Page 49 of A Small Town Spring

I make a quick phone call to the restaurant while the water’s boiling.Then I go to my room and change out of my work clothes into soft sweats and a hoodie.When I come back out, Toby’s pouring the water, more color in his cheeks, and I’m so relieved that he’s not the zombie he was when I first got home.

“Sorry.I’m being dramatic.It’s—whatever.”

“It’s not whatever.It’s your dad.And it sounds like you don’t particularly want him to come to the show.”

“I just don’t know why he’d be doing it.Is it because he wants to see me?My work?Or does he only want to see my art so he can compare himself to me?Does he think it’s going to be a success, and he wants to associate himself with that?”Toby folds his arms over his chest, juts his bottom lip out.“Or does he think it’s going to be a failure and wants to see it firsthand?Rub my face in it?”

“Why would he do that?”

“My father is the most competitive man on the planet,” Toby says bitterly.“It’s why I almost didn’t even pursue painting.Except that in the end, I couldn’t not.You know?”

“I do know.”Toby, without his art, is unthinkable, like Luna without her fur.

“He’d want to constantly compare our output, our styles, our successes.I avoided it as best I could.But I never got the impression he wanted to help me get better.He only wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to be better than him.So no, I don’t really want him to come.”

“Can you tell him that?”

Toby makes a face and sips his tea.

“I’m thirty-three.I should be able to tell him.”

“It’s not always easy to tell people the truth.”I think about us, standing in the kitchen, and all the things I haven’t told him.All the things I’m too scared to say, all the things I’m too selfish to give up.

Toby meets my gaze through the steam rising off his mug and blinks his amber eyes.“No, it’s not,” he agrees.

“You don’t have to respond,” I say.“Email is odd, isn’t it?”

“He actually sent it a few days ago, but I didn’t check until today.”

I lift a corner of my mouth.That sounds like Toby.I check my email six times a day.Zero inbox is the goal, baby.

“Well, then, you can think about it and decide how—or if—you’re going to respond.And in the meantime, we can have dinner, and I can tell you all about my week at the Kingston James Literary Agency.”

Toby smiles for real at that.“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

The weekend passes too quicklybetween tackling the reading on my plate, doing some things around the house, and an informal dinner at Jack and Pete’s.Sunday, Toby’s puttering in his studio when Van drops by to check in about the wedding.We sit at the kitchen table and snack on a box of Beck’s discards.Apparently, he’s working on a new blondie recipe and we’re the beneficiaries of a trial batch.

“We’ve set a date,” he announces.“As long as you’re available—April 4th?”

I instantly recognize the date as the day I first met Toby last year.An auspicious date, I think.I quickly scan my calendar on my phone and give my approval.

“You better work on getting that certification.I’ll text you some links.And the speech, of course.”

“Of course.Leave it to me.”

“Beck’s in charge of the color scheme and all those details,” Van says, “so you might want to get with him on clothing choices.”

“How big is this thing?I thought you pitched it as an intimate party.”

“Yeah, well, um.”Van cringes.“Beck realized he’s only getting married once, and then he decided he wanted a slightly bigger affair.”

“How much bigger?”

“It’s in flux,” Van says vaguely.“He might even invite his parents.”

“His parents, as in the Texas senator and his wife?”I say in disbelief.Beck’s parents aren’t his favorite people, though they’re not completely cut off from each other as far as I know.

“Well, he wants Jack’s parents to come, and he thought it would be pretty mean of him to only invite them and not his actual parents.”

---