Why was Cindy listening to my music? I hadn't even known she knew I had any before Misty. It touched me, but it confused me too: she spent all day working with and for me and then drove home with my voice blasting in her ears. Sweet, but why? Why only that song, and why not the far-easier-to-get Misty version?
*****
I couldn't decide whether I should ask Cindy why she was listening to my song, but in the end I didn't have to.
She had been on another floor helping out with answering phones, and when she came back and learned I'd moved her car she blushed but didn't say anything. I didn't either, but after about an hour she said, "I hope you don't mind me listening to your music."
I stared at her. "Why on earth would I?"
"Well, it's not the Misty version. I went and found the old one."
Not that old. Only a few months. "Yeah, but that's the one I made on my own. Trust me, I'm delighted you're listening to it. I'm glad someone is."
She smiled, and I said, "Why'd you hunt it down?"
Leaning back in her chair, she sighed. "You'll think it's pathetic."
I shook my head at once, and she looked down at her desk and said, "Well, you were tough, doing it all by yourself and making it happen." Her cheeks reddened again. "I guess I'm trying to absorb that attitude."
Cindy, at least ten years my senior, was trying to learn from me? I didn't know what to say. Eventually, I came up with, "I'm thrilled. But why?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I never stand up for myself, never go after what I want. And I should. I have to."
"Out Loud" was indeed about that, so it made some sense. But an entire CD of it? "What are you trying to go after?"
Without opening her eyes, she said, "Remember my laundry problem?"
I didn't right away. A lot had happened since we'd talked about it. But fortunately not much time passed before I was able to say, "The landlord wouldn't fix the machines."
She opened her eyes and looked at me, sadness and embarrassment in her expression. "He still hasn't."
I blinked. "I thought you were going to..." I trailed off because she so clearly hadn't talked to him or refused to pay rent until he took care of his responsibilities. "Okay, but how can my music help with that?"
"I've been listening to it every day to and from work. It makes me feel I can do anything. Like if you could do it I can too." Her eyes widened. "I didn't mean it like that, like I'm better than you or something."
I smiled, so touched I could hardly say, "I know what you meant. It's okay." More than okay.
She relaxed. "I'm going to call my landlord in a few days, and I think by then I'll have borrowed enough... guts from you that I'll be able to make him fix the washer."
I rested my elbows on her desk and put my chin in my hands. "Please don't take this the wrong way. I love that my music's doing that for you, but have you considered getting counseling? It would be way more efficient than listening to me."
She shook her head. "I'd be too embarrassed. I've done a lot of stupid stuff, let people walk on me. You wouldn't understand."
Oh, no?
"But I hear your lyrics and say them to myself and it builds me up. I feel tougher every time. I'll take on the landlord and then I can take on... other people."
She clearly didn't want to tell me who the other people were, so I didn't push, but I spent the rest of the day with an overwhelming sense of awe.
I'd had no idea my music could have that kind of impact.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Happy birthday! Why didn't you tell me?"
Tim's neck turned red. "Didn't want to be a bother."
I smiled at him. "You've never worried about that before, why start now?"
He gave me a gentle punch on the arm and his father said, "She's got you there, Tim."
I'd been a little late getting to our song-writing session that day after an interview ran long, but we needed to get songs ready for the North American tour Jo had decided to arrange for me after the European one's massive success, and so we'd still been working when Tim's parents arrived to take him out for dinner and spilled the news about his birthday.
Tim was taller than his dad but they were so clearly related. The same build, the same dark hair, they were even dressed alike in casual pants and turtlenecks with blazers. The only thing they didn't share were Tim's brown eyes, since his dad's were hazel, but a glance at his mother showed where they'd come from.
"Mom, Dad, this is—" He looked at me, clearly wondering whether I should be introduced as Amy or Misty.
"Oh, heavens, we know who she is." Tim's mom extended her hand. "Misty's famous. I'm Diane and this is Carl. Lovely to meet you."
