29. Toby
Twenty-Nine
Toby
I’m dreaming about toast and tea when the sound of running water breaks into my consciousness and rouses me fully. I open my eyes. Kingston’s bedroom is dim, except for the light coming from under the bathroom door. He must be getting ready for work. A bedside clock tells me it’s nearly nine in the morning. He let me sleep in.
Last night comes rushing back to me. Kissing Kingston at the gallery, impatiently waiting to be able to get my hands back on him, our first wonderful time having sex, though that encounter feels like the most tantalizing amuse-bouche to the smorgasbord of items I want him to do to me and I want to do to him. We’ve been so careful to keep our hands to ourselves that there are months’ worth of non-touches to catch up on. What we need is a vacation to someplace very boring with a very large bed.
The door opens and Kingston comes out of the bathroom, stops when he sees me. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s all right. I was dreaming about toast.” I sniff the air. “Is there toast?” I ask hopefully.
He smiles. “There could be toast. I can put some in for you, but you’ll have to top it yourself. I have to go to work.”
I frown. “I was just fantasizing that we could take a sex vacation instead.”
He laughs. “Maybe someday, honey, but not today.”
“So, honey. Is that our thing now?”
“Depends on if you like it or not.”
I get out of bed, unselfconscious for once around him in nothing but my boxers. He’s fully dressed in his natty suit and tie, but it doesn’t stop me from putting my hands on his waist and kissing him on the mouth. Because I can. Because he wants me to. He kisses me back, his minty clean mouth meeting my sleep sour one. He smells like honey again, thanks to that beard oil—the scent of which is going to make me hard every time I smell it for the rest of eternity.
“Say it again,” I order.
“Honey,” he says throatily. “Honey.”
I shiver and whisper, “I like it.”
He kisses me, shoving his tongue into my mouth with so much force I almost have to take a step back, but his hand is on my lower back, keeping me steady, keeping me close. But before I can literally melt into a puddle, he wrenches himself away and wipes his mouth with his hand. “Dammit. You are dangerous.”
“Distracting?”
“Definitely.”
“Delightful.” We laugh at our semi-ironic alliteration together. “I suppose you have to go.”
“I do,” he says, not without his share of regret.
“And I have things to do as well.” As if anything I have to do today is half as important as kissing Kingston.
“Then I’ll see you tonight? I have a late meeting, so I was going to go straight to the party.”
So many hours away. “Not before?”
“You can get into your outfit by yourself, can’t you?”
I laugh at that, because he’s serious. “I’ll manage. You’ve taught me well. And somehow I’m not nearly as nervous as I was yesterday.”
“Orgasms are good for the nerves,” he says.
“Then maybe you should give me another one real quick—I think I feel some nerves coming back.”
“I wish that I could. I’m already late. But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you all the orgasms you want after the party tonight.”
I sigh elaborately. “I suppose I’ll live.”
“You better.” He turns serious. “You have a good day, and I’ll see you later. But text me if you need me.”
“What if I just want you?”
“Text me then, too.”
“Kingston, I—” I stop, suddenly unsure. I want to tell him I love him. But now is not the right time.
“What?”
“I—I kind of wish our first time had been in the cottage.” It’s something I hadn’t realized had been on my mind until I say it, but it’s true.
His eyebrows relax. “Oh, honey.” He sounds sympathetic and maybe a trace pitying.
“You know I’m going to be ridiculously sentimental about everything, don’t you?”
“I’ll live,” he says, repeating my words back to me.
“You better.”
The day passes quicker than it might have, though Kingston is never far from my thoughts. I do indeed make toast for breakfast, and strong coffee, and eggs. I have texts from Fernanda to respond to. I have texts from friends planning to attend the party who want to check in. I have a text from my mother wishing me good luck. A text comes in from a number I don’t recognize.
Settled into my hotel. See you tonight.
Since that could be any number of people, I’m about to respond and ask who the text is from, but get sidetracked by a phone call from Galia going over some details, and another one from Beck asking if it’s okay if he substitutes oatmeal chocolate chip for oatmeal raisin at tonight’s cookie bar because of some snafu with his bakers, to which I give an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Then there’s lunch with a journalist, then back to the apartment to change into my party clothes. I text Kingston before I get in the shower.
Getting ready now. Hope your day has gone well. Mine’s been nonstop. See you at the gallery.
I consider sending him a nude selfie, but I suppose doing that within twenty-four hours of getting together might be a bit much. It’s just that when it comes to Kingston, nothing is normal. There’s no casual dating phase. No trying each other on for size. We actually live together. Our lives are already intertwined in so many ways. We can’t be cavalier because we know each other too well already.
But I think we’re on the same page about all that. This isn’t a fling or an intrigue. This is for keeps. This is us adding sex and feelings into a relationship that was already intimate in so many ways.
