Page 65 of A Small Town Spring

“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.

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