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

by Heather Wardell

  When I meet him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant he chose he says, "You look nice and springy. Well, summery."

  "Does the start of May count as summer?" I say, noticing that he's shaved and is wearing jeans with no holes and no clay on them and a green button-down shirt. He looks... good. Very good.

  He smiles and holds out his arms to me, and I go into them as he says, "Either way, you look pretty."

  I shut my eyes and hug him hard, wishing for one intensely painful moment that Ryan hadn't found me and I could still be fully Kate. I know I really am Donna but I don't feel it and I hate that.

  Jake squeezes me close, then we release each other and go into the restaurant. We have a long leisurely lunch and chat about his work and put together a plan to help him sell more pieces, and he's not a jerk. But he also doesn't notice anything about my mood.

  I do my best to keep my pretense going, to look calm and relaxed and happy, but sometimes I hear myself sounding so fake and I can't understand how he can't tell. But he can't.

  Maybe I'm a better actress than I'd have thought.

  Can I act happy long enough to actually be happy?

  Or am I always going to be a cheerful shell surrounding a cracked soul?

  *****

  "That's a pretty pink jacket," Ryan says Friday night. "New?"

  I nod. Hannah wanted to go shopping Thursday night, and I amazed both of us by how much I bought. Anything vibrant or cheerful was an instant yes from me. She tried to steer me to some more neutral pieces since they'd be more versatile but I refused every time. I wanted brightness and joy. When I got home, I threw out the gray sweater I'd been wearing when Jake found me and everything else of a similar dull color. I don't want any more gray in my life.

  "You look great. Ready to go?"

  I follow him out of the apartment and lock the door behind us. He's going to be staying with me tonight for the first time. I think I'm probably frightened on some level but mostly I feel dull and dim. Even the sight of his suitcase by the door as I head out, the realization I'll see him in casual clothes and maybe even in pajamas, doesn't break through my gloom.

  "There, all locked," I say, willing myself to be cheerful, as he moves a few steps ahead of me to grab the door of the conveniently waiting elevator.

  We walk a few blocks to the restaurant Ryan's chosen. He raves about it, about the spicy but not blindingly hot food, and I smile and give appropriate responses and then wonder how much it would hurt if I stepped in front of a passing bus.

  That moment shocks me, frightens me. I've never thought I'd consider suicide, but I saw the bus coming and could just see myself doing it, stepping out into the road when the driver had no chance of stopping. Ending everything.

  I take a breath to tell Ryan then stop myself. He does not need to hear that his wife, who's already clearly a few bottles short of a healthy emotional spice rack, is wondering about bus-assisted death. He's got enough to handle.

  We reach the restaurant and are soon nibbling on garlic-cheese toast that has a tang of some other seasoning neither of us can identify. After a few back and forth attempts I say, "Well, it's delicious, whatever it is."

  Ryan nods and smiles, then his smile fades. "Honey."

  "What?"

  His eyes search my face. "You're having... trouble today, aren't you?"

  "Trouble?" I smile the best I can. "I spent too much money but other than that I'm fine."

  He takes my hand. "Donna handled her depression the same way, putting on a happy front. A show. I didn't notice it, not for a long time, but when I did it was obvious." His grip tightens. "It's obvious now. Talk to me."

  A huge sob storms up my throat and I clap my hands over my mouth to keep it in.

  He's out of his chair and crouched beside me in an instant, hugging me hard.

  I turn into his embrace, bury my face in his shoulder, and bite his shirt so I won't cry.

  He rubs my back gently. "Sweetheart. It's-- well, it's not okay, is it? But it'll be better if you let it out. Don't hold everything in. You'll explode."

  "I can't," I mutter with my teeth clenched on his shirt. "Too many people."

  He squeezes me tighter. "Let's go home. If you want to."

  A wave of relief floods me, loosening my grip on his body and his shirt. I do want to go home with him. But... "We just got here. And the bread..."

  His lips touch my forehead. "I'll take care of it. Come on."

