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

by Heather Wardell

  Andrew had told me that during one of our long runs alone. "No worries, I'm wearing my 'happy pace' shirt anyhow." A wave of warmth, nearly melting the cold discomfort of my aggravation over Amanda, hit me at how sweet Andrew had been to custom-order the special blue shirts with his 'find your happy pace' motto emblazoned front and back and how cute he'd been when he'd handed them to us last weekend so we could try them out before the race.

  "Me too," Andrew said. "Jeanine's the odd one out. Big shock there." She swatted him, smiling and trying to hide it in a mock frown, and he laughed and added, "Of course, if you have a lucky shirt you have to wear it for the race. Then you can wear your happy pace one when the race is finished."

  She nodded. "At which point my pace will be passed out on the couch. Sounds happy to me."

  They smiled at each other, but fear filled me at the thought of the challenge to come. So much further than I'd run before. Could I really do it?

  I'd come apart so badly that morning with Amanda, after all. I hadn't changed enough to stand up to her. Had I truly changed enough in the months since my birthday back in March to survive a marathon?

  Chapter Two

  "About time you got here."

  Amanda was joking, but also clearly frustrated, and I felt terrible. "Sorry. The grocery store was crazy." I'd taken even longer because a woman with a huge cartload of stuff had cut in front of me in line. I hadn't tried to stop her; I'd have felt bad doing it, because she was frantic and grumpy and kept muttering, "I hate shopping."

  I hadn't wanted to be shopping myself. I'd intended to spend my birthday savoring the second-last day of March break before going back to my students on Monday, first reading and relaxing at home then trying to keep that relaxation as I had dinner with my parents and siblings. But Amanda's panicked call insisting I help her make something called 'engagement chicken' for her boyfriend so he'd finally propose had put a serious dent in my afternoon.

  I'd had no choice, though: when your best friend calls, you have to go.

  I dropped the grocery bags on her kitchen counter. "They didn't have flat-leaf parsley, so I got the curly stuff."

  She stared at me. "But the recipe says flat. It won't work otherwise."

  Amanda had been talking for weeks about this recipe that supposedly had mystical powers to make a man propose. I couldn't imagine how that could be possible, and honestly couldn't think of anything worse than having a guy like James propose, but they'd been together four years now and as Amanda had said repeatedly since discovering the recipe, "I'm going to be thirty in the fall and I have to get married before I'm too old."

  I could only assume she didn't realize she was slapping me, single and five months older than her, in the face every time she said those words.

  "We can cut the parsley up into tiny bits and--"

  She shook her head. "It's a garnish. Look, go to the store near me and see if they have it."

  Her neighborhood was a maze of one-way streets and twisty alleys. "I don't know how to get there."

  "Turn right outside my building, then left at the second Chinese restaurant and right again after the cupcake bakery. Not the regular bakery. Then through the alley with the red sign over it and--" My face must have shown how lost I was. "Fine. I'll go. You get the chicken started."

  She grabbed her coat and purse, pulled on her boots, and said, "James'll be here at six and the chicken takes two hours, so don't fool around."

  The door slammed behind her.

  I stood in the suddenly silent kitchen, feeling guilty I'd made her go out when she hadn't wanted to, then thought to check the time. Three-forty-five. She might end up serving dinner late because of the-- no, it was just a garnish. I hadn't ruined everything.

  She'd printed the recipe so I looked it over then set to work rinsing out the chicken. At least she had bought most of the ingredients herself this time: when she'd decided to make her first-ever cake for Valentine's Day I'd even had to provide her with the flour and salt. But today she'd needed me to pick up her forgotten lemons and fresh sage and of course the apparently vital parsley. Flat-leaf, naturally.

  A little sick shiver ran through me and I could almost hear my mother say, "Come on, Megan. Don't be mean."

  I poured myself a glass of water to wash away the icky feeling and kept working. By the time Amanda returned, nearly forty minutes later, the chicken was in the oven and I'd cleaned the kitchen and was relaxing with a book on my phone.

