by Meg Cabot
“You want a beer?” I ask him, since Belinda is looking over at us questioningly.
“Oh, God, no,” Jordan says, and shudders. “I’m never drinking again after last night. I seriously think someone slipped something in my drink. I only had that one—”
“You told me you had ten glasses of wine before you even got downtown,” I remind him.
“Yeah,” Jordan says, with a So what? look on his face. “That’s what I have most nights. I’ve never been as blotto as I was last night.”
“Why would someone roofie you?” I ask. “It’s not exactly like you’re unwilling to have sex with strangers.”
He glares at me. “Hey, now,” he says. “That’s not fair. And I don’t know why someone would do it. Maybe it was, like, an ugly girl, or someone I wouldn’t ordinarily go with.”
“I didn’t see any ugly girls at that party.” Then I brighten. “Maybe it was one of the guys! Frats are known hotbeds of latent homosexuality.”
Jordan makes a face. “Please, Heather… let’s just drop it, okay? Suffice it to say, I’m never drinking again.”
“Well, that will make the champagne toasts tomorrow a bit of a letdown,” I say.
Jordan fingers the initials someone has carved into the tabletop, not meeting my gaze. “Look, Heather,” he says. “About last night—”
“I don’t know where your skis went, Jordan,” I say. “I called Waverly Hall and the guard said no one left any skis there, so obviously someone stole them. I’m really sorry, but you know—”
He flinches. I think it’s because I’ve spoken so loudly.
“I don’t care about the stupid skis,” he says. “I’m talking about us.”
I blink at him. Then I remember that Cooper must have driven him home this morning.
Oh, no.
“Jordan,” I say quickly. “I am not still in love with you. I don’t care what Cooper told you, okay? I mean, sure, I used to be in love with you. But that was a long time ago. I’ve moved on—”
He blinks at me. “Cooper? What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t he give you a ride home this morning?”
“Yeah. But we didn’t talk about you. We talked about Mom and Dad. It was nice. I haven’t talked to Cooper—just one-on-one—like that in a long time. I think we worked out some things. Our differences, I mean. We both agreed that we’re nothing alike—but that that’s all right. Whatever his relationship with Mom and Dad… well, it’s no reason he and I can’t get along.”
I stare at him. I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. Cooper can’t stand Jordan. I mean, to the point of refusing to take his calls or open the door when he comes over.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s… that’s… well, progress. Good for you.”
“Yeah,” Jordan says. He continues to finger the graffiti. “I think I talked him into coming to the wedding tomorrow. I mean, he didn’t agree to be my best man, like I asked, but he said he’d come.”
I’m genuinely shocked. Cooper can’t stand his family, and now he’s planning on attending a big blowout wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, with a reception at the Plaza, in their company? Those are so not his type of events… .
“Well,” I say. Because I really don’t know what else to say. “That’s… that’s amazing, Jordan. Really. I’m so happy for you.”
“It really means a lot to me,” Jordan says. “The only thing better would have been if… well, if you would have agreed to come tomorrow, Heather.”
I clutch my beer. “Oh, Jordan,” I say. “That’s so sweet. But—”
“That’s why it’s so hard for me to say what I’m about to say,” Jordan goes on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And that’s this. Heather.” He reaches across the table to grip the hand that isn’t curled around my pint glass, then looks earnestly into my eyes. “It really hurts me to say this, but… I can’t let you come to my wedding tomorrow.”
I blink at him. “Jordan,” I say. “I—”
“Please let me finish,” Jordan says, squeezing my hand. “It isn’t that I don’t want you there, Heather. More than anyone in the world, I want you there. You’re the person I’ve been closest to for the longest in my life. If there’s anyone I want to be by my side for the most important event of my life, it’s you.”
“Um, Jordan,” I say. “I’m flattered. I really am. But shouldn’t the person you most want at your side for this be—”
“It’s Tania,” Jordan interrupts.