  He releases me and gets to his feet, then pulls a twenty from his wallet and drops it on the table. "Stand up and hold out your hands."

  I do, confused, and he loads me up with four elegantly small pieces of garlic bread.

  "Ryan! I can't just walk out with these."

  "We paid for them. They're ours. And they're too tasty to leave here." He grabs the last two pieces of bread in one hand and takes my shoulder with the other. "Let's go."

  He gently pushes me forward, and I want to go home enough that I let him guide me to the front door.

  The hostess looks up, surprised, as we arrive.

  "Very sorry," Ryan says, sounding a bit awkward. "We need to go."

  "But..."

  "We paid for the bread. So we can take it, right?"

  "I... I guess so. Is everything all right?"

  He nods and wraps his arm around my waist. "Most definitely." He lowers his voice. "We... just need to go home."

  Her eyes widen, then fill with an embarrassed amusement. "I got it. No problem."

  He thanks her regally and ushers me onto the street.

  Halfway out the door I realize what she's thinking, what he's suggested, and start to giggle. By the time we're a block away I am laughing so hard I can barely breathe, and he's laughing too. He stops in a doorway, out of the path of the many pedestrians around us, and I join him in the safe haven.

  "Most embarrassing thing I've ever done," he says, the words broken up by laughter. "And I once streaked at a football game."

  "Bet you're glad I've forgotten that."

  "Was before your time. But yes. Oh, the look on that girl's face."

  "Why'd you make her think we were going home to..." I don't want to say 'have sex', but of course he knows.

  "I figured it would get us out faster and be less awkward. I was right on the first part, I guess."

  "Well, at least you saved us the bread."

  He burst out laughing again. "You... hands full of bread... ridiculous."

  "Your idea," I managed, his mirth setting me off again. "And you've got some too."

  "Two bread-holding fools."

  "One fool who made me hold bread, you mean."

  "You bread-holder, you."

  I look up at him, still laughing, trying to think of a comeback, and our eyes meet and for one brief instant I feel exactly the love for him that our wedding picture shows.

  The surprise of it stops my laughter and I stare at him like I'm seeing him for the first time. I am. I'm seeing my husband. For the first time, I can feel it. Ryan is my husband. My beloved husband.

  His eyes widen, then he wraps his free hand around the back of my neck and murmurs, "I love you," his tone that gorgeous growly one but with amusement mixed in from the giddiness we've been sharing.

  A shock wave runs through me, starting at his hand and flooding my entire body, and I tip my face, my mouth, up toward him.

  He didn't miss the signs I'm depressed again and he doesn't miss this sign either. He lowers his face to mine, slowly but deliberately, and kisses me.

  My arms wind around his neck and I hold on for dear life as my body warms and melds itself to him. I don't want this moment to end, not ever. His kiss is sweet and tender and filled with so much love I can't hold back the tears, and as my husband kisses me I cry and kiss him back, right there on the street with my hands full of bread.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ryan swallows his mouthful of reheated bread and says, "So. I assume Doctor Ferraro knows how you're feeling this week?"

 
I nod and tuck my legs up under me on the couch. "She wants me to take anti-depressants."

  "But you don't want to."

  No question in his voice, and again I'm amazed at how well he knows me. I was trying to sound neutral but he recognized my true feeling right away. "I don't, no."

  "I know that you don't remember ever having taken them. But they did help, at least a bit. You don't think it might be worth trying?"

  I shrug, and tell him my fear about them dulling my emotions and reactions. "I might end up seeing something that would help me get my memories back and then not react to it because I've been drugged."

  He frowns. "I don't remember them affecting you like that before. Did you ask Ferraro about it?"

  "I..." I tip my head to one side, trying to recall exactly what I said. "I told her I didn't want my emotions numbed and she said they would do that, but the rest... I thought it but I'm not sure if I asked. I will, next week."

  "Good. I want you to get those years back, of course, but even more I don't want you suffering depression right now."

  It feels weird talking about my depression, since at the moment I don't feel it. Whether it was Ryan's kiss or the tears I shed or the vibrant light of my sudden feelings for him, something has made me happier than I've been since I can remember.

