by Meg Cabot
“That’s why she kept trying to throw me off their scent,” I murmur.
“Exactly,” Sarah says. “Anyway, Cheryl went straight to the cops with what she found out, and now Kimberly’s under arrest, as well. I guess the DEA’d been working for months to bust what they considered the biggest student drug ring on campus. Only, until Lindsay’s murder, they really didn’t have any idea where the kids were getting the stuff. That’s why they had Reggie working undercover in the park. They were hoping he’d pick up some clues…which he finally did, when you asked him about the Winer boys. But even then, they still didn’t have proof….”
Sarah shrugs. “Now, in addition to possession and dealing, the Winer boys have murder and attempted murder charges against them…along with a couple of the other guys from their frat. Daddy Winer has already hired the top criminal lawyer in town. But I don’t see how they’re gonna beat the rap with you around to testify. Oh, and Kimberly, who’s turned state witness in exchange for them dropping the possession charges against her….”
“So Kimberly’s kicked out of school?” I murmur.
“Uh,” Magda says, “yeah. They all are. Even the Winers.”
“Good,” I say faintly, as my eyelids drift closed again. “That’s more spaces for me to make room changes into next week, when the housing freeze lifts.”
Everything goes mercifully black for a while—that must be my central nervous system depressing again. When I open my eyes again, I find myself looking up at Detective Canavan and Reggie.
“You,” I say to Reggie. “You lied to me.”
He smiles. I am heart-struck to note the gold teeth are gone.
“Sorry,” he says. “It was in the line of duty.”
“Brian’s a special agent with the Drug Enforcement Agency, Heather,” Detective Canavan explains. “He’s been working undercover for nearly a year in the park, trying to figure out where the influx of party drugs on campus was coming from. Thanks to your tip about the Winers, Brian was able to direct his people to send in a fellow agent disguised as a maid”—the maid I’d seen in the hallway at the Tau Phi House scrubbing the FAT CHICKS GO HOME sign—“and get all the evidence they needed to bust the Winers not just for drug trafficking, but eventually for murder and assault as well.”
I look at Reggie. “Brian?”
He shrugs. “Reggie sounds more street, you know?”
“Have you ever even been to Jamaica?” I ask him.
“Oh, God, no,” he says. “I get any vacation time, I head straight for the mountains. I’m a skier.”
I look back at Detective Canavan. “Do I get a medal or something?”
“Um,” Detective Canavan says. “No. But I got you this.” He holds up a dark chocolate Dove candy bar. “The ice-cream kind would have melted,” he explains.
I lift my hand—the one with all the IVs in it—and snatch the candy bar away from him.
“This city,” I say, “is getting pretty cheap with the rewards for valor.”
They go away, and I eat my candy bar. It’s delicious. So delicious that I fall back asleep. When I wake up again, Gavin McGoren is leering down at me.
“Well, well, well,” he says, with a grin. “Isn’t this a fine turn of events? For once you’re the one on the gurney, instead of me. I have to say, I like it a lot better like this.”
“Who let you in here?” I want to know.
Gavin shrugs. “I’m a fellow patient, not a visitor,” he says. He turns to show me his cheek where Steve hit him. “Seven stitches. What do you think? That’ll leave a pretty sweet scar, huh?”
I close my eyes. “Your mother is going to kill me.”
“What are you talkin’ about, woman?” Gavin scoffs. “You saved my life.”
“I caused you to be kidnapped and beaten,” I say, opening my eyes again. “Gavin, I—I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Really. I never should have involved you in any of this.”
The red marks are gone from around Gavin’s mouth. So is the goatee. He apparently took the time to shave before coming in to see me. Which I should have taken as a sign of what was about to come, but my faculties are still slightly befuddled from the drug.
“There’s a way you can make it up to me, if you want,” he says.
“Yeah? How?” I genuinely think he’s going to ask for a single with a view of the park.
Instead, he asks me out.
“You know,” he says. “Just sometime. We could kick it together. Play pool or something. When you’re feeling better. It doesn’t have to be a date,” he adds hastily. “I know you’re still all in love with Jordan Cartwright, and shit. But, you know. Just to try it out. Just to see.”
“Gavin.” I’m not positive, but I’m fairly sure I’m the first assistant director of a New York College residence hall to be asked out while lying on a gurney in the St. Vincent’s ER recovering from being roofied. “I can’t date you. You’re a resident. I’m not allowed to date residents.”
Gavin considers this. Then he shrugs. “I’ll get an apartment.”
I open my eyes wider. “Gavin. Do you have any idea how much rents are in Manhattan? Besides, you’re still a student. New York College administrators are forbidden from dating students.”
Gavin thinks about this for a minute. Then he says evenly, “Okay, well, then, after I graduate. Next year. Will you go out with me then?”
I’m too tired to resist. “Yes, Gavin,” I say, closing my eyes again. “Next year, after you graduate, I will go out with you.”
Gavin looks pleased. “Cool. You said you loved me, you know.”
My eyes fly open. “Gavin, I was under the influence.”