“Right,” I say. “That’s what I mean. Shouldn’t Tania be the person you most want at your side? Considering she’s the one you’re—”
“No, I mean Tania is the one who doesn’t want you there,” Jordan says. “Not after last night. See, she wasn’t too happy when she found out I spent the night with you—”
“Oh, my God, Jordan!” I burst out, yanking my hand away from him, and glancing quickly toward Sarah and Belinda to make sure they haven’t overheard. “You didn’t spend the night with me! You spent it on your brother’s living room couch!”
“I know that,” Jordan says, having the dignity to flush. “But Tania doesn’t believe it. See, Tania thinks you’re still in love with me, and—”
“Oh, my God!” I cry again. “What is it with everybody thinking I’m still in love with you? I’m so not! I fell out of love with you way before I ever walked in and saw Tania with your—”
“Hey, now,” Jordan says, ducking his head as the two math geeks look over at us interestedly. “No need for that kind of language.”
“Seriously, though, Jordan,” I say. “I fell out of love with you that time we were touring in Japan, remember, and you kept going to visit all those temples. Only they weren’t really temples, were they?”
Jordan’s flush deepens. “No. I didn’t know you knew. You never said anything.”
I shrug. “What was there to say? Besides, I thought maybe you’d work it out of your system. But you didn’t.”
“I just never knew any woman could do that with a ping-pong ball,” Jordan says, in a dreamy voice.
“Yes,” I say briskly. “Well, fortunately for you, Tania is a girl of many talents.”
His fiancée’s name snaps him out of his reverie, as I’d known it would.
“So you’re really all right with it?” he asks me, with a worried expression. “Not coming to the wedding?”
“Jordan, I never had any intention of coming your wedding tomorrow. Remember? Itold you that. Like five times.”
He reaches out to grasp my hand again. “Heather,” he says, gazing into my bloodshot eyes with his own. “I can’t tell you what this means to me. It proves that, no matter what you say, you do care about me… at least a little. And I hope you’ll believe me when I say I’m sorry things turned out this way. But it’s time for me to start my new life, with my new partner. If it’s any comfort to you at all, I hope that someday you, too, will find someone to share your life with… .”
“Jordan,” I say, leaning forward to pat his hand. “I have found that someone. Her name is Lucy.”
Jordan makes a face and lets go of my hand. “I mean a man, Heather, not a dog. Why do you always have to make a joke out of everything?”
“I don’t know,” I say, with a sigh. “That’s just the kind of girl I am, I guess. You’re lucky you escaped when you did.”
Jordan looks at me sadly, shaking his head. “You’ll never go back to the way you used to be when we first met, will you? You were so sweet back then. Never cynical.”
“That’s because back then my boyfriend didn’t feel like he was missing out on the fact that I never did vaginal tricks with a ping-pong ball,” I tell him.
“That’s it,” Jordan says, putting his jacket back on and standing up. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you… well. Later.”
“After you get back from the honeymoon,” I say. “Where are you going, anyway?”
Jordan can’t seem to make eye contact. “Japan. Tania’s touring.”
“Well,
” I say. “Ja mata.”
Scowling, Jordan storms from the bar. Only when he’s gone does Sarah turn her attention from the game (there’s a commercial), and says “Jesus Christ. What did you say to him, anyway?”
I shrug. “Goodbye.”
26
My heart was like a broken book
My soul was torn, not worth a look
Then you found me, and I just knew
Dreams really could come true.
“Book”
Written by Heather Wells
After the day I’ve had, I’m looking forward to an evening alone. I plan on taking out the old guitar and giving it a thorough workout, then lighting a fire and curling up on the couch to watch all the TV shows I’ve DVR’d through the week. I think there’s some leftover Indian takeout in the fridge. I’m going to chow down on samosas and nan and America’s Next Top Model reruns. Could there be a better plan for a Friday night? Especially a Friday night coming after a week of dealing with bodyless corpses and frat boys.
