Toby meets my gaze through the steam rising off his mug and blinks his amber eyes. “No, it’s not,” he agrees.
“You don’t have to respond,” I say. “Email is odd, isn’t it?”
“He actually sent it a few days ago, but I didn’t check until today.”
I lift a corner of my mouth. That sounds like Toby. I check my email six times a day. Zero inbox is the goal, baby.
“Well, then, you can think about it and decide how—or if—you’re going to respond. And in the meantime, we can have dinner, and I can tell you all about my week at the Kingston James Literary Agency.”
Toby smiles for real at that. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
The weekend passes too quickly between tackling the reading on my plate, doing some things around the house, and an informal dinner at Jack and Pete’s. Sunday, Toby’s puttering in his studio when Van drops by to check in about the wedding. We sit at the kitchen table and snack on a box of Beck’s discards. Apparently, he’s working on a new blondie recipe and we’re the beneficiaries of a trial batch.
“We’ve set a date,” he announces. “As long as you’re available—April 4th?”
I instantly recognize the date as the day I first met Toby last year. An auspicious date, I think. I quickly scan my calendar on my phone and give my approval.
“You better work on getting that certification. I’ll text you some links. And the speech, of course.”
“Of course. Leave it to me.”
“Beck’s in charge of the color scheme and all those details,” Van says, “so you might want to get with him on clothing choices.”
“How big is this thing? I thought you pitched it as an intimate party.”
“Yeah, well, um.” Van cringes. “Beck realized he’s only getting married once, and then he decided he wanted a slightly bigger affair.”
“How much bigger?”
“It’s in flux,” Van says vaguely. “He might even invite his parents.”
“His parents, as in the Texas senator and his wife?” I say in disbelief. Beck’s parents aren’t his favorite people, though they’re not completely cut off from each other as far as I know.
“Well, he wants Jack’s parents to come, and he thought it would be pretty mean of him to only invite them and not his actual parents.”
“Your family will be there,” I guess.
“Yep, they’re in. They love Beck more than they love me at this point,” Van says, but he doesn’t sound mad about it.
“Wow, so not only are you getting married, but you’re doing it all big and fancy and shit,” I say, not above needling my formerly romance-averse friend.
Van doesn’t even blink. “Beck’s right—we’re only going to do this once. Might as well do it right. It’s not going to be as big as Pete and Jack’s, but along those lines.”
“You mean Jack and Pete’s simple backyard wedding that turned into a hundred-person extravaganza?”
“It’s going to be fine,” Van says, refusing to be baited. “You just have to do your part.”
Toby comes through the back door, underdressed in sweats and a long-sleeved tee for the short walk from the studio to the house in the near-freezing temperatures we’ve been having. “Hey, do you know if we have any—oh, hi, Van.” He comes in and shuts the door behind him, but a waft of cold outside air sweeps through the kitchen. “I was looking for a bin liner, one of those big heavy ones?”
I think for a second, translating his request for a trash bag. “If there aren’t any under the sink, there might be some in the basement.”
Toby crouches low to inspect the contents of the cupboard under the sink. I let my gaze slide over the curve of his ass in those sweats before remembering I have company and redirecting my attention to my phone, where I input the blessed event on my calendar.
“Hey, Toby, are you free April 4th?” Van asks.
“I have absolutely no idea, so probably,” he says, rising to his feet holding a heavy-duty black trash bag.
“Save the date, because Beck and I are getting hitched that day.”
“And I’m invited?” Toby’s smile is wide and genuine. “Cheers.”
“Of course you’re invited. Beck is beside himself with excitement after you asked him to design a cookie bar for your big gallery opening. He keeps rethinking the menu.”
“As long as there are plenty of those heavenly sugar cookies, that’s all I care about.”
“He’s making sugar cookies the centerpiece. Did you know Kingston here is doing the honors at the wedding?”
“I’m aware,” Toby says, throwing his smile my way. “He’s been angsting about it since you asked him.”
“I have not,” I protest. “I just want to do a good job.”
“And I keep telling him he’s going to do a magnificent job. Good choice, Van. He’s got the gravity and the élan to make a perfect officiant.”
Van looks between us, a curious look on his face. “We didn’t only pick him for his public speaking skills, though that will come in handy. He helped me get my head out of my ass where Beck was concerned. Though I still say I would have figured it out, eventually.”
“Figured out you were head over heels for the boy?” I snort. “I’d like to think so.”
“Shut up. I would have gotten there,” Van says.
“Kingston got you two together? That I didn’t know,” Toby says with interest.
“Kingston is the biggest romantic of us all, even if he pretends otherwise,” Van says with irritating certainty.
“Is he?” Toby sounds surprisingly… surprised.
“He’s a big ole softie,” Van says, and I glare at him.
“Stop ruining my reputation,” I snap.
“Oh, that I knew. All you have to do is see him spoil Luna and you can imagine him doing the same to?—”
Toby stops talking abruptly, and I look at him curiously.