  I don't know how long we stood kissing on the street. How do you measure a perfect moment like that, when time stops and your life starts again on a whole new track? When Jake kissed me I wanted sex. When Ryan kissed me I wanted to stay in his arms forever. It woke up my body too, of course, but there was too much love and tenderness in that kiss for it to be just about sex. Ryan loves me, there's not a single doubt in my mind now.

  And I did love Ryan. I know I did in the past, and for that instant I did in the present.

  But do I still?

  I know he wants to ask and I'm afraid he will. I don't know what to say. It was a flash of brilliance from the heavens, like that split second when you see the perfect answer for a question or problem you barely understood but then begin to lose it again even as it hits you. I'm losing that feeling for him and I don't know how to keep it, or whether I should even try.

  If I'd met him now, I wouldn't be considering trying to avoid falling for him. He's a great guy, from what I know, and loving him would make sense.

  But there's a history here that's not within my grasp, and I keep thinking about how carefully Donna planned her departure. She wanted to be gone and she didn't want to be found. I still don't know why, and until I do I'm not sure it's safe to fall in love with Ryan.

  Which doesn't mean I'm not on the brink of it anyhow.

  He gives me a gentle smile and I see again the way he looked at me after our kiss ended, the love in his eyes almost too heavy for me to bear. He wiped the tears from my face so gently then kissed my forehead and murmured, "Let's go home," and I'd have followed him anywhere.

  "I was thinking," he says now. "There aren't a lot of memories for you in Toronto. I think you've been pretty much everywhere you'd recall."

  I nod, and say what I know he's going to say. "Maybe it's time for me to visit Ottawa."

  "I think so too. I'd like to take you to our house, since if anything will spark your memories it'd probably be there, but if you don't want to stay there I understand. Lots of great hotels not far away."

  I consider this. "If this weekend works out, I think I'd like to stay with you."

  He smiles. "If I don't turn out to be a pain as a roommate, you mean."

  It's more if I find it uncomfortable to have him nearby, but I don't want to say that. I'm sure he knows, anyhow. I play along instead. "Well, yeah."

  He laughs. "Maybe you'll be the pain and I'll want you to get a hotel."

  "Could be."

  "Won't be." He smiles at me. "Not a chance in the world."

  We finish eating the bread and the pizza we picked up on our way home, then sit watching television together. It's so domestic. I like it and it scares me all at once.

  "Did we do this often?" I gesture at the pizza box and the television. "Hang out like this?"

  Ryan shakes his head. "Hardly ever. You're very busy at the office and with the charity work too. Plus, you didn't want to eat much fat and sugar. After your dad died you were afraid you might develop heart trouble too."

  I grimace. "I've blown that one out of the water. Have you seen how I eat?"

  He nods. "And I like it. I can get dessert without you giving me grief."

  "Hard for me to give you grief when I'm stuffing down cookies too."

  He smiles and picks up another Oreo then offers me the box. "Indeed. So eat up."

  "Your mother says I'm too fat already."

  "Oh, don't bring her up. I was having a good time."

  I laugh and he grins at me and we go back to watching television.

  Eventually, though, I start yawning and he says, "I could use some sleep too. Want to use the bathroom first?"

  I don't, actually. I'm going to make a bit of a stink in there, and I don't want him to have to suffer it. "No, you go ahead."

  "I insist, you first."

  I shake my head. "Go for it."

  His neck reddens. "You won't like it in there after I've used it."

  I burst out laughing. "That's why I don't want to go first!"

  He laughs with me then says, "We'll flip a coin," and pulls one from his pants pocket.

  I call heads, and he flips.

  "Heads it is."

  "Let me see that," I say, but he drops the coin back into his pocket as I speak. "Hey!"

  "Sorry, honey, it's gone. But trust me, it was heads."

  I give him a mock glare.

  "Off you go."

  I give up. "Fine. But next time I flip the coin."

