Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  Tim took my hand and I squeezed his hard, grateful for his support.

  "He told her not to talk, I can tell. But she's more afraid of me than she is of him," Jo said with satisfaction.

  "We're all afraid of you."

  Jo ruffled Tim's hair. "As you should be."

  We monitored the web sites for another half hour or so, then Jo said, "Well, I think this is where it's going to stay. Most of your fans don't believe it happened the way he says, a few do, and quite a few don't care. So no worries."

  Except that I had nearly been molested on national television. I'd become comfortable, far more than comfortable, with Tim's kisses, but I didn't know how I'd have reacted to being unexpectedly groped and kissed by Marian. I'd thrown up when Bart kissed me. Would my reaction have been even worse? In front of millions of viewers?

  Tim slid his arm around my shoulders. "Let's get you home."

  We rode in silence in the car. As we neared my place, I leaned in and whispered, "If I asked you to sleep over, would you be okay with just sleeping?"

  He kissed my forehead and murmured, "I wanted to offer but didn't want to be pushy."

  When we got inside, I fell into his arms. "God, what an evening."

  "I'm so sorry, Amy."

  I snuggled closer. "I guess I shouldn't care what people think, but I do."

  He stroked my wig. "Of course you do. How could you not?"

  I had no idea, but he probably had no idea how much I cared. The thought of my fans thinking they should let people lay their hands on them to get or keep a job had been bouncing sickeningly around in my head since I'd left the station, and I hoped they'd know they didn't have to because I'd refused. But I still wanted to somehow tell them flat-out. That was what the center would give me: the ability to speak directly to a particular girl rather than broadcasting an impersonal message to a million of them. But then I wouldn't be able to reach anywhere near as many. But—

  "Ready for bed?"

  I stepped back, more than ready to stop obsessing and get some rest. "Absolutely."

  His cheeks reddened but he kept his eyes on mine. "So... I'll sleep in your room, in your guest room, on the couch... pretty much anywhere but the bathtub."

  I pretended to pout, and he laughed. "Fine, the bathtub will do."

  "I was hoping you'd sleep with me." Part of me wanted to reiterate that we would only be sleeping, but I knew I didn't need to.

  I went into the bathroom, where I freed myself from my wig and makeup and put on a silky but not too revealing nightgown, then came out to find Tim sitting on the edge of my bed in his t-shirt and boxer shorts. "Is this okay?" He indicated his lower half. "Jeans don't make great pajamas."

  I smiled. "It's fine. I trust you."

  He came to me and hugged me hard. "I'm glad."

  I gave him a cheesy souvenir toothbrush with my signature on it in gold, which made us both laugh, then I slipped into bed while he used the bathroom. When he came out, he stood looking at me for a moment.

  "What?"

  "I keep thinking. If you'd actually gone through with it and she'd kissed you..."

  I shuddered. "I thought of that too. I might have punched her."

  He slid into bed next to me. "Or thrown up. Did you really barf on Bart Miles?"

  I had to laugh. "I missed him."

  "That's a damn shame."

  He pulled me into his arms and I cuddled into him, then raised my face and kissed him.

  We kissed for a long time, sweet and dreamy, before he said, "Good night, Amy."

  I put my head on his shoulder and murmured, "Good night."

  He kissed my hair, then began gently stroking it, and I fell into a peaceful sleep lulled by his soft touch.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  "Jo, I'm quitting."

  I'd been practicing the words in my head for the last few days, imagining every reaction she could give, but the surprise and disappointment in her eyes still hurt.

  "Why?"

  Everything I'd rehearsed fled. I knew why, but I didn't know how to say it to her. In the two weeks since the MusicStation disaster, Tim and I had talked every day about my career and where it was going to go. I'd thought it through endlessly on my own too, and had finally come to a decision: being Misty wasn't enough.