Except that when I walk through the front door of Cooper’s place, I realize there’s something I forgot to factor into my plan.
And that’s that I now live with my father.
The smell hits me the minute I step into the foyer. It’s unmistakable. Someone is cooking the steaks I snuck out of work to buy at Jefferson Market. The steaks I got for me and Cooper, but never got around to cooking for him, on account of… well, everything that was going on.
Wrenching off my coat, I stalk into the kitchen. Dad is there in an apron in front of the stove, cooking my steaks in a cast-iron pan with the mushrooms and onions I also picked up. He’s set the kitchen table for two, with napkins and lit candles and everything. Lucy, curled in one of her many dog beds (Cooper’s the one who keeps buying them, not me. He thinks they’re cute), raises her head when I come in and wags her tail, but that’s all. She’s obviously already been out.
“Well,” I say. I have to speak loudly to be heard over the Bollywood music Dad’s playing on Cooper’s stereo system. “Expecting company?”
Dad jumps and turns around. He’s drinking one of my Diet Cokes. Some of it slops out of the can because he turns so abruptly.
“Heather!” he cries. “There you are! I didn’t hear you come in.”
I’m glaring at the steaks. I can’t help it. Those were inmy fridge in my apartment upstairs. Which it’s true I never lock, but that doesn’t mean I welcome strange men prowling around up there, poking through my stuff.
Because Dadis a strange man. To me. I mean, relatively speaking.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Dad says, apparently noticing the direction of my gaze. “I figured somebody better fry these up, or they were going to spoil. I was in your apartment, looking for your mother’s number.”
“In the refrigerator?” I ask.
“I was just wondering what you eat,” he says affably. “I feel like I barely know you. I’m sorry, were you keeping these steaks for some special occasion? Because if so, you really ought to have stuck them in the freezer. They’ll last longer that way.”
The smell of sizzling meat and onions is delicious, it’s making me a little dizzy.
“I was kind of saving them… but it doesn’t matter,” I say, a little mournfully. It doesn’t matter because, at least according to Gavin, Cooper thinks I’m still head over heels for his brother, anyway. Making him dinner isn’t going to change that. I’m probably going to have to resort to shooting ping-pong balls from my ying yang onstage before anyone ever believes I’m over Jordan. Including Jordan.
“Well, that’s good,” Dad says. “Because they’re almost done. You like your steak a little rare, right?”
I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. “Wait… you cooked them for me?”
“Who else?” Dad looks a little surprised.
“Well.” I chew my lower lip. “A lady friend, maybe?”
“Heather, I’ve only been out of prison a week,” Dad says. “That’s hardly enough time to make a lady friend.”
“Well, then, Cooper,” I say.
“Cooper is busy with his latest case,” Dad says. “So I’m afraid it’s just you and me. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, of course, but I took a chance. Have a seat. There’s a bottle of wine there. I hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I’m sticking with soda these days.”
Shocked, I pull out a chair and sink down into it, as much because I’m not sure I can stand up anymore as because he asked me to.
“Dad,” I say, looking at the carefully set table, “you don’t have to cook dinner for me. Or breakfast, either, for that matter.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Dad says. He takes the steaks out of the pan and sets them on two plates, along with the mushrooms and onions. “I’ll just let these sit a minute,” he explains. “They’re better that way. Juicier. So.” He pulls out the chair across from mine and sits down in it. “How was your day?”
I stare at him for a minute. I’m tempted actually to tell him,Well, Dad, not so good, actually. We found out what they did with the rest of Lindsay Combs, and it wasn’t pretty. Then I manhandled a student and when the higher-ups find out about it, I’ll probably be fired.
But instead I say, “It was fine, I guess. How was your day?” Because I really don’t want to get into it.
“Fine, fine,” Dad says. “Cooper had me follow a man from his office to his lunch appointment, then back to his office.”
