Page 53 of A Small Town Spring

The gallery is twenty blocks away, so we take a car service.I don’t want to have to worry about parking Daniel.I splurged on the high-end ride, because Toby deserves to arrive in style, and we sit in the back of the immaculate town car in silence.

“I hope you like the show,” he says, almost shyly, when we arrive.The lights inside the gallery are blazing, and from the car I can see some people through the big plate glass windows.I think I spot Fernanda, but then my eyes are drawn to the paintings on the walls.Toby’s paintings.I’ve seen a few of them, but not nearly all, and I can’t wait to explore.

“I know I will.”If we were together, I’d take his hand in mine before going inside.I’d squeeze it tight and hold on all night if he wanted me to.But we’re just friends.Just roommates.I’m not even technically co-parent to his cat; I’m the interloper that spoils her with treats.

We’re not together, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be there for him.So I wait until he gets out of the car and it has pulled away from the curb before I give him a hug—a big, warm, slightly too long hug into which I pour all of my love, trying to give him a dose of positive energy to hold on to as he navigates the rest of this night.

He’s stiff in my arms at first, but then he hugs me back, surprisingly hard.I close my eyes to memorize the feel of his body against mine before I pull back.I strangely feel like crying when he lets me go.

“Let’s do this,” I say, full of false bonhomie.

He nods decisively and leads me inside, where he’s immediately surrounded by a crowd, all wanting to shake his hand.Fernanda introduces him to half a dozen people in the space of a minute and he seems to be handling the onslaught okay, responding appropriately and saying something to make everyone laugh.I catch his eye and raise an eyebrow.He nods back and I know he’s all right, so I make my way through the gallery alone.

There are three separate rooms, and they seem to be organized by subject.This first room, the largest, has his architectural work, the gorgeous bucolic country homes that by rights should be boring but instead gleam with a luster of realness that makes you feel like you can hear the wind rustling in the trees, the creak of the floorboards, the ring of a doorbell.I recognize some of the locations in Rosedale.He’s done one of Van and Beck’s dark blue house, front yard overgrown in a riot of blooming plants.There’s one of the Art Center at the top of its hill, the white stucco facade of the mid-century buildings reflecting the oranges and golds of a summer sunset.

There are already subtle red stickers on some of the identification cards next to the paintings indicating they’ve been sold, though there are no prices on the cards themselves.There must be a price list somewhere.

I wander into the next room, which has his British seaside landscapes.These are different, capturing movement in another way.In here, I can almost taste the salt air on my tongue and hear the cries of gulls and the shuffle of waves on the sand.The colors are different—vibrant blues and greens and yellows, a constant swirl of bold colors.I mosey through the offerings, seeing one or two I personally wouldn’t mind hanging on the walls of my own home, or at the office.I wonder how much one of these Toby Wheaton originals might set me back.

The third gallery space is the smallest, but it’s also the most densely hung.I see the portrait of Beck first, then lose my breath as I realize I recognize every single face staring back at me from the walls.There’s Stacy Robinson, my mother’s age, the baker of delicious breads.There’s Beth, the gray-haired woman who runs the secondhand store on Main Street.Youthful Arianna with her long blonde hair who works at the wine shop.Che, the director of the Rosedale Art Center, with their shaved head and dangly earrings.Familiar, beloved faces, all.But even if I didn’t know these folks, I’d want to know them, by the sympathetic, nuanced way Toby has painted them.They’re themselves, and they each have a specific quality that shines through.For Beck, it’s his amused enthusiasm.Stacy’s calm presence is unmistakable.Arianna looks like she’s about to tell you the juiciest piece of gossip you’ll hear all year.

Toby truly has a gift.

I walk around the central freestanding wall to come face-to-face with—myself.The final portrait I set eyes on is me.Larger than the other pieces, it has a slightly different quality.I recognize my eyes, my hair, the curve of my lips, the slope of my shoulders.He’s painted me shamefully unadorned, a simple white shirt covering my collarbone.No beard.I remember Toby saying he worked from photos he took of me the very first time he ever came to the cottage, before I grew my beard in a burst of hope that changing my facial hair would somehow get rid of my crush.

But this painting is no mere reproduction of me from that photo of that day.It’s more than that.The person who painted this had to know me.Really know me.

And my heart seems to want to jostle itself out of my chest because if Toby knows me this well, how can he not know how I feel about him?

And if he knows, and hasn’t said anything about it, it has to be because he doesn’t feel the same way.

Doesn’t it?

I don’t know how long I stand there, gazing at my own face, but eventually I hear noises—footsteps and conversation as a group makes its way toward me.I quickly tear my eyes away and move to the other side of the wall, not wanting to have to make small talk about this when I feel like my entire world has shifted.

“Kingston, there you are,” Toby says lowly, pulling me to the side.He furrows his brow.“You okay?”Then his brow clears, and he says, “You saw it.”

“I saw it.”

He grimaces.“I wanted to be with you.I’m sorry.This group is very chatty,” he says, gesturing to the group of men and women who are spreading out now to examine the portraits.Some of their faces are inscrutable; some of them are smiling.

“It’s okay.Maybe it’s better that I saw it on my own.”

He frowns.“You hate it.You want me to take it down.I knew I should have made you look at it before, but?—”

“I don’t hate it,” I break in.“But Toby.I need to know?—”

“What?”His mouth does something funny as our gazes lock.“Oh.”He glances at the others, then says, “Maybe we should talk somewhere else.”

“All right.”I step back.“You go finish your—” I wave my hand.I don’t really want things to end like this.I’ll put it off as long as possible.

“No, let me tell Fernanda I need a break.They’re all going to a late dinner.”

“Wait—” But he’s already gone, murmuring to Fernanda under his breath.She looks at me and then back at Toby, and then he’s walking purposefully toward me.He ushers me through the landscape room, but instead of going out to the front, he tugs me into a hallway.One of the doors there is labeled “office,” but he leads me through a second one that has no signage.It’s cool and dry in here, a room where canvases of all sizes are carefully stored with meticulous labeling.

“We can talk in here,” he says.

Neither of us speaks.

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