  My fans loved me, but the restrictions of Misty's style meant I couldn't put everything I wanted into my songs. I could, though, put everything into the center. I was exhausted, but I'd take a little time off and then use the same energy and enthusiasm I'd given to my singing career to fulfill Giselle's dream. It wasn't my dream, but it was still such a good thing to do. I was in the fortunate position of being able to use my money and fame to make it happen. I'd become Misty purely to get into that position, so now I would go after it.

  I'd cried telling Tim, but he'd hugged me and said, "Good for you. The center will be amazing. You're amazing to do it."

  His certainty had helped convince me I was doing the right thing even though it hurt to leave Misty behind. I loved being able to connect with fans through the weekly videos I made for them, and the twice-weekly Twitter chat I'd started the day after the MusicStation mess let me talk to even more fans directly, but there had to be more to life than being a bubble gum pop princess. Time to grow up and make a real difference.

  To Jo, I said, "I've just had enough." My stomach twinged as I said it. Figuring I was feeling guilty, I added, "It's been an amazing ride and I can't thank you enough. I just... I'm so tired, and there are other things I need to do."

  She leaned back in her chair and sighed. "That duet with Evan you finished recording yesterday fulfills your contract, so I guess you're free to do this."

  I'd checked that before coming in, knowing if I still had obligations to her she'd insist I meet them.

  "And this is your decision, right? Not Tim's?"

  "Of course," I said, then her words sank in and I added, "Why'd you ask that?"

  "Do you know why I retired? Why Sapphire Angel the band stopped when it did?"

  I shook my head and didn't point out that nobody seemed to know.

  "My husband didn't like it. I'd just got married, and he thought I should be spending more time with him. He didn't force me into it or anything, and he had all these logical arguments about how much better our relationship would be, but the fact is I quit because he told me too. But even then, I felt weird about it, so I just told my bandmates I was too tired to continue."

  I swallowed hard, not liking the parallels between our stories. But Tim didn't hate me being Misty, not like Jason had. He wasn't like Jo's husband. He hadn't told me to quit. He just agreed that I could do more good as myself.

  "And then..." She shook her head. "Then I got pregnant with Jez, and being a father 'wasn't his scene, man', and he was gone. But by then, the guys had moved on to new bands and there was no way to go back."

  "I understand."

  "Do you? I want to make sure. I can't promise you I'll be able to take you back if you change your mind. I would love to, don't get me wrong. You really have been wonderful, and not just because you've made me a lot of money."

  She winked and I smiled.

  "But things move fast in the industry, and while I like you I can't guarantee I'll be able to do anything with you later. You hear me?"

  I nodded. "I do."

  She stood up, came around her desk, and gave me a hug. "I'll miss you, Amy."

  Hearing my real name from her after so long gave me a jolt but I hugged her back. "I'll miss you too," I said through my tightening throat.

  She released me. "Well, take care. Have you said goodbye to Cindy?"

  I winced. "Not yet."

  "Good luck with that."

  *****

  The next twenty-four hours were a whirlwind. After saying goodbye to Cindy while we both cried, I cried again leaving Steven and Jez and Leah and everyone else with whom I'd worked over the months I'd been one of Jo's singers. I couldn't believe how close I'd become to all of them.<
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  Once I stopped crying, I was driven home by Mac, my last time using Jo's driver. Jo had agreed not to announce my retirement until that evening, by which point Tim and I would be "in an undisclosed location".

  He hadn't even disclosed it to me, telling me only that I should pack clothes I could relax in, but I loved the place he'd picked for our hideaway. He'd rented a condo, in a buddy's name, at a ski resort about two hours outside Toronto, and while I was saying my goodbyes he'd bought enough groceries to keep us going for months instead of the two weeks he'd booked. He'd even thought to bring a hoodie for me so I could hide my face as we went inside.

  The first night, we sat cuddled together on the couch in front of a roaring fire, looking out the window as distant skiers took advantage of the newly opened ski hills.

  "Want to ski?"

  I shook my head. "It's warm in here, and I prefer all my bones unbroken."