  "Smells good in here," she admitted, kicking off her boots and depositing several plastic bags on the floor. "And look, I got it!" She dug in a bag and retrieved the parsley.

  "Nice. What's the other stuff?"

  She pointed at each bag in turn. "Wine, candles, and a couple bottles of nail polish since I saw a sale at the drug store."

  Something about this rubbed me the wrong way, but before I could figure out what she sniffed again. "It really does smell good. So what else do I have to do?"

  "The potatoes are washed and ready to be baked." I glanced at the clock. "Actually, they could go in now. My meat thermometer's in the chicken, so keep an eye on it. When it hits whatever temperature the recipe says, you'll know the chicken is done. So I guess a salad and whatever other veggies you want. And maybe dessert?"

  She gave me an evil grin. "I intend to be the dessert."

  "I didn't need to hear that."

  "Don't be such a prude," she said, laughing.

  It wasn't prudishness. It was James. The mere idea of him having--

  I pushed the thought aside before it could make me sick. I hadn't much liked James when I met him a few weeks after I met Amanda, and in the nearly two years since that feeling had devolved into a hatred that brought a red haze before my eyes whenever I thought about him too much. So I thought about him as little as Amanda would allow.

  "Anyhow. You should be all set."

  "I hope so. It's time he mans up and proposes." She switched on the oven light and peered in at the chicken. "Looks awesome. Too bad you didn't make it for Chad, then maybe he wouldn't have left."

  Trying to sound like a tough girl instead of myself, I said, "He didn't leave, I dumped him."

  After I'd been supporting him for nearly a year. After I'd found out he was cheating on me. He'd left my apartment to buy beer without taking the cell phone I'd bought for him, and when the phone rang I answered because I knew he was waiting on a job application and I didn't want him to lose out on a possible interview. To my horror, the caller told me she was Chad's girlfriend and demanded to know who I was.

  In the two months since, I hadn't forgotten the shame of that moment or the even deeper humiliation of Chad's shock when he returned and I kicked him out. His 'I never thought you'd get rid of me' had more truth in it than anything else he'd ever said to me. He'd thought he could do anything he wanted and I'd keep him around. The worst part? I'd considered it. After all, I hadn't given him much attention while my sister had yet another surgery. But in the end I'd known that no matter how justified he might have been in feeling neglected I wouldn't be able to stand the sight of him.

  Amanda waved her hand. "Well, yeah, but whatever." She giggled. "With a name like Chad you should have known he was no good."

  Actually, I should have known because he was friends with my brother Brandon and pretty much his equal in arrogance and self-centeredness. I made myself a vow: never again would I date someone associated with Brandon or his mixed martial arts gym. I'd done it a few times and though Chad had been the worst the others hadn't been much better. Those fighter guys were nothing but meatheads and jerks.

  When I didn't speak, Amanda said, "But he wasn't all that bad, I guess. He was pretty cute."

  Yes, he was, and I hadn't thought he was bad at all. I'd liked him, a lot, admired his drive and strength and assertiveness, and I'd thought he liked me. But apparently he'd only liked my salary and my willingness to share it with him.

  "Well, anyhow, he's gone," I said, not wanting to discuss it any more. "And I
should be gone too. Time to get ready for dinner."

  She shuddered. "I can't imagine getting stuck with my family every month. You should tell them you won't go. Stand up to them!"

  Amanda must have forgotten, but I'd tried that back in December when she wanted us to go to a concert on a family dinner night. My mother had been horrified I'd even asked to reschedule our dinner, and devastated I 'didn't want to see the family'. She'd given me such a guilt trip that I'd not only skipped the concert despite Amanda's disgust but also went to visit my parents twice more during the month to try to make amends.

  I was far better off just doing what she expected of me.

  Chapter Three

  "Megan. You got the iPod you wanted. Don't be a bean counter. Let your brother have the hat. He suggested I buy it for you, after all."

  Suggested it for himself, more like, knowing I'd have to give it up if he decided he wanted it. It was ridiculous-looking, but it made me laugh every time I glanced at it and I wanted to keep it. I looked from my smirking brother to my exasperated mother. "But..."

