31. Toby
Thirty-One
Toby
It may be mid-March, but now that it’s gone dark, the street outside the gallery seems cold. Perhaps winter isn’t over quite yet. I thought tonight would both be a culmination and a kickoff. I couldn’t wait to show off my work and also show off Kingston, so proud to be the one he’s chosen to be with.
But I just feel sad.
Because my father didn’t show up to my opening to be supportive, or to show his love, or to congratulate me on my hard work and wish me success.
He came because he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be a threat to his own sense of superiority and success, or, barring that, to let some of my hot new artist fairy dust rub off on him.
I hate that I was happy to see him, only for a minute, before he opened his mouth and confirmed all of my worst suspicions. And I hate that Kingston will know what kind of man I spring from. The kind of man I could easily turn into if I’m not careful.
“Toby, stop!”
Hearing my name halts me in my tracks and I realize I’m at least a couple of blocks from the gallery, my feet having kept me moving downtown. I turn around and it’s Kingston rushing toward me, a groove of concern between his eyebrows.
I move to him, suddenly needing him like a breath of fresh, clean air. We collide softly, his arms steadying me, our jackets padding our landing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, putting my face on his shoulder for a mere second before pulling back, conscious of being outside on the street and not sure how public we can be, even in this artsy district of Manhattan.
But Kingston’s apparently not bothered, keeping me close. “Honey, no, don’t be sorry. Are you all right? You didn’t say a word.”
Shit. I’m being so unprofessional. “I shouldn’t have left. We should go back.”
“We will in a minute. Take your time.”
We stand there in front of some handbag store that’s gone dark for the night. Pedestrians move around us, and I look at him and drink in his face, from the proud forehead to the divot in his lips. He really is regal, befitting his name. He’s a prince, a king, the ruler of my heart.
“Are you sure you want to be with me?” It’s not what I was planning to say, but it makes sense. “Because what if I can’t help but turn into him?”
Kingston puts a hand over his heart, as if I’ve wounded him with an invisible knife. I feel terrible, making him hurt. He keeps his hand on his chest, but his face softens.
“Do you remember when you told me you were afraid of being a success, because it might change you the way it changed your dad?”
“Yes.”
“Having met your dad,” he says with his usual air of authority, “you have nothing to worry about. You may have inherited his artistic side and his eye color, but you’re nothing like him. He’s vain, superficial, and self-centered.”
“I’m self-centered,” I counter, because Kingston needs to know the truth. “I’m not perfect, Kingston. If we’re together, there are going to be things that aggravate you about me. God knows I drove Ivy up the wall with any number of my bad habits.”
“First of all—I’m not Ivy,” Kingston says crisply.
“See, there I go talking about my ex. Why would you want to hear about her? I’m terrible at this.”
But Kingston doesn’t let me keep digging myself deeper. “You aren’t perfect, Toby. Neither am I. But you’re thoughtful, generous. You make art because you can’t not make it, not to assuage some part of your ego. Not for strokes and accolades. You’ll get those, too, because you have talent, but I’m not attracted to your talent.”
“You aren’t?”
“I’m attracted to your work ethic. You work harder than anyone I know—besides me. And I’ve worked with enough artists to know it’s only a fraction about talent and the rest is about getting down to work.”
“My dad works hard, too. And plays hard.”
“Your dad, no offense, kind of sucks.”
I laugh, a sort of watery laugh that makes me realize how close to crying I am. “He does kind of suck. That’s why I told him not to come in the first place. I should have known he wouldn’t listen. And what about that Sally person?”
“She loves your work,” Kingston says, “but if she touches you without permission again, I may have to say something.”
“See, this is why I didn’t want—” I take a breath, steady myself in the calm gaze of Kingston’s toasty brown eyes. “I wanted to avoid all of this nonsense.”
“I know, honey.” Kingston sounds sympathetic. “But it’s temporary. Let Fernanda play interference for you with the Sallys of the world. And if she’s not doing a good enough job, you find someone else.”
Fernanda’s not the problem. My dad isn’t even the problem. It hits me then that I am. “She’s doing fine. I’m the one who’s acting like a child.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“No, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. The minute he stepped into the gallery, it was like I was twelve again, showing him my drawings of cats and mountains and dragons and wanting him to love them. To love me. But I’m an adult. He can try to lure me into that dynamic, but I don’t have to play my role anymore. I’m done with that.”
Kingston just beams at me, as if he’s proud of me or something.
“I’m not afraid of success anymore,” I say slowly. “Because I think I can stay me.” I try hard to own the statement and not ask for his agreement.
But he gives it anyway, flooding me with relief. “I think so, too,” he says. “And to answer your original question, yes, I’m sure I want to be with you, whether or not you sell another painting ever again.”
I was scared of having this with Kingston, in case I messed it up or, in some twisted way, it was too good. But there’s no such thing. I’ll have ups and downs in my career, and Kingston’s going to be there through it all.
The chilly wind kicks up, and I shiver. “Cold?” Kingston asks. He reaches out and briskly rubs up and down my arms.
“I’m so ready for spring.”
