Page 47 of A Small Town Spring

The results of an interview with an old friend from art school who’s now a London-based journalist just came out, and I’ve had a few mutual art school friends reach out to me after seeing the piece.Ivy was very complimentary, sending me an encouraging text.

I was grateful for the new sweater Kingston picked out for me in town, and the trousers he helped me get at Bloomingdale’s the day we went shopping in New York, because they took some photos of me at the interview for the local lifestyle magazine and ran one of me with one of the new pieces visible in the shot.Fernanda was pleased, and I think I looked all right, thanks to Kingston.

The New York shopping trip wasn’t even that bad, peppered as it was by conversations with Kingston, who was all excited about his upcoming move to his new offices.His agency officially opens its doors in the New Year and he’ll be responsible for the livelihoods of half a dozen people.I’d be cowering in a corner if I had to take on that kind of responsibility.He’s remarkable.

And I still don’t know what to get him for Christmas.

I consider texting Pete for help, but that seems like cheating.I did get Pete a gift, as well as Jack.I sent a gift basket to Fernanda and flowers to Galia and Grayson.They really have been helpful, guiding me through this process with a steady hand.

But Kingston’s the one who matters.

I reflect on the last six months of living together.They’ve been some of the best of my life—easy in a way I never expected, challenging in others.Sharing space with someone as forceful and particular as Kingston could have been a nightmare, but while he definitely likes things a certain way, I wouldn’t call him inflexible.And we’ve grown used to each other’s quirks, worn grooves in each other, I suppose, so that we fit comfortably more often than not.

No, the challenging bits have come when I think about how he looks first thing in the morning, before he’s turned himself out to perfection, all soft and mussed, and I wish I could nestle against him to feel his sleep-warm skin.Then there’s his sharp wit, keeping me on my toes, the intellectual curiosity that gets me thinking about issues more deeply and in more detail than I usually bother with.I’ve read more books in the past six months than in the last six years combined—all recommended by Kingston, a little fiction, a little nonfiction, all somehow right up my street.The Helen Frankenthaler biography he brought to me from the city was terrific.

I’m not sure how he does it, suggesting books that fit right into my intersection of interests, but I suppose he does work in publishing.Even though his specialty is books for young people, he reads everything, like a vampire who feeds on words and ideas.But not a scary, evil vampire, one of the sexy, debonair ones.One you wouldn’t mind luring you into an infinity of night, so long as you got to taste his particular brand of temptation.

Which brings me to the last challenge Kingston poses.

It’s a carnal challenge.I’ve been forced to acknowledge my attraction to him from the start, but it’s become almost unbearable now.I thought that the first blush of attraction would fade over time.But I’m not so un-self-aware that I don’t know how much I want him.

I haven’t touched another person since Ivy.I’ve never particularly been someone who needs lots of sex, though in uni and art school I wasn’t exactly chaste.With Ivy, things started off strong and tapered off over time.Again, I probably should have seen the end coming before I did.But lately, it’s all I can do not to actively jerk off at least once a day—sometimes more.To my shame, always thinking about Kingston, my friend.I think about how he’d feel, what he’d taste like, how he’d touch me.What he might let me do to him.

The possibilities are all so tantalizing, and so out of reach.All I know is I want him so badly I can taste it, and I don’t know any more why I shouldn’t at least ask him if he could, possibly, maybe, be interested in a skinny American-Brit with paint under his fingernails and turpentine smelling up his clothes.

If he says no, I might be able to gather up the pieces of my heart and look elsewhere for companionship—only I don’t want anyone’s companionship except his.Kingston’s the only companion I want.

Him and Luna.

Who has decided that Kingston is her favorite.The traitor.She goes to him for treats, for rubs, and I think he even lets her curl up in his bed now.She keeps his sheets warm for him and I’m jealous of a cat.

