Size 14 Is Not Fat Either (Heather Wells 2)

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 even 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.”