  "Yes, dear," he says in such a perfect imitation of a henpecked husband that I have to laugh.

  I use the bathroom, hoping the plug-in air freshener will do its job before he comes in, then take my time brushing my teeth and washing my face. When I'm done, I return to the living room to find him wearing a black t-shirt and plaid flannel pants, busy spreading the sheets and blankets I left out over the couch.

  "I'm sleeping out here," I say firmly. The couch is far less comfortable than the bed and I don't want him to suffer with it.

  He looks up. "Pardon my French, but the hell you are. You need your rest."

  "So do you. Tomorrow you're helping me reorganize the furniture in here."

  "I am?"

  I nod. "Twice, if I don't like how it ends up."

  He smiles. "That's fine, dear. But I'm sleeping out here."

  "You're not, dear," I say, but I'm talking to the closed bathroom door because he's left, obviously assuming this will end the discussion.

  It does, but not the way he intended, because when he comes out I've already tucked myself in on the couch and am pretending to sleep.

  "Come on," he says, amusement and tenderness in his voice. "You need to get a good relaxing sleep."

  "I'm trying to but someone's talking."

  He crouches down beside me. "If I sleep in there tonight, will you let me take the couch tomorrow night?"

  I open my eyes and look up at him. "Anything can happen."

  He smiles. "I love you. You know that, right?"

  My throat tightens and I nod. "I... Ryan..."

  He shakes his head, his eyes locked to mine. "It's okay. I don't want you to say it until it's impossible for you not to say it. But is it all right if I keep telling you?"

  Oh, definitely.

  I nod, and he touches my cheek. "I'm glad. I didn't say it enough, before. I meant it but I didn't say it. I want to say it now."

  Now and forever.

  As I think those words, he murmurs them to me. Then he kisses my forehead and says, "Have a good sleep. And think about how you want your furniture arranged."

  "In the most tiring way possible."

  He laughs and stands up, then calls back to me as he walks to my bedroom,
"Think of another way."

  I try, but all I can think about is that kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I scan the crowd of people in the Ottawa train station, looking for Ryan. He said he'd be here to pick me up and I have no doubt that he is. But the crowd thins out, people leaving with their friends and family or heading out alone, and I still don't see him.

  I drop onto a bench and dig in my purse for my phone. As my fingers brush it, I hear, "I'm here!" and look up to see Ryan rushing toward me clutching a beautifully wrapped bouquet of red roses. My heart warms just at the sight of him. It takes me by surprise, how strongly I feel.

  "I'm sorry," he says when he reaches me. "The florist took ages to get these guys put together for you. They look great but I didn't plan on it taking half an hour. I'm really sorry. You haven't been waiting long, I hope?"

  "Five minutes," I say, although it was probably closer to ten, and I'm rewarded by seeing his shoulders relax.

  "Thank God. I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."

  "I carried bread out of a restaurant for you, I can't imagine you'd forget me."

  He laughs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Not in a million years, honey." He holds out the roses. "Anyhow, these are for you. A welcome back to Ottawa."

  I take them and breathe in their sweet rich scent. Welcome back. I can't tell him that nothing looks familiar so far. "They're gorgeous. Thank you. Hey, did I take the train a lot?"

  He shakes his head and picks up my suitcase. "Hardly ever. So don't be worried if the station doesn't ring any bells. Oh, my, that's a lovely suitcase."

  I laugh. We bought it together last Saturday so I could travel to visit him today, and the store clerk who was helping us kept saying, "Oh, my, that's a lovely suitcase" about everything I gave even the slightest bit of attention. "It is, isn't it? Truly lovely."

  "The loveliest of the lovely." He takes the suitcase for me and we start walking as he adds, "I'd say it's just like you in that regard but that'd be kind of cheesy."

  "True. But sweet."

  He gives my arm a squeeze. "Consider it said, then."

  He takes me and the suitcase out of the train station and loads us into his car. "Okay," he says once we're all in, "here are the options as I see 'em. I can take you home and let you see the place, then we can either eat something there or go out. Or we can go out first and then go home."