Page 34 of A Small Town Spring

“It is partly,” I say mulishly.

“It’s going to go fine.I’ve met Fernanda, and she’s actually just a regular human being, you know.”

“She’s an art agent,” I correct.“A powerful one.”

“Not a space alien,” he says firmly.“Now, how about these?”He goes to my bed and holds up my one pair of black jeans.

“Aren’t skinny jeans out?”

He rolls his eyes.“Now you care about fashion?”

“Fine.”I snatch the jeans from him.“What else?”

“Don’t you have a blazer somewhere?”

“It’s too hot.”I know I shouldn’t be complaining; my nerves are definitely getting the better of me.

“Hang on.”He disappears.

I’ve changed into clean underwear and the black jeans by the time he comes back holding three items on identical soft gray hangers.

He holds up a dress shirt in some thin material, a busy pattern of bright flowers that’s much more his style than mine, if I can claim to have any style at all.He shakes his head and switches it to the back of the options before I can even veto it.Then he lifts a T-shirt, plain white with a reproduction of an Andy Warhol lithograph on it.He keeps his T-shirts on hangers?

He misreads my expression and asks, “Too on the nose?”

“Too big—Kingston, your clothes aren’t going to fit me.”

“Why not?We’re practically the same height.”

I stare at him.“You can’t be serious.Your shoulders are like twice the breadth of mine.”

The other morning, when he came into the kitchen in only his pajama pants, I couldn’t help noticing that those shoulders, always hidden behind his carefully curated layers, were surprisingly powerful, his chest not bulging with muscle but more developed than my own thin frame.He has one of those inverted triangle builds that if I were a sculptor, I’d love to try to capture in marble.Perfect proportions and miles of smooth skin to run my hands over.

But I’m not a sculptor.And I’ve already trespassed against him by painting his portrait without permission.

“I think you’re underestimating yourself, or overestimating me,” he says casually.“Just try it, with this.”He hands me the last of his finds—a lightweight linen jacket, white as a narcissus flower.When I slip it off the hanger, I notice the store’s tag is still pinned to the sleeve and glimpse the price.

“You spent six hundred dollars on this?And you’ve never worn it?”I hastily try to shove it back into Kingston’s hands, but he laughs.

“It was on sale.I think.And I was saving it for a special occasion.It turns out I was saving it foryourspecial occasion.Try it on.Please?”

Since I owe him way more than that, I nod and shut up.Off goes the gray shirt, on goes the Andy Warhol.It’s a little baggy, but when I slide the jacket on top, I don’t think anyone will be able to tell.The jacket itself feels like butter against my arms, and when I look in the mirror, I see someone hip and fashionable staring back.

I close my eyes.I’m such a fraud.

“What—you don’t like it?Because you look amazing,” Kingston says easily.

“No, it’s great.”I open my eyes.“Thanks for your help.You could have a second career as a stylist.I just—I’m not scared she’s not going to like my stuff.I’m scared shewilllike it.What if I’m not ready, not good enough, for what comes next?”

He comes up to me, and for a second I think he’s reaching for my hand, which causes my heart to speed up in surprise—in hope?—but he’s actually reaching for the tag.He carefully unhooks the microscopic safety pin holding the tag to the inner seam without touching me.

“Toby, take it one step at a time.You won’t know if you can handle it until you’re doing it.But you’ll never find out until you take that step.And I think you’re ready.Pete does, too.And if you need help, you’ve got it.We’ll be there for you, all right?”

He waits for me to nod.From this close I can see the swirling browns in his eyes, the individual hairs in his tidy new beard.It frames his full lips and all I’d have to do to feel them against mine would be to lean forward.

But that would be taking much more than I’ve been given, and so much more than I deserve.

“Thanks, Kingston,” I whisper.Louder, I add, “I’m ready.”I might not entirely believe it, but I owe it to him to pretend that I do.

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