  She shook her head, clearly disappointed in me. She was probably right to be: why did a thirty-year-old girl need a foam hat shaped like a dinosaur head?

  But then, why did her twenty-eight-year-old brother need it either, and why should he get it when it had been part of my birthday present?

  Before I even finished my mental question I knew the answer: because that was how it worked in our family: Brandon got everything he wanted and everyone worried about Kim and I helped out and didn't make waves. I would ordinarily not even have tried to keep the hat for myself, and knowing I'd upset Mom made me feel bad. Not just unhappy or uncomfortable, but bad. A bad person. "You're more the dinosaur type anyhow," I said to Brandon, trying to make a joke. "So go for it."

  He didn't bother thanking me, but slapped the hat onto his head and gave a mighty roar.

  I turned my back and looked at Kim, rolling my eyes. She returned the gesture but I felt like she was as annoyed with me as with Brandon. Typical big sister, unimpressed with her young foolish siblings' antics.

  Still, I was delighted to see that she looked healthier than she had in years, although still pale from the heart surgery she'd endured three months ago, the heart surgery that had lost me Chad because I'd spent so much time with Kim that he'd felt neglected. The surgery had stolen a friend from me too, because I hadn't been able to take care of her dog while she went on vacation as she'd wanted me to, but at least I still had Amanda. I'd barely seen her, other than at work, until she'd needed my help with the cake on Valentine's Day and then today with the engagement chicken, but she hadn't complained about my absence and I appreciated her thoughtfulness.

  But though the surgery had cost me, it had cost Kim far more in pain and fear and worry, so seeing her looking so strong and peaceful felt great. We were all hopeful this final treatment would do the trick, and so far so good, but her whole life had involved surgeries and hospitals and special care and I wasn't convinced it was over yet.

  "So, Megan, the big three-oh! What changes are you going to make this year?"

  My dad, always the peacemaker, the smoother-over of situations. "Not sure yet," I said, then remembered what I'd been considering the week before. "I think I'll start exercising though."

  Brandon reached over and poked my stomach. "Good call."

  I shoved his hand away. "Don't touch me."

  Unfortunately, my fingernails accidentally scratched him.

  "You did that on purpose," he said over my immediate apologies. "Jerk."

  "I didn't, and I am sorry."

  While my mother checked Brandon's arm to make sure he wasn't bleeding, Dad said to me, "What kind of exercise?"

  I shrugged. "At my physical last week my doctor said I'm healthy." I turned to Brandon and added, "And pretty much at my ideal weight." Ignoring his "Yeah, right" I looked back at Dad. "But he also said I should be working out regularly. I'll find something."

  "Good. You don't want furniture disease." Dad grinned at me.

  I grinned back but rolled my eyes too because I knew he expected it. "Definitely not."

  "You know what it is, right?"

  I did, because he explained it every time he said it, but I loved the face he made when he explained so I said, "Remind me."

  "It's when your chest," he said, pointing at his own, "falls into your drawers." His hands dropped to his lap and I giggled at his half-shocked-half-horrified expression.

  "You should run." Brandon had apparently recovered. "It's less effective than fighting but it'd be okay for you."

  I nodded. "I was considering it since I did a bit in high school but none of my friends run so I'm not sure how to get started."

  "I am. Andrew."

  The name sounded familiar but I couldn't place it.

  "See? I knew you didn't listen to my MMA stories."

  I did listen, actually, during the monthly dinners I dreaded because I always came away with a vicious headache, but keeping track of the huge variety of guys Brandon trained with and fought with at his martial arts gym was impossible. "Remind me."

  "You mean tell you, since you don't listen. Andrew's been fighting around two years now. He's a middleweight so we don't fight each other but from what I've seen he's not bad."

  His grudging tone suggested Andrew might be better than Brandon himself even though Brandon was in a heavier weight class but I wouldn't push him to admit it. That way lay a lecture from Mom. "So he's a fighter? But you said I could run with him."

  Brandon nodded. "He has a group for guys who need more conditioning. He'd probably let you join if I asked, as a favor to me."