  He laughed and kissed me. "Whatever you say goes."

  I pulled away to look at him. "Does it?"

  He frowned. "Of course. Why, is there something you need that I didn't get?"

  His confusion calmed me. He wasn't trying to control me. Jo's husband might have been controlling her, but Tim wasn't like that. I settled back against his shoulder. "Yeah, a little more food. I'm afraid we'll run out."

  He mock-punched me then we sat a while in silence. Eventually, he broke it. "Jo's probably made the announcement by now."

  I nodded.

  "You're still cool with the media blackout?"

  We had decided to turn off our phones and not access the Internet during our time away. Jo had figured that after two weeks things would have calmed down and I could find my way back to my real life. "Yeah. I don't want to see everyone saying I was crap and it's good I quit."

  He pulled me closer. "I doubt very many are saying that."

  I kissed him and snuggled even closer in silence. My fans weren't, obviously. I hoped they wouldn't be too upset at my decision. Zephyr came to mind. Would she still make those gorgeous bags if I was no longer living what she'd thought was my dream? I hoped so.

  We spent a lot of time in silence over those next two weeks. After the constant noise of my time as Misty, and the constant concern over what other people thought of me, sitting quietly with someone I knew only thought the best of me was amazingly relaxing.

  The condo had no television, so we watched the skiers and read books and named the squirrels roaming outside our window and kissed and kissed and kissed. We had considered going further, of course, but we'd both agreed there was no rush. While I wanted him tremendously, I also wanted our first time to be as amazing and meaningful as our first kiss, and if possible as gloriously unexpected as well.

  I'd thought I knew him pretty well, but to my surprise, after a few days he pulled out a Stephen King book. "You're reading that? Not your usual choice."

  He flushed. "I know, it's trash."

  "I'm the last person to say someone's artistic expression is trash, you know. And it isn't anyhow. That's one of his best. But I didn't think you'd want to read it."

  He looked into my eyes. "You know those books you saw me reading on the European tour?"

  I cast my mind back. "Vaguely. Literary and deep, right?"

  "Honey, they were all Stephen King books. I just put on the other books' covers."

  I stared at him, and he shrugged. "The son of my parents can't be seen reading anything less than true literature."

  I shook my head. "But you're reading it openly now."

  He smiled. "I feel like I can trust you not to tell them."

  We'd been out with his parents the previous week, before I'd decided to retire, and afterward had debated which was more annoying, his father's patronizing remarks or the way his mom kept saying, "Now, Carl, a lot of people like Misty's music so it can't be that bad." In the end we'd decided it was a tie. "Yeah, I don't plan to share much with them."

  He said, "Good stuff," and we went back to reading.

  Everything about our time away was blissful. The second-last night, though, I woke up in the middle of the night with a tune in my head, so perfectly Misty it couldn't have belonged to anyone else. Lyrics blossomed in my mind as the tune played, a song about working hard to climb a mountain and then partying in the fresh clean air at the summit.

  I slipped from bed and went looking for paper to write it down, but stopped in the hallway. Why? I wasn't Misty any more, so there was no need to remember the song.

  I went back to bed and snuggled up to Tim, who wrapped his arm around me in his sleep. I lay awake, though, for a long time, listening to the song in my head and wondering how to make it vanish.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  After our two-weeks away, Tim and I returned to Toronto and to his apartment. We'd decided not to go back to mine until we knew the situation, since it was possible there'd be paparazzi camped outside my door.

  I couldn't decide whether it would be better to have them camped there or not to, to have the world have completely forgotten about Misty already.

  Tim checked out the Internet while I took a hot shower after the long drive. When I came out wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with my still-damp hair up in a ponytail, he looked up at me and smiled. "God, you're cute."

  I tugged at the shirt. "I'm a slob."

  His smile widened. "After the hot pink wigs, I'm down with a little slobbiness."