“I know,” he says, still looking pleased. “But that shit don’t come from nowhere. Nowhere except the heart.”
When I open my eyes next, I see Patty and Frank.
“Hi,” I croak.
“You could have just told me you aren’t ready to play in front of anyone yet,” Frank says, “instead of going to all this trouble to get out of doing the gig.”
“Frank!” Patty sounds exasperated. “Don’t listen to him, Heather. We just heard. How are you doing?”
“Oh,” I say. My voice still sounds awful. “Great.”
“Seriously,” Frank says. “We’ll be playing the pub all week. So if you aren’t feeling up to it tonight, there’s tomorrow night. And the night after that, too.”
“Frank,” Patty says, looking annoyed. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see that singing is the last thing she’s got on her mind?”
“No,” I surprise myself by saying.
Frank and Patty both look at me strangely. “No, what, honey?” Patty asks.
“No, I want to,” I say. It is only as the words are coming out of my mouth that I realize I mean it. “I want to play with you guys. Just one song, though.”
Patty shakes her head. “Oh, Heather. You’re still on drugs.”
“No, she’s not,” Frank says, grinning. “She means it. You mean it, Heather, don’t you?”
I nod. “Not tonight, though, okay? Because I’ve got a headache.”
Frank grins some more. “Totally fine,” he says. “So whatcha gonna sing? Something you wrote? Something new?”
“No,” I say. “Something Ella.”
Frank’s grin fades. “You’re right,” he murmurs to Patty. “She is still on drugs.”
“She means Ella Fitzgerald,” Patty hisses at him. “Just smile and nod.”
Frank smiles and nods. “Okay, Heather. Night-night, Heather.”
I close my eyes, and they go away. When I wake up, later, my dad is peering down at me.
“Honey?” He looks worried. “It’s me, Dad.”
“I know.” Every word is like a stab wound to my head. I close my eyes again. “How are you, Dad?”
“I’m good,” Dad says. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I called your mother, to let her know.”
This causes me to open one eye. “Dad. Why would you do that? She didn’t ev
en know I was—whatever.”
“I think she has a right to know,” Dad says. “She’s still your mother. She loves you, you know. In her own way.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. I guess. Well. Thanks for getting hold of Detective Canavan.”
“Well, that’s what family’s for, honey,” he says. “Listen, I was just talking to the doctor. They’re going to let you go home soon.”
“Are they going to give me anything for this headache first?” I ask. “I can barely see, my head’s pounding so hard.”
“Let me see if I can go find the doctor,” Dad says. “Heather…what you did. I’m really proud of you, honey.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say. And the tears in my eyes aren’t just from the pain in my temples. “Dad. Where’s Cooper?”
“Cooper?”
“Yeah. I mean, everybody else has been by to see me, except Cooper. Where is he?” He hates me. I know it. I said something to him—I can’t remember what it was. But I know I did. And he hates me for it.
“Well, he’s at Jordan’s wedding, honey. Remember? It’s Saturday. He was here for a long time while you were sleeping, though. But finally he had to leave. He promised his brother, you know.”
“Oh,” I say. The disappointment I feel is ridiculous. And crushing. “Sure.”
“Oh, here comes your doctor,” Dad says. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
They let me go that evening. Over twelve hours of intravenous fluids, and, while I don’t feel a hundred percent by any means, at least my headache is gone and the room has stopped spinning around. A look in the ladies’ room mirror tells me more than I want to know about what Rohypnol does to a girl’s complexion—my face is chalky white, my lips chapped, and the circles under my eyes look like bruises.
But, hey. I’m alive.
That’s more than poor Lindsay Combs can say.
I sign my discharge papers and head out, a sample packet of Tylenol my only souvenir—Tylenol, that was the best they could do—expecting to see my dad waiting for me in the lobby.
But instead of Dad, I find Cooper.
In a tux.
I almost turn around and check myself back in, considering the way my heart turns over in my chest at the sight of him. Surely that isn’t normal. Surely that’s a sign that my central nervous system needs more fluids, or something.
He stands up when he sees me, and smiles.
Oh, now, see. Smiles like that should be against the law. Considering what they do to a girl. Well, a girl like me.
“Surprise,” he says. “I let your dad go home. He’d been here all night, you know.”
“I heard you were, too,” I say. I can’t make eye contact, both on account of the way my heart is hammering and because I’m so embarrassed. What had I said to him earlier? I’m pretty sure I’d told him I loved him.
But Dad said I’d been saying that to everyone—including the twin planters outside Fischer Hall.
Still, surely Cooper had to know it had only been the drugs.
Even though of course in his case, it hadn’t.
“Yeah,” Cooper says. “Well, you do have a tendency to keep me on my toes.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You must be missing the reception.”
“I said I’d go to the wedding,” Cooper says. “I didn’t say anything about the reception. I’m not the hugest salmon fan. And I do not do the chicken dance.”
“Oh,” I say. I can’t really picture him doing the chicken dance, either. “Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Cooper says.
