Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“Who?” Jordan’s eyes look moist. “You do look kinda… dressed up. Heather… do you have a boyfriend?”

“God!” I can’t believe this. Fortunately my voice doesn’t carry very far along the street. The two feet of snow blanketing the tops of all the parked cars—not to mention the clouds, hanging so low that they’re reflecting the light of the city with a pinkish hue—muffle it. “Jordan, if you changed your mind about marrying her, tell her, not me. I don’t care what you do. We broke up, remember?You broke up with me, as a matter of fact. For her.”

“People make mistakes,” Jordan murmurs.

“No, Jordan,” I say. “Our breaking up wasn’t a mistake. We needed to break up. We were right to break up. We don’t belong together.”

“But I still love you,” Jordan insists.

“Of course you do,” I say. “The same way I love you. Like a sibling. That’s why we had to break up, Jordan. Because siblings aren’t supposed to—you know. It’s gross.”

“It wasn’t gross that night we did it up there,” he says, nodding toward Cooper’s front door.

“Oh, right,” I say sarcastically. “That’s why you ran so fast when we were done. Because it wasn’t gross.”

“It wasn’t,” Jordan insists. “Well… maybe it was weird. A little.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Jordan, you only want to be with me because I’m familiar. It’s easy. We were together so long… we grew up together, practically. But that’s not a good reason for two people to stay together. There has to be passion. And we don’t have that. Whereas I think you and Tania do.”

“Yeah.” Jordan looks bitter. “She’s chock-full of passion, all right. I can barely keep up.”

This is so not what you want to hear about your ex’s new girlfriend. Even if you DO think of him as a brother. Mostly.

“Well, ski on back uptown,” I say, “and take an aspirin and go to bed. You’ll feel better about things in the morning, I promise.”

“Where are you going?” Jordan asks mournfully.

“I have to go to a party,” I say, opening my purse to make sure I’ve brought my lipstick and my new can of pepper spray. Check, and check.

“What do you mean,have to?” Jordan wants to know, skiing beside me as I carefully pick my way along the sidewalk. “What’s it for, work or something?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Oh.” Jordan skis with me until we reach the corner, where a traffic light blinks forlornly along a trafficless street. Not even Reggie is out in weather like this. The wind from the park whips around us, making me reconsider this entire venture, and wish I were in my tub with the latest Nora Roberts instead of out on this empty street corner with my ex.

“Well,” he says finally. “Okay, then. ’Bye.”

“’Bye, Jordan,” I say, relieved that he’s finally going away.

As he skis slowly off toward Fifth Avenue, I start across the park, bitterly regretting my decision not to wear jeans. True, I wouldn’t look as alluring. But I’d be a heck of a lot warmer.

Getting across the park is murder. I no longer admire the beauty of the new-fallen snow. The paths are plowed, but not well, and new snow has covered them. My boots aren’t waterproof, being designed primarily for indoor use, preferably in front of a roaring fire on a bearskin rug. At least, that’s what the girl in the catalog was doing in the picture. I knew I should have ventured over to the gazillion shoe stores on Eighth Street instead of ordering them online. But it’s so much safer to order online. There’s no Krispy Kreme sign blinking HOT NOW on my computer.

I’m half hoping that when I get to Waverly Hall, Gavin won’t be there and I can turn around and go home.

But he’s there, all right, shivering in the arctic wind from the park. As I totter toward him in my high heels, he says, “You owe me, woman. I’m freezing my ’nads off.”

“Good,” I say, when I reach him. “Your ’nads get you into too much trouble, anyway.”

I have to place a hand on his shoulder to steady myself as I knock snow from my boots. He looks down at my legs and whistles.

“Jesus, sweetcheeks,” he says. “You clean up good.”

I drop my hand from his shoulder and smack him on the back of the head with it instead.

“Eyes forward, Gavin,” I say. “We’re on a mission, here. There’ll be no ogling. And don’t call me sweetcheeks.”

“I wasn’t,” Gavin insists. “Oggl—ogle—what you said.”

“Come on,” I say. I know I’m flushing. That’s because I’m beginning to have strong reservations about all of this—not just the miniskirt, but enlisting Gavin’s aid. Is this really the way a responsible college administrator behaves, meeting students—even ones who are twenty-one—in the dead of night outside of frat parties? Gavin’s already shown a marked immaturity when it comes to handling his alcohol consumption. Isn’t my agreeing to accompany him to an event like this just reinforcing his poor judgment? Am I an enabler? Oh, God, I am!

“Look, Gavin,” I say, as we move through the courtyard of the building toward the front door. I can’t see the under wear in the shrubbery anymore because it’s all covered with snow, but I can hear the pounding music coming from an upper floor, so loud it seems to reverberate inside my chest. “Maybe this isn’t the best idea. I don’t want to get you into trouble… .”

“What are you talking about?” Gavin asks, as he pulls the door open for me—always a gentleman. “How am I going to get in trouble?”

“Well,” I say. A blast of warm air from inside the lobby hits us. “With the drinking thing.”

Gavin shudders, despite the warmth. “Woman, I am never drinking again. You think I didn’t learn my lesson the other night?”

“Come in or close the door,” the guard roars from the security desk. So we hurry inside.

“It’s just,” I whisper, as we stand there stamping our feet under the glare of the security officer, “if Steve and Doug really are behind what happened to Lindsay, they’re extremely dangerous individuals… .”

“Right,” Gavin says. “Which is why you shouldn’t drink anything, either, once we get in there, that you didn’t open or pour yourself. And don’t leave your beer alone, even for a second.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “You really think—”

“I don’t think,” Gavin says. “I know.”

“Well, I—”

Behind us, the outer door opens, and Nanook of the North follows us inside.

Except it isn’t Nanook. It’s Jordan.

“Aha!” he says, flipping up his goggles and pointing at me. “I knew it!”

“Jordan.” I can’t believe this. “Did you just follow me?”

“Yes.” Jordan is having some trouble getting his skis inside the door. “And good thing I did. I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Close the door!” the crusty old security guard bellows.

Jordan is trying, but his skis keep getting in the way. Annoyed, I go to him to help, giving one of his ski poles a vicious tug. The door finally eases shut behind him.

“Who’s this guy?” Gavin demands. Then, in a different tone of voice, he says, “Oh, my God. Are you Jordan Cartwright?”

Jordan removes the ski goggles. “Yes,” he says. His gaze flicks over Gavin, taking in the goatee and Dumpster-wear. “Rob the cradle much, Heather?” he asks me bitterly.

“Gavin’s one of my residents,” I sniff. “Not my boyfriend.”

“Hey.” Gavin is wearing a tiny smile on his lips. I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “My mom really enjoyed your last album, man. So did my grandma. She’s a huge fan.”