“It’ll be here soon,” he promises. We slowly walk back to the gallery, and I’m more than half hoping my dad won’t be there, but he is, talking with Sally and Galia near the cookie bar.
Pete and Jack walk up to us, offering tentative smiles. “Everything okay?” Pete asks.
Kingston looks at me to answer, and I let out a breath, grateful for their concern. “It’s fine. Just dad stuff.”
“I can relate to dad stuff,” Beck says, joining us hand in hand with Van. “Do you need anything?”
“No—having you guys here is really nice. Thanks again for the cookies, Beck.”
“Do you think I should open a Manhattan outpost of Beck’s Cookie Counter?” Beck asks seriously.
“Maybe after the wedding,” Van says. “Then you can expand your cookie empire.”
“Yes, after the wedding. And maybe after the house renovation is done. I’ll need another project then,” Beck agrees.
“By the way, what exactly is going on with you two?” Van says, looking between me and Kingston.
“Van,” Pete chides. “Ignore him,” he tells us.
I smile, remembering that the true miracle of the past twenty-four hours has been finding out that Kingston has feelings for me. I glance at him in question—we haven’t talked about this. And these are more his friends than mine, though I suppose they’re mine now, too, legitimately, which is perfectly lovely. He quirks a single eyebrow at me—damn, I wish I could do that. I nod back.
“Well, we’re…” Kingston trails off and I peer at him, wondering how on earth he’s going to finish the sentence. Boyfriends? Partners? Together? In love? I suppose the last one is true, even if neither of us has said the words.
But Kingston, the man who’s in command of so many words and can find the perfect phrase for any situation, says nothing. Instead, he kisses me, putting his arms around my waist and drawing me flush to him.
We kiss once, twice, and then turn to gauge the reaction of our nonverbal statement on the crowd. Jack’s grinning. Beck claps his hands together in excitement. Pete’s eyes are wide, but he’s smiling, too.
Van looks proudest of all, his chest puffed out and his blue eyes sparkling. “Atta boys,” he says, clapping us both on the shoulder and shaking us apart. “It’s about time.”
Jack, Pete, and Beck all talk over each other, offering us encouraging words.
I know my cheeks are flaming hot, but it doesn’t matter. Kingston and I are… people who kiss in front of our friends. I’ll take that relationship definition for the time being.
Of course, the nice moment ends too soon when my father is suddenly at the edge of our group. “I guess I see why you and Ivy broke up,” he says snidely. “I didn’t think you were gay.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes now that I’m trying to be a grown-up around my father. “I’m not gay,” I say clearly and calmly. “You know I’m bisexual. Remember me coming out while I was at uni?”
“I thought that was a phase. You and Ivy?—”
“Look, Dad, that’s enough. You came to New York after I told you I didn’t want you at the show. You came anyway, criticized my work, were rude to my boyfriend, and I’ve had enough.”
He flaps his mouth without saying anything, then finds his voice. “You said I could see you if I came to the States. I texted you I’d be here.”
“What does it say about our relationship, Dad, that I don’t even have your number in my phone? I didn’t know that text was from you.”
“Can I help it that I had to get a new number?” He sounds irritated now. “Jemima was harassing me day and night and blocking her didn’t work.”
Jemima? One of his erstwhile conquests, no doubt.
“I don’t care about your problems with women, Dad. My entire life, you’ve always made everything about you. Tonight was supposed to be about me. If you can’t understand that, you might as well leave.”
He glares at me, resembling nothing so much as a wrinkled toddler upset at not getting his way. Does no one in his life tell him the truth? I feel sad for him for a moment, and I’m sure I’ll be working through this interaction in therapy for the foreseeable future. But I’m still relieved when he says nothing else, just turns around and finds Sally. He argues with her for a moment, then storms out without a further word.
I hold my breath until Sally Fieldstone approaches me, an ingratiating smile on her face. “Look, Toby , I know your dad is a git, but his name still means something back home. We could do tremendous business doing a father-son exhibition sometime next year.”
“I don’t think that would work for me,” I say, not hesitating for a single moment. “And by the way, Kingston’s portrait is not for sale.”
She wrinkles her pert nose. “Fernanda told me. Oh well. I picked up another one for my personal collection. Congratulations, truly .” She leans over and kisses me on both cheeks. “Take care.”
She’s gone in a sweep of feathers, and I sigh and look at my friends, who’ve all reached some level of achievement in their chosen fields. “Is this what success feels like?”
“Confusion, queasiness, bewilderment? Yeah, pretty much,” Pete says.
“Excitement, too, though,” Beck adds. “Look at all the red dots on these paintings—there’s hardly anything left.”
I realize he’s right and do the math in my head. Even with the gallery’s cut, and Fernanda’s commission, I’m looking at more money than I’ve ever had in my life.
“I’m glad you didn’t let her have my portrait. But who did buy it?” Kingston asks.
“What?”
“Who bought the painting of me?” he asks. “I saw the red dot on it.”
“Galia put those on the ones that weren’t for sale, too,” I explain. “Like the ones of Ivy and Beck. No, I couldn’t part with that one.”
“Really?” Kingston smiles, looking relieved. “That’s good to hear. Because I can’t part with you, either.”