At least there’s no human that I need to be jealous of.Despite Pete and Jack mentioning that Kingston has had his share of relationships over the years, he’s never mentioned any dates he’s gone on in the city.He’s never brought a man back to the cottage since I’ve been here.I’d ask him if he’s holding back on my account, but I don’t want to give him the impression I’d be okay with him bringing a guy back here for a night or for any reason actually, because I would very definitely not be okay with it.Only I’d have to pretend to be.I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that it hasn’t come up.

Christmas Eve, I go to my studio, frantic now over the fact that I don’t have anything for Kingston to open on Christmas morning.We’re due to Jack and Pete’s for their soiree in a couple of hours.Kingston already picked out my outfit—a green velvet jacket and black slacks, a white T-shirt underneath.He’s wearing red velvet, matching pants and jacket, with a green shirt.It sounds garish, but he makes it look festive.He’s going to make all the other partygoers look like lackluster gifts wrapped in plain paper while he’s the exciting present everyone is eager to admire.

Some twisted part of me wants to give him me as a present.I could bare it all, figuratively, at least at first, and tell him that I’m his.If he wants me.

But I don’t think I could survive my heart dropping from a great height, ending up splattered on the ground, not broken so much as pureed, if he says he doesn’t.

Instead, I take some card stock and my favorite Japanese ink pen and make him a little book.One page reads, “Will de-cat hair your entire wardrobe.”Another says, “Olive pizza on me.”A third, “Allow you to choose all my outfits for a week.”He practically does that anyway, but he’ll appreciate that one.A coupon book might seem silly, but it’s personal, and it’s something he can’t buy for himself.

It’ll have to do.

Twenty-Four

Kingston

Christmas morning usedto be my favorite morning of the year.My mom would make bacon and the creamiest scrambled eggs you’ve ever had.I know now her secret ingredient is mayonnaise and I shudder to think about the calories in a serving, but when I was a kid, they tasted like magic.My dad would make hot chocolate for Luce and me with Hershey’s syrup, dumping what was probably half a bottle in each cup.We’d open presents and I couldn’t tell you a single specific item I received, but I remember being delighted with everything, though they were never things like video game consoles or computers.We got practical things, books, a few treats, and it didn’t matter because we were together, safe and warm and happy.

Since I moved away, started my adult life, I’ve had some memorable Christmases.There was the time the guy I was seeing and I went skiing in Colorado and stayed in a villa with a private fireplace and hot tub in the room.The time I flew Mom up to the city and we went to see the Rockettes and the tree at Rockefeller Center.We ate at the restaurant at the top of 30 Rock and ran into Shemar Moore in the lobby, and he gave Mom his autograph and took a picture with her beaming ear to ear.When Sergio and I were together, we flew to Paris one Christmas and spent the day wandering the city, eating and drinking to our hearts’ content.

But this Christmas might be my favorite one yet.

Luna wakes me up, her paws kneading my chest with languid urgency, letting me know she’s expecting me to serve her needs in the very near future.Toby’s already up, brewing coffee and making toast.I make the eggs, throwing in a squirt of mayonnaise out of nostalgia.We video chat with my sister, crowding together around the phone to watch my nephews tearing into the identical-except-for-the-color handheld game consoles I bought them.My sister passes the phone to Mom.Toby tries to hide, but I drag him back, introduce them.He’s not mine, but I’ve talked about him enough to Mom and Luce that they know who he is.

Family obligations out of the way, breakfast consumed, we turn our attention to the small cache of presents that’s accumulated on the table next to our baby tree.A few are from our friends, tokens of appreciation and the season.I make Toby open the gift from me first.I had thought about getting him something extravagant, like an overcoat, but figured he’s had enough of my foisting clothes on him.And while I’m not a stranger to buying clothes for my friends, it might seem too intimate.I have to try so hard to ride the line between appropriate and revealing.I think I’ve done a good job of keeping our Christmas for two on friendly ground.

Instead of clothes or jewelry, I found something else I thought he might like.He opens the box with an expectant smile, which widens when he sees what it is.

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