My eyebrows go up. Way up. I can’t believe I’m finally learning something about what Cooper does all day.
“Really? Who hired him to follow the guy? What’s the guy supposed to have done?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you any of that,” Dad says pleasantly. “Here.” Dad pours me a glass of red wine and hands it to me.
“But I work for the company,” I say. “Client-detective privilege should extend to me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Cooper was quite explicit about me not telling you anything.”
“But that’s not fair!” I cry.
“He said you’d say that. I’m sorry, honey. But he seems really to prefer that you don’t know. I think it’s due to your tendency to get yourself involved in situations you really ought to stay out of. Like this murder at your dorm. I think the steaks are ready now.”
Dad pops up to get them. I sip my wine, scowling into the candle flames.
“Residence hall,” I say, as he plops a plate filled with perfectly cooked steak down in front of me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a residence hall,” I say. “Not a dorm. Saying dorm does not foster a warm sense of community, which is what we’re aiming for. Well, aside from all the senseless killing.” I cut off a piece of meat and chew. Heaven. Marinated to perfection.
“I see,” Dad says. “That’s very like how we called Eglin a camp and not what it was—prison.”
“Right,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “Made you forget about the shivs, and concentrate on all the lavalieres.”
“Oh, no one had a shiv,” Dad says, with a chuckle. “How do you like your steak?”
“It’s great,” I say, swallowing another bite. “Okay, so as long as we’re exchanging pleasantries about our places of work—or incarceration—what’s the deal? Why are you here, Dad? It’s not really because you have nowhere else to go, because I know you’ve got plenty of rich friends you could be shacking up with instead of me. And this getting-to-know-your-daughter-better thing—sorry, I’m not buying it. So level with me. What’s the scam? And please keep in mind that I’m pretty sure I outweigh you.”
Dad puts down his fork and lets out a sigh. Then he takes a sip of Diet Coke and says, “You’re so like your mother, it’s uncanny.”
I feel the usual bubble of animosity that pops up every time he says this. But this time, I tamp it down.
“Yeah, I think we’ve established that you believe that,” I say. “So let’s move on. Why were you looking f
or Mom’s number in my apartment today?”
“Because,” Dad says, “for some years now, I’ve been working a sort of… program. It has certain steps that its practitioners must follow if, by the end, they hope to achieve spiritual enlightenment. And one of the steps is that they must make amends with those they have harmed. That is why I wanted to phone your mother. To try to make amends.”
“Dad,” I say. “Mom left you. Don’t you think she’s the one who needs to be making amends? With both of us?”
Dad shakes his head. “I promised your mother when I married her that I would love and support her. That didn’t just mean emotionally. I promised to support her financially, as well, especially while she stayed home and raised you. When I went to prison, I was forced to renege on my part of that bargain. It’s my fault, really, that your mother had to take you out on the road in order to support you both.”
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “She couldn’t just get a job as a receptionist in a doctor’s office somewhere. She had to parade her freakishly musical kid around in front of the masses at various malls.”
Dad makes a tsk-tsking sound.
“Now, Heather,” he says. “Don’t try to rewrite history. You loved performing. We couldn’t keep you off the stage. Believe me, I tried. Your mother only did what she felt she had to… and you certainly never complained.”
I lay down my fork. “Dad. I was eleven. Do you really think that was the kind of decision that should have been left to me?”
Dad looks down at his food. “Well, that’s an issue you’re going to have to work out with your mother. I’m afraid by that time, I was no longer in a position to be actively involved in your parenting.”
“True,” I say. And fat chance of me ever having an opportunity to “work out” my issues with Mom. That’s something that’s a little hard to do over the phone. Though Dad seemed perfectly willing to try. “So. Did you find the number?”
“Yes,” Dad says. “It was in your address book. Some of the addresses in there are quite old, you know. You should think about getting a new book. If you want, I could do that for you tomorrow.”