Meg Cabot - Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

“But you were deprived of the normal joys of childhood. And I can’t help but feel that that deprivation is partially responsible for the way you are today.”

I stare at him. “What’s wrong with the way I am today?” I ask.

“Well, for one thing, you’re nearly thirty and you don’t have a husband or children. You don’t seem to realize that family is the most important thing in the world—not that guitar I hear you plinking late into the night, and not your job.Family, Heather. Take it from someone whose lost his—family is what matters.”

I lay my fork down again and say gently, “There are lots of different types of families nowadays, Dad. They don’t all consist of a husband and wife and kids. Some of them consist of a girl, her dog, a PI, her dad, her best friend, and the various people she works with. Not to mention the drug dealer down the street. My feeling about it is, if you care about someone, doesn’t that person automatically become your family?”

“But don’t you worry,” Dad says, after he spends a moment digesting this information, “that if you don’t have children, there’ll be no one to care for you in your old age?”

“No,” I say. “Because I could have children, and they could turn out to hate me. The way I see it, I have friends who care about me now, so I’ll probably have friends who’ll care about me when I’m old, too. We’ll take care of each other. And in the meantime, I’m putting the max into my 401(K), and setting aside as much as I can into a SEP IRA as well.”

Dad gazes at me over his steak. I’m disturbed to note that there are tears in his eyes.

“That’s very profound, Heather,” he says. “Especially since I sense that, in many ways, these so-called family members of yours have been kinder to you than your actual blood relations.”

“Well,” I admit, “at least none of them has stolen all my money and fled the country. Yet.”

Dad raises his Diet Coke can. “I’ll drink to that,” he says. I clink his can with my wine glass. “So you really don’t mind,” he says, when we’re done clinking, “if I stick around and try to make amends—even though you say I don’t have to?”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Just so long as you aren’t expecting me to take care of you in your old age. Because I’ve only been contributing to my 401(K) for a couple of months. I don’t have enough money in it to support myself, let alone an aged parent.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Dad says. “Why don’t we agree to support each other emotionally only?”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, spearing the last of my steak.

“Looks like you’re ready for salad,” Dad says, getting up and going to the fridge, from which he takes the salad bowl into which Jordan did not, thankfully, barf. In it is what appear to be various types of lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and—much to my delight—croutons.

“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.

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 café, 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.”