"You too." We shook hands. "I've read and enjoyed so many of your books." I smiled at Carl to include him as we too shook hands.
"Ah, but have you read Tim's book?"
"I'm afraid not."
She pretended to pout. "I was hoping you could tell us about it. He won't say much more than that he's working on it."
Once a month, so he won't disappoint you. "With how great he is at writing songs I'm sure it's wonderful."
Carl gave me a 'You're so sweet. Stupid, but sweet' smile. "Writing songs and writing novels are worlds apart, Misty."
Annoyed, I found myself glad he didn't know my real name, especially when he added, "And with the state of songs today, couldn't anyone write them? Baby, girl, love you girl, ooh baby. The end."
The countless hours Tim and I had spent searching for the perfect words for my songs swept over me, and I barely managed to keep my tone calm. "Well, he hasn't written anything like that for me. And what he has written, no, not anyone could do it."
Carl and I locked eyes. Something in his reminded me of Shawn's, that cold 'I will be obeyed' stare, but I didn't let myself look away.
He broke first. "Well. I'm glad he's impressed you." The words "I can't imagine that's difficult" seemed to hang in the air but he didn't say them. "Diane, Tim, ready to go?"
He turned without waiting for their responses and headed to the elevator.
"I'm sorry, dear," Diane said to me. "He's just always dreamed of Tim following in his footsteps and being a writer."
I took a breath to say, "But he is a writer," but before I could, she said, "You know what I mean. A... well, a book writer."
She'd almost said "a real writer", and we all knew it.
"I'd invite you along for dinner, Misty, but I don't think Carl would like it today. He'll get over it, of course, but he doesn't like being challenged." She gave me a sweet smile. "He probably needs it, but he doesn't like it."
"I actually have plans for the evening, but thank you." Jason and I were going out for dinner. The restaurant had already been booked, and warned that I might draw a crowd, and my bodyguards had been given a table next to the one reserved for me and Jason. No spontaneous outings for Misty.
She smiled. "Another time. Coming, Tim?"
He nodded and turned to me. "'Night, Am—"
He cut himself off, our eyes met, and I knew he hadn't wanted to call me Amy in front of his mother. I didn't much want him to either, so I gave him a mock frown. "I keep telling you not to call me M. I hate it."
His mother elbowed him. "Misty too long for you, Tim?"
We laughed, and he said, "Guess so. Well, see you tomorrow."
"You too. And happy birthday."
I stood watching them approach the elevator, then called, "Tim?" They both turned back and I added, "Sorry, Diane, it'll just be a second."
She waited at the elevator with apparent good humor as Tim returned to me, a question in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said when he reached me. "About what I said to your dad."
The question was replaced with a sad softness. "I appreciate the effort." He raised a hand and laid it deliberately on my shoulder. "A lot."
Since we'd hugged on the airplane to Germany we'd been touching each other frequently, a pat on the back or squeeze of the arm, but this time f
elt more like another hug than a casual touch. I liked it.
"Have a good dinner."
He smiled. "You too." He knew about the stress between Jason and me since the trip, the way that Misty was tearing us apart. He'd admitted he'd seen a lot of relationships break up when a singer's career took off, but he'd also given me hope with several stories of people who'd worked hard and managed to stay together. "And good luck."
"You too."
He rolled his eyes and returned to his mother. As the elevator door opened, he saluted me and called back, "Good night, M."
I growled at him and the last thing I saw before the elevator closed was his laughing eyes.
*****
Jason cast another look at the undercover security team, looking like a couple on a date, sitting at the table nearby, and shook his head. "I hate this."
"I know. It drove me nuts at first but I'm pretty much used to it now."
I'd been careful not to sound like, "Get over it," but he flared up anyhow. "No chance for me to get used to it. I never see you any more."
"Keep your voice down."
His jaw tightened and he drank half his wine in one shot. "We should have stayed home and ordered pizza."