  Something about that rubbed me the wrong way, but I didn't have time to wonder why because he cleared his throat and said, "So. Do you want to know what's up?"

  I pulled a chair over to his desk, though his obvious nervousness worried me. "I think so. Do I?"

  "I don't know." He turned the laptop to face me.

  I stared at a petition, with over seventy thousand electronic signatures, titled, "Please, Misty, come back!"

  When I didn't speak, Tim said, "Kind of amazing, eh?"

  "Yeah." I began scrolling through the signatures and the notes my fans had written, telling me in so many different ways how much I'd done for them. Story after story of how they'd left bad boyfriends, found the nerve to ask for a raise at work, said no to drinking and drugs and sex they didn't want...

  Absorbed, I didn't realize I was crying until Tim handed me a tissue and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. "Sorry." I wiped my face and blew my nose. "It's just... geez, I don't even know how to say it."

  "I know." He hugged me closer. "I get it."

  Did he, though? How could he? I had changed these girls' lives. I had a responsibility to them. Didn't I?

  I wanted to explain this to him, but I didn't have the words.

  He kissed my forehead. "When you start the center, you'll be doing the same thing. And you'll have professionals working with you, so the changes you cause will be so much more..." He shook his head. "I don't mean more. They'll be different, though. You'll be able to help girls with really deep problems. Girls who need more help than music could provide."

  There had to be hundreds of therapists in Canada who could provide that help, without me being involved. How many people could be Misty? But then again, how many people had the money to launch the center, as I did now? And the fame to draw the right girls to it?

  A shock wave of realization snapped through me. Misty's fame wouldn't draw the right girls. It would draw rich kids who wanted a look at me and could get their influential parents to make it happen.

  The girls who really needed help would still be left out.

  *****

  That evening, Tim washed our clothes from the trip in his apartment building's ancient laundry room, staying there to guard them since there'd been thievery issues in the past, while I sat in front of my laptop and tried to put together the plans for the center.

  I couldn't get anywhere, though, no matter how hard I tried. All I could think about was the petition my fans had written for me. They wanted me back so much, and I couldn't get past the real pain they'd expressed at not having me to listen and look up to.
With their words echoing in my mind, I couldn't make myself plan the center.

  Tim came back in about an hour, by which point I had given up and was playing solitaire on my laptop. "So? What did you get done? Can I see?"

  I just shook my head.

  He frowned and sat next to me on the couch. "Why not?"

  "Because showing you a blank screen isn't going to do any good."

  "Aw, Amy. Didn't you try?"

  Fury ripped through me. "Of course. But I don't know where to start. It's a huge project."

  His eyes widened. "Of course it is. I didn't mean that. I just thought, since I know you and Giselle had some plans before..."

  I collapsed back against the couch. "I'm an idiot. Why aren't I using those?"

  "Want me to go to your place and pick them up?"

  "That'd be great, thanks. Oh, and could I get you to grab me some clothes too?"

  He gestured at the overflowing laundry basket. "You need more?"

  I smiled sweetly. "I've been wearing the same stuff for two weeks. As Misty I never wore the same outfit twice and I've gotten used to that. Yes, I do."

  I scribbled a quick list and sent him on his way.

  When he returned forty-five minutes later, I hadn't done anything but listlessly skim through my email. My brain just refused to work on the center. But the notes Giselle and I had made would help, I was sure.

  Tim left the bag of clothes in the hall and handed me the box of notes, and an envelope.

  "What's this?"

  "Cindy left it for you."

  She'd been sweet and offered to go to my apartment every few days to make sure everything was fine there. "Cool. I'll read it after I check out the notes."

  I should have reversed that order. It would have been more fun and no less productive. I couldn't get anywhere even with what Giselle and I had written. It was like another lifetime, and I simply couldn't process the material and figure out what to do first. We'd envisioned how the center would be once it was running, but deciding how to get it running hadn't been a focus of our discussions and I couldn't find a way. She would have been able to, but I just couldn't.