“To who?” Van asks. My question exactly.
“Er—anyone, really,” Toby says weakly. “But, I guess I was thinking a child? You know you spoil your nephews long distance. What if you had one of your own? They’d have you dancing to their tune.”
I have no idea where to start with that statement, but Van responds immediately, hooting with laughter. “Toby’s got your number, Kingston. You know you’d be mush around a kid of your own.”
“Excuse me? I take exception to that.” I feel oddly defensive, not least because having a child of my own one day seems absurd when I can’t even get a boyfriend. The one I want, anyway. “It’s an uncle’s job to spoil his nephews. When Pete and Jack finally get around to acquiring some rug rats, I’ll be happy to spoil them as well. And what about you and Beck?” I say, turning the tables with a stab of viciousness. “You planning on having kids anytime soon?”
Van’s smile drops but then he shrugs. “Touché. And honestly, probably. Beck’s pretty set on it.”
“And you spoil him, so there you go.”
“You only have one chance at this life, as far as I know. And I don’t want to miss out on anything,” Van says, sounding more certain now.
“That’s brave of you,” Toby says, sounding serious. I think I feel his gaze on me, but when I look over at him, he’s already turning away.
“What do you need the trash bag for?” I ask.
“Just cleaning up the studio. My manic work period is officially over. I’m taking a painting break. We’re working on the final list for the show now.”
“Did Beck’s portrait make it in?” Van asks.
“So far, yes.”
“But it’s not for sale,” Van says.
“Nope, that one’s already spoken for,” Toby confirms.
“By you, I assume,” I say.
“That’s right. It’s pretty special,” Van says. “Have you seen it?”
“No, not yet.” I haven’t seen any of Toby’s portraits. Including the one of me. I decided I didn’t want to see it, though he reminded me I will when I attend the show’s opening, a little over a month from now.
“Prepare to be amazed,” Van says.
“I’m sure I will be,” I murmur. Again, I feel a snag of unease. Toby’s world is going to open up after that show begins. He’s not going to have any reason to stay here if he doesn’t want to. I’m not going to be able to offer him anything he can’t get for himself.
Is it too much to hope he’ll want to stay, anyway?
“I’ll see you around, Van,” Toby says. “Kingston, do you still want me to make that soup for dinner later?”
“Yes, please,” I say. “And put on a coat, please.”
He huffs but grabs a jacket from the hooks by the back door—it might be my jacket, actually—and leaves.
“And you’re telling me that you and he aren’t sleeping together?” Van’s question jolts me out of my warm thoughts of Toby nonchalantly wearing my clothes.
“What? No.” I glance sharply at my friend and his erroneous suppositions.
Van just shakes his head. “I wasn’t sure I was going to have this opportunity, but I am so glad I get to do this.”
“Do what?” I ask suspiciously.
“Help you pull your head out of your ass,” he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankles in satisfaction.
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Toby. You need to kiss the boy already.”
“He’s not interested,” I say dismissively.
“Are you fucking kidding me? He thinks you hung the moon. He clearly wants to have your babies.”
“Stop.” I stand up and start mindlessly tidying the bar, straightening the books and magazines, tossing one of Luna’s cat toys into the living room. I don’t want to hear something that can’t happen be talked about so casually.
“Kingston, listen to me.” The softness in Van’s voice is what makes me face him. “If you like him, you should just tell him. There’s no reason you shouldn’t make a move.”
“I—” I don’t even know what to say. I can’t explain how it’s better if I don’t tell him so that when he leaves to go on to bigger and better things, it won’t hurt as much.
“Look—I fell in love with my roommate, too. I know what I’m talking about.” Van could sound smug or supercilious. But he’s calm. Compassionate, even, which is infuriating.
“Too?” I echo, my final pathetic attempt to deny what he’s saying.
“Yeah,” he says, not letting me get away with it. “And while I’m not privy to inside knowledge, given the way he looks at you, talks about you, I would put money on his being just as gone for you.”
The flare of hope burns bright and hot in my chest for one wonderful, horrible second before dying out into cold, empty nothingness.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I say mechanically. “I have that April date blocked off for your big day.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. He gets to his feet and drops his hand heavily on my shoulder. He lets me get away with closing the books on the subject this time. “Thanks, man. You be good, you hear?”
“Always,” I say.
But later, eating the delicious root vegetable soup Toby’s made for me, our hands glancing off each other as we both reach for slices of the dense sourdough bread he picked up from Stacy in town, I can’t help but feel that flame of hope flare up again, fanned by the warmth in Toby’s eyes, by the cozy domestic scene we can’t help but make, and I wonder if maybe Van is right. Maybe there’s no reason not to make a move.
Except that I don’t really believe him when he says Toby’s gone for me. I would know it, wouldn’t I? There’d be signs. There’d be evidence.
Going to sleep that night, my belly full of the food Toby made, I wonder if the evidence has been here all along, and I’ve just been too scared to catalogue it.
Am I going to keep being scared forever?