And we head out into the cold, to where he’s parked his car along Twelfth Street. Once inside, he starts the engine and lets the heater run. It’s dark out—even though it’s barely five o’clock—and the streetlights are on. They cast a pinkish glow over the drifts piled up alongside the street. The snow, so beautiful when it first fell, is fast turning ugly, as soot and dirt stain it gray.
“Cooper,” I hear myself saying, as he finally puts the car in gear. “Why did you tell Gavin I’m still in love with your brother?”
I can’t believe I’ve said it. I have no idea where the question came from. Maybe there’s some residual Rohypnol in my central nervous system. Maybe I need to check back into the hospital to get the rest of it out.
“That again?” Cooper asks, looking amused.
The amusement sends a spurt of irritation through me.
“Yes, that again,” I say.
“Well, what did you want me to tell him?” Cooper asks. “That he has a chance with you? Because I hate to be the one to break it to you, Heather, but that guy has a major crush on you. And the more you ask him to take you to frat parties and the like, the more you’re just reinforcing it. I had to tell him something to try to nip his little infatuation in the bud. I thought you’d be grateful.”
I am careful not to make eye contact with him. “So you don’t believe that. About me and your brother, I mean.”
Cooper is quiet for a minute. Then he says, “You tell me. I mean, it’s kind of hard to believe there’s nothing there when every time I turn around, you two are together.”
“That’s him,” I say adamantly. “Not me. I do not have feelings for your brother. End of story.”
“All right,” Cooper says, in the soothing tone in which one might speak to the mentally disturbed. “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”
“We haven’t,” I hear myself say. What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?
Cooper, who’d been about to pull out of the parking space, puts his foot on the brake. “We haven’t what?”
“Got it straightened out,” I say. I cannot believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. But they just keep coming. There’s nothing I can do to stop them. This has to be the Rohypnol. It has to be. “How come you’ve never asked me out? Is it because you’re not interested in me that way, or what?”
Cooper sounds amused when he replies, “You’re my brother’s ex-fiancée.”
“Right,” I say, beating a fist on the dashboard. “Ex. Ex- fiancée. Jordan’s married now. To someone else. You were there, you saw it for yourself. So what’s the deal? I know I’m not really your type…” Oh, God. This is going from bad to worse. Still, I can’t go back. ”But I think we get along. You know. For the most part.”
“Heather.” Now there’s a hint of impatience creeping into Cooper’s voice. “You’ve just come out of a really bad long-term relationship—”
“A year ago.”
“—started a new job—”
“Almost a year ago.”
“—reconnected with a father you barely know—”
“Things with Dad are cool. We had a nice talk last night.”
“—are struggling to figure out who you are, and what you’re going to do with your life,” Cooper concludes. “I’m pretty sure the last thing you need right now is a boyfriend. In particular, your ex-fiancé’s brother. With whom you live. I think your life is complicated enough.”
I finally turn in my seat to look at him. “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I ask him.
This time, he’s the one who looks away.
“Okay,” he says. “My life is too complicated. Heather—I don’t want to be your rebound guy. That’s just…that’s not who I am. I don’t chicken dance. And I don’t want to be the rebound guy.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Rebound guy? Rebound guy? Cooper, Jordan and I broke up a year ago—”
“And who have you dated since?” Cooper demands.
“Well, I…I…” I swallow. “No one.”
“There you go,” Cooper says. “You’re ripe for a rebound guy. And it’s not going to be me.”
I stare at him. Why? I want to ask him. Why don’t you want to be my rebound guy? Because you don’t actually want me?
Or because you want something more from me than that?
Looking at him, I realize I’ll probably never know.
At least…not yet.
; I also realize I probably don’t want to know. Because if it’s the latter, I’ll find out, one of these days.
And if it’s the former….
Well, then, I’ll just want to die.
“You know what,” I say, averting my gaze, “you’re right. It’s okay.”
“Really?” Cooper asks.
I look back at him. And I smile.
It takes every last little bit of strength I’ve got left. But I do it.
“Really,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
“Okay,” he says.
And smiles back.
And it’s enough.
For now.
30
Tad Tocco
Assistant Professor
Office Hours
2–3 P.M. weekdays
That’s what the sign on the door says.
Which is why I don’t understand what, when I open the door, a Greek god is doing there, sitting in front of me.
Seriously. The guy sitting at the computer behind the desk has long, golden hair—like as long as mine; a healthy, ruddy glow of good health about him; a placard on his desk that says KILLER FRISBEE 4-EVER; and the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed back to reveal a set of forearms so muscular and gorgeous that I think I must have walked into some snowboard shop, or something.
“Hi,” the guy behind the desk says, with a smile. A smile that reveals a set of white, even teeth. But not so even that they’re, like, perfect. Just even enough for me to be able to guess that he’d probably fought with his family over not wanting to get braces.
And that he’d won.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” he says. “Heather Wells, right?”
He’s my age. Maybe a little older than me. Thirty, thirty-one. He has to be, even though he’s wearing reading glasses…adorable gold-rimmed ones, though. Still, there’s a Scooby Doo lunch box on a shelf above his head. Not a new one, either. An original Scooby Doo lunch box, the ones kids had when I was in the first grade.