Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (Heather Wells 2)

“I’ll toss,” Dad says, proceeding to do so. “I hope you like blue cheese dressing.” Without waiting for an answer (because, really, why would he need one? Who doesn’t like blue cheese dressing?), he goes on, “Now. About you and Cooper.”

I nearly choke on the sip of wine I’ve taken.

“This is just my opinion,” Dad says, “and I’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time, I’ll admit. But if you really want things to progress to a romantic level with him, I’d suggest not spending quite so much time with his younger brother. I realize you and Jordan were together for a terribly long time, and that it’s hard to let go. But I sense a certain amount of friction from Cooper concerning his family, and if I were you, I’d limit my interactions with them. Especially Jordan.”

I stab at some of the lettuce he’s spooned onto my plate.

“Gee, Dad,” I say, “thanks for the tip.” Because what else can I say? I’m not going to get into my love life—or lack thereof—with my dad.

But he apparently doesn’t realize this, since he goes on.

“I think that once Jordan is married, and Cooper realizes you’re finally over him, you’ll have a much better chance with him.” Dad sits back down and starts on his own salad. “Though it wouldn’t hurt if you’d make a little more effort to be pleasant in the mornings.”

I eat more salad. “Good to know,” I say. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Although you did seem to make quite a positive impression last night,” Dad comments.

I stop chewing. “Last night? You mean when Cooper caught me hauling his dead-drunk brother in the door?”

“No,” Dad says amiably. “I meant the fact that you were wearing a skirt. You should do that more often. Young men appreciate a girl in a skirt. I saw Cooper staring.”

I don’t bother telling my dad that the reason Cooper was staring wasn’t because I was in a skirt and he appreciated it, but because I was in such a short skirt that I looked like a hooker. Probably Cooper was trying not to laugh.

Still, these aren’t the kinds of things you can say to your father.

“I never even asked you,” Dad says, a little while later, over dessert (Dove Bars, of course). “Did you have plans for tonight? Am I keeping you from something?”

“Just America’s Next Top Model,” I say.

“What’s that?” Dad asks innocently.

“Oh, Dad,” I say. And show him. I mean, if he really wants to make amends, watching ANTM with me is an excellent way to start.

27

Don’t count me out

Who’s counting?

I won’t be numbered

I’m not wasting breath

I’m not going under.

“Drowning”

Written by Heather Wells

Dad is asleep after our fourth episode of ANTM in a row. I guess I can’t really blame him. While women find watching pretty girls play complicated mind games with one another endlessly fascinating—like today in the caf, with Cheryl and Kimberly—your average heterosexual man can only take so many hours of it before he—like Dad, and Patty’s husband, Frank—passes out from sheer boredom.

He’s sleeping hard enough that when the phone rings, it doesn’t even wake him. There might be something to this yoga stuff after all, if it makes you sleep so hard even a ringing phone can’t wake you.

“Hello?” I whisper, after checking the caller ID—Unknown Number—and picking up.

“Hello, Heather?” asks a vaguely familiar male voice.

“Yes,” I say. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, I think you know,” the voice says. “Who else would be calling you at midnight on a Friday night?”

I think about this. Actually, I don’t know anyone who would call me at this hour, with the exception of Patty. But she wouldn’t dare pick up a phone this late, now that she has that disapproving live-in nanny.

Also, Patty doesn’t sound like a guy.

“Is this…” I know I sound ridiculous, but I say it anyway. “Tad Tocco? I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier, but I’ve been busy.”

I hear convulsive laughter. Whoever it is on the other end of the phone is having a really good time. I instantly suspect students.

Drunk students.

“No, it’s not Tad,” the voice says. “It’s actually a friend of yours from last night. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

And suddenly the memory of those ice-blue eyes on mine comes flooding back.

And all the blood seems to leave my extremities. I’m sitting there, frozen to the spot, holding the phone with my dad asleep on one side of me, and Lucy asleep on the other.

“Hello, Steve,” I manage to say, through lips that have gone cold. “How did you get my number?”

“How’d I figure out your last name and look it up, you mean?” Steve asks, with a laugh. “A little bird told me. Do you want to speak to him? He’s right here.”

The next thing I know, a voice that is unmistakably Gavin McGoren’s is swearing—steadily, and with much imagination—into the phone. I’d recognize those “motherfuckin’s” anywhere. They are the same ones Gavin regularly uttered back when I used to catch him elevator-surfing.

Then I hear a smacking sound—like skin on skin—and a second later, Steve is saying, “Tell her, goddamn you. Tell her what we told you to say.”

“FUCK…YOU,” is Gavin’s response. This is followed by a scuffling sound, and more smacking. When I hear Steve’s voice again, it’s out of breath.

“Well, I think you get the idea, anyway,” he says. “We’re having another party. And this time, you’re actually invited. And to make sure you show, we have your friend Gavin here. Unless you do exactly what I tell you, he’s going to suffer some bodily injury. And you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”

I’m so horrified I can barely breathe. I say, “No.”

“I didn’t think so. So here’s the dealio. You come here. Alone. If you call the cops, he will get hurt. If you don’t show, he—”

“HEATHER, DON’T—” I hear Gavin start to bellow, but his voice is quickly smothered.