  Surprise at my brother's unusual generosity flickered through me before I realized he most likely just wanted me around the gym so he could show off his fighting skills. "Running with a bunch of MMA guys? How far do they go? And how fast?"

  Brandon shrugged. "I'm in good enough shape already so I don't bother. No idea how fast they go, but they're gone around forty-five minutes. Want me to text him and ask if you can try?"

  My principal's ring tone sang out from my pocket. I reached for my phone and said, "Yeah, sure, thanks," to Brandon before saying, "Hi, Colette. Enjoying the break?"

  "I was," she said, "until the school blew up."

  *****

  Colette, as she often did, was wildly over-stating the situation. The school's furnace had exploded, destroying the maintenance room and damaging nearby classrooms, but the whole place hadn't gone up in a fireball.

  "So my room's okay, then? I'm way down the hall."

  "There's a bit of floor damage throughout because the firefighters had to check every room, but yeah, you're fine. Veronica and Amanda and Tosca, though..." She sighed.

  My relief at my room's condition vanished. Tosca, our sweet shy kindergarten teacher, would pick up the pieces and get her room back together without even a hint of a fuss. Veronica and Amanda, on the other hand, would find a way to turn the explosion into a personal insult and a vendetta against each other. "Oh, dear."

  "Indeed." Colette sighed again. "They're coming in tomorrow morning to see. I know they'll be devastated."

  "Do you want me to come in to help clean up?"

  "Oh, that'd be so sweet of you. Might help to calm them down."

  I hadn't had much success calming them during the great 'I need the photocopier right now and she won't let me use it' battle early in January, and I'd been planning to clean my apartment top to bottom tomorrow, but I put that aside and said, "Nine o'clock?"

  "Let's make it ten. It's our vacation, after all."

  "Sounds good." It didn't, not even a little bit, but I knew she needed my help.

  I ended the call then went back to the dining room from the kitchen where I'd gone to avoid annoying Mom since she didn't like phones at the table.

  She looked up at my arrival. "Everything okay?"

  "My room, yes. Grade one and three are trashed, though, and kindergarten too, so I'm go
ing in tomorrow to help."

  She gave me a 'good for you' smile and nod, and I smiled back, feeling warmed by the happiness and pride in her eyes. As a kid, I'd always looked to her right after I did something nice for somebody to make sure she'd seen and was pleased with me. I didn't do that any more, but it still felt good to see her reaction now.

  "Megaroni, Andrew says it's cool for you to come run."

  He'd probably texted Andrew from the table, and no doubt Mom hadn't complained. And at thirty did I still need to let my brother call me that ridiculous nickname? "Thanks, bran muffin," I said, remembering he hated that. Maybe he'd see my point if I did the same thing to him. "When and where do they run?"

  He stared at me, his face blank.

  "Hello?"

  He did a theatrical double-take. "Oh, were you talking to me? I thought you were talking to a muffin or something."

  "Of course you did."

  "Just use his name, for crying out loud." Mom's happiness in me seemed to have faded.

  "But--"

  "Megan! You're thirty years old."

  Brandon smirked at me from beneath the snout of the dinosaur on my birthday hat. "Yeah, Megaroni."

  I looked at my mother, waiting for her to correct Brandon too, but knew she wouldn't and she didn't surprise me. "He's just being silly, Megan. Why does it matter?"

  The familiar headache began to pulse behind my temples. "It doesn't. So, Brandon, where and when does Andrew's group run?"

  He shrugged. "Forgot to ask."

  I said as sweetly as I could manage, "Could you ask now?"

  He clearly wanted to continue being a pain in the ass but since I hadn't given him an opening to do so he reluctantly pulled his phone from his pocket. He had one last trick up his sleeve, though: instead of texting he started the phone dialing then shoved it at me.

  "What?"

  He dropped the phone on the table in front of me. "You talk to him."

  "But--"

  I heard a faint, "Hey, Brandon," from the phone and snatched it up. "I-- um, hi. Andrew?"

  Over Brandon's snickering, I heard, "That's me. And you're not Brandon."