I leaned back in my chair and stared at him. "I suggested that. You said we never went out any more."
He shook his head again, looking past me. "And now I remember why."
I looked in the direction he was glaring. Two teenagers, giggling helplessly, were approaching us but had been stopped by the female security guard. "Sorry, girls, Misty can't be disturbed at the moment."
Their faces fell and I couldn't take it. We'd gone out late on purpose so the restaurant wouldn't be busy, and nobody here seemed likely to be my fans but these two. Signing an autograph for them wouldn't ruin our evening, especially since I suspected it was already ruined. "It's okay, Sarah, they can come over."
One, a bit overweight and wearing long sleeves despite the still-warm evening, promptly burst into tears, and the other dragged her to me. "She loves you, Misty, and so do I. I just don't cry as much."
I smiled at her then said to her friend, "What's your favorite song?"
"'Don't Weight'," she whispered, her tear-stained face glowing. She'd been cute before but her happiness made her gorgeous.
"Mine's 'Out Loud'," her friend said, obviously not wanting to be left out.
Jason cleared his throat.
I didn't look at him, didn't want to see how annoyed he was by Misty's intrusion into our dinner. "Well, ladies, do you have anything for me to sign for you?"
They didn't, and the teary one was starting to lose control again before I could say, "Not a problem." I picked up my purse and pulled out my hot pink marker and two of the publicity photos Jo insisted I carry at all times for just this sort of situation. I got their names and signed the pictures, making sure to write different things since I knew they'd be comparing as soon as they left my sight.
The teary one held the picture carefully by its edges. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome. It was lovely to meet you."
She grinned then blurted, "Can I hug you?"
I'd hugged so many teenage girls in the last few months, but her request still touched me. "Of course."
I got up, pushed a few strands of my hot pink wig from my cheek, and held out my arms. She squeezed me tight and whispered, "I used to cut. But I stopped once I heard your song."
My heart skipped a beat. How trusting, to tell a total stranger she'd sliced her own body to deal with her pain. But then, she didn't think of me as a stranger. She'd spent hours with Misty. "Honey, you're beautiful," I whispered back. "I thought so as soon as I saw you. Don't cut any more. Please."
She squeezed me even harder and gave one sob before saying, "I won't. I promise."
My eyes filled with tears and I longed to hold her forever, keep her safe against everything that drove her to hurt herself. I so understood the impulse she felt.
But her friend was waiting for her hug, so I had to let her go. I blinked my eyes clear, patted her back and murmured, "Good girl," then made myself withdraw my arms.
She looked up at me, her eyes aglow with determination and tears, and I reached out and hugged her again. I couldn't stop myself.
She squirmed, though, apparently uncomfortable with so much emotion, and I said, "Sorry, but you're just so cute! I had to hug you again," as I stepped back.
She laughed through the tears and I hugged her friend too, then they left. A few feet away, the teary one said something to her friend that made her stop and hug her so hard my ribs whimpered in sympathy. Had she told her she'd told me what she'd done to herself? Maybe. Maybe she'd never told anyone else before. Maybe she had just told her friend for the first time. I'd never know. Maybe she wouldn't do it again and maybe she would. I'd never know that either. I wished somehow I could.
I settled back into my chair and picked up my wine glass. Then my eyes met Jason's and I set it down without taking a sip. "What?"
"You carry pictures of yourself?"
That was what he'd taken away from that? "So I have something to sign, yes."
He shook his head.
Emotion over the girl and anger at him swirled together into something that made me say, "Quit shaking your head at me. If you have something to tell me let's hear it."
"Oh, can you spare me five minutes to hear it?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"No, Misty's here."
I hadn't wanted to be Misty tonight but Jo had made it clear that when in public I needed to be Misty or be shrouded in a sweatshirt with a hood or a big hat with sunglasses. Misty couldn't be seen being average everyday Amy. "You're the one who told me they're the same person."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure they are any more."