Kingston has become my best friend.
Getting to sleep with him is honestly just a bonus. A very large, very satisfying bonus, but a bonus, nonetheless.
I shower quickly, forcing myself to use the expensive shampoo and conditioner Kingston stocked for me when he learned that, when left to my own devices, I use generic dollar store brands.
My hair air dries while I check my phone. More texts from friends and one from Kingston that I seize on like a piece of gold among the pebbles.
The best thing I can say about my day is that it’s almost over and I’ll be seeing you soon. I arranged a car for you, so be in the lobby at 6:30.
The smile on my face must be sickening, but I can’t help it. It’s still settling in that the boy I’ve had a crush on forever likes me back.
I send him a heart emoji, then finish getting dressed and head to the lobby at the appointed hour. The Weiss Gallery is lit up like last night, only there are far more people there, plus uniformed waitstaff pouring drinks into chic plastic cups and passing around trays of appetizers.
“There he is!” Fernanda coos at me. She leans in close. “We’re doing smashingly well with sales already, darling.”
I try to be happy about that, since I know that’s the point of this whole endeavor—to make money for her, me, and the gallery, but there’s still a sting of sadness at having to let go of any of my paintings.
On the other hand, given the makeup of the people present, it’s likely I’ll be seeing a good number of the sold pieces on my friends’ walls, since they’re obviously the ones who purchased some of them.
Friends like Beck and Van, Van looking screen-star handsome in a gray suit with a white dress shirt unbuttoned past his collarbone. Beck’s wearing a suit, too, but his is dark blue with an orange shirt—the colors of Beck’s Cookie Counter.
“Congratulations,” Beck says. “The show looks really incredible. We’re so happy for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, hugging each of them in turn. “It’s so kind of you to come all this way.”
“Where’s Kingston?” Van asks. “I thought he’d be with you.”
“Be with me? Why would he be with me?” I say, suddenly feeling like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Van is one of Kingston’s best friends. What if he can see it all over my face that Kingston and I slept together? Does Kingston care if other people know? We’ve barely had a chance to talk, let alone discuss the terms of our new relationship. My gaze darts to the hallway that leads to the storage closet where our first kiss took place.
My cheeks feel hot, and I look at Van and Beck to find them both studying me with different kinds of smiles on their faces. Van’s smiling at me as though he knows something I don’t know. Beck’s smile looks as if he’s figured out a secret. Damn it.
“He’s meeting me here,” I say, because it’s obvious we’re not going to be able to keep this to ourselves even if we wanted to.
“Excellent,” Van says, while Beck says, “So happy for you.”
I can’t explain further, because Ivy’s throwing her arms around me. “You gorgeous bastard,” she says happily. “You did it. You really did it. I am so proud of you, babe.”
Beck and Van let us have some privacy, and I smile at my ex. “I was hoping you would be proud, but it’s okay if you want to be smug and say I told you so.”
“Well, I did. But you know what—I’m honestly so happy that you made this happen. The show looks fab, the buzz is off the charts positive, and you are making a big splash in the best kind of way.”
I grimace. “You say I made this happen, but I really didn’t. You did. Pete did. Fernanda did. All I had to do was paint the pictures, which I would have done, anyway.”
“Stop being self-deprecating and thinking it’s only your success if you do everything yourself. You know that’s not true. And yes, you painted these pictures, these stunningly beautiful, intensely gorgeous pictures. I quite like the one of me.”
“Do you? That’s good, because it’s yours.”
“What? Truly?”
“The gallery knows which ones aren’t for sale and that one is not for sale. It’s yours, if you want it.”
“I want it, babe, I want it. And I’d love to stay and celebrate your success more, but I have a date.”
I grin, nothing but happy for her. Well, maybe a single twinge of regret, but the rest of me—happy. “With whom?”
“A friend of a friend. But it’ll be our third date,” she says, looking radiant.
“Enjoy,” I say sincerely.
“Thanks.” She scans the growing crowd. “Where is Kingston?”
“He’ll be here,” I say, letting my joy show on my face on purpose this time.
She doesn’t miss it. “Oh, Toby. Again, I’m really happy for you.” She kisses my cheek and walks away.
I talk to a few more people, note the new dots on some of the paintings indicating they’re sold, take a glass of white from a tray of them in the corner. I’m about to call Kingston to see if he’s been held up when there’s a hubbub at the entrance. Fernanda crosses the room quickly and I look to see which critic or patron she’s greeting so effusively. The new arrivals are a woman I don’t recognize and a man I do. The wine glass slips in my hand, but I manage to retain my grip before it can fall to the floor. The man at the entrance of the gallery is Nathan Wheaton, London art scene darling and, incidentally, my father.