I nearly snapped, "Quit shaking your damn head," but the sadness in his voice stopped me. Instead, I said, "Well, I'm Amy. Amy in a wig."
"No, you're not. You're Misty tonight. Those girls knew it, why don't you?"
"Because they're not inside me? I know who I am."
He laughed and drank the rest of his wine, his third glass since we'd arrived.
"What's so funny?"
"You don't have a clue who you are." He leaned forward. "When you talk about Giselle, you want to run the center. When you're with that Tim jerk, you think you're an epic songwriter. When you put on the wig, you're all about crap music and lyrics that—"
"Shut up!"
My instant rage surprised me and clearly shocked him.
"Don't you dare talk about my music like that."
His eyes widened. "I thought you didn't care."
So did I, before. "I do care. Of course I do."
"So the center? All that stuff? Just a load of bullshit?"
"Damn it, of course it's not. I do care about it. But I care about the music too."
"Why? It's not going to last. You're a flash in the pan. A pop princess with no substance, no—"
I stood up and slapped him across the face.
We stared at each other. I had never hit him. I'd never hit anyone. And he knew it.
"Jason," I eventually managed. "Jason, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did that."
He stood up too, and my stomach twisted at the imprint of my fingers on his cheek. He didn't sound angry, just frustrated, when he said, "I shouldn't have said what I did. But what happened? I thought you didn't care. Now you care about it that much?"
It wasn't really a question.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. I do. I didn't, but now I do."
He pulled away from me. "Amy, I can't do this any more. I love you, but I hate Misty more than I ever thought possible. The wigs and the security and the media watching your every move. I thought it was going to be over soon. But now it's not. If you're going to keep being Misty, then I can't be with you any more. So what's it going to be?"
I held his gaze for a long moment. The sadness in his eyes hurt. I did love
him. But mixed with the love I felt a sick rage. He was leaving because I wore wigs at work? And he'd called my music crap. Remembering that fired me up again, and I tossed my pink hair back from my face. "It's going to be Misty. She treats me better than you ever did."
His eyes snapped with fury. "Fine. Good luck being a pop-tart, Misty. Just don't think about what you'll do when it all comes crashing down."
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Misty loses her rock!"
"Misty's boyfriend storms out after she slaps him!"
"Who will newly single Misty pick next?"
My security team hadn't been the only ones undercover at that restaurant; one of the gossip websites had had a photographer there. While fortunately my slapping Jason wasn't online for the world to see, the photographer had captured far too many pictures of the aftermath: us staring at each other, that awful pain in Jason's face when he said it was him or Misty, then our rage before he left. How lovely to have the details of our breakup plastered all over the Internet so we could never forget them.
As I sat reading the gossip sites the next morning, one of my publicists called to inform me they'd "taken care of it". When I asked what that meant, she said, "We gave it the right spin. Don't worry, just focus on your music."
"The right spin" turned out to be a statement, supposedly from me, that Jason and I had grown apart as my career took off, and that I was of course sad to lose him but ready to take my career to a new level. I didn't sound sad. The words they'd written for me gave the impression that I'd shrugged off an irritating fly and was now ready to enjoy my life. Poor Jason would hate reading that, but with any luck he'd know I was more upset than they'd made me sound.
I leaned back in my computer chair and took a long drink of coffee. Upset. I knew I must be, but I didn't feel it.
Or was I just numb at the moment? Probably. No doubt the pain would kick in later, as the day went on and I dealt with Jason's things in the apartment and all the other annoying garbage that goes along with losing a partner.
But it didn't kick in. I spent the day working on songs with a sympathetic Tim so Jason could take his things from the apartment without seeing me, and nothing affected me. Not Tim's gentle arm around my shoulders and his quiet "Sorry", not the idea of Jason carting boxes from Misty's high-security apartment back to the place we'd chosen together with such excitement and hope for our future, not the kind support of Cindy and the somewhat distracted but still sweet "take care of yourself" from Jo.
Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9) Page 12
