Like Michael and his Jesus Juice
Like OJ and his glove
We just fit together
My true dysfunctional love.
“We Fit”
Written by Heather Wells
Never having been to a frat party before, it’s sort of hard to figure out what to wear to one. I understand sluttitude is in order. But to what degree? Plus, it’s cold outside. So do I really want to venture out in pantyhose and a mini? Is a mini even appropriate on a woman of my age, not to mention one with as many thigh dimples as I seem to have developed recently?
And it’s not like I even have anybody I can ask. I can’t call Patty, because then she’ll remember I never gave Frank an answer about the gig at Joe’s, and Magda’s no help at all. When I call and ask her if I should wear a mini, she just says, “Of course.” And when I ask if I should wear a sweater with it, she explodes, “Sweater? Of course not! Don’t you have anything mesh? What about leopard print?”
I settle for a black mini that fits a little snug, but with a diaphanous (though not mesh) top from Betsey Johnson, you can’t see the little bulge my belly makes as it hangs over the skirt’s waistband in spite of my control-top pantyhose. I throw on a pair of skinny black knee boots (which will be instantly trashed by the salt from the snowplows) and go to work on my hair. I want to look very different from the way I’d looked the last time I’d been at the Tau Phi House, so I opt for an up do, sexily mussed… since it will end up that way when I pull off my hat, anyway.
A few spritzes of Beyoncé’s latest—hey, I know it’s wrong to wear a rival pop star’s signature scent, but unlike Tania’s (or Britney’s), Beyoncé’s actually smells good… like fruit cocktail, yum—and I’m ready to go.
I just don’t anticipate running into Jordan Cartwright on my way out.
Seriously. Why me? I mean, I sneak all the way downstairs—making it safely past the other two men in my life without either of them suspecting a thing, Dad in his room tootling his flute, and Cooper in his room doing whatever it is he does in there after dark, which God only knows what that is, but I think it must involve headphones because I don’t see how he could stand doing whatever it is while listening to whatever it is Dad is playing—and out the front door, only to encounter a freakishly bundled-up Sasquatch-like figure trying to figure out how to climb the stoop with cross-country skis on.
“Heather?” Sasquatch squints up at me in the light spilling from the door I’ve just opened. “Oh, thank God it’s you.”
Even though his voice is muffled because of all the scarves he’s wrapped around his neck and face, I recognize it.
“Jordan.” I hasten to close and lock the front door behind me, then make my way carefully down the steps—not an easy feat in three-inch spiked heels, given the ice. “What are you doing here? Are those… skis?”
“You wouldn’t return my calls.” Jordan lowers the scarves so I can see his mouth, then raises the ski goggles that were hiding his eyes. “I really need to talk to you. And Dad’s got the limo, and none of the car services can get over the bridges, and there were no cabs. So I had to ski down Fifth Avenue to get here.”
I stare at him. “Jordan,” I say, “you could have taken the subway.”
His eyes widen in the light streaming down from the street lamp overhead. “The subway? This time of night? Heather, there are muggers.”
I shake my head. It’s finally stopped snowing, but it’s still bitterly cold. My legs are already frozen, with just a thin layer of nylon to protect them.
“Jordan,” I say impatiently, “what do you want?”
“I… I’m getting married day after tomorrow,” Jordan says.
“Yes,” I say. “You are. I hope you didn’t come all the way down here to remind me about it and to beg me to come to your wedding. Because I’m still not going.”
“No,” Jordan says. It’s hard to tell in the streetlight, but he looks a little peaked. “Heather. I’m getting married day after tomorrow.”
“I know,” I say. Then, all at once, I realize what he’s doing there.
Also that he’s drunk.
“Oh, no.” I show him the flat of my gloved palm. “No. You are not doing this to me now. I don’t have time for this, Jordan. I have to meet someone.”
“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.”
Jordan, most of his scarves halfway unwound, glares at him. “Hey,” he says. “Fuck you, kid.”
Gavin feigns offense. “Is that any way to talk to the son of one of the only people who bought your last CD, man? Dude, that is cold.”
“I’m serious,” Jordan says to Gavin. “I just cross-country skied down here from the East Sixties, and I am in no mood for shenanigans.”
Gavin looks surprised. Then he grins at me happily. “Jordan Cartwright said shenanigans,” he says.
“Stop it,” I say. “Both of you. Jordan, put your skis back on. We’re going to a party, and you’re not invited. Gavin, buzz up so we can get someone to sign us in.”
Gavin blinks at me. “The frats don’t have to sign anyone in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to him. “The sign-in policy is campus-wide. I’d show my ID to get us in, but, you know, I don’t want them knowing a housing official is on the way up.” I look at my ex, who is still unwinding his various scarves. “Jordan. Seriously. Gavin and I are here on a mission, and you’re not invited.”
“What kind of mission?” Jordan wants to know.
“One that involves keeping a low profile,” I say. “Which we aren’t going to be able to do if we waltz in there with Jordan Cartwright.”
“I can keep a low profile,” Jordan insists.
“The sign-in policy doesn’t include the Greek system,” Gavin says, in a bored voice.
I glance at the security guard. “Really?”
“Anyone can go up there,” the guard says, with a shrug. He looks almost as bored as Gavin. “I just don’t know why they’d want to.”
“Does this have something to do with that dead girl?” Jordan wants to know. “Heather, does Cooper know about this?”
“No,” I say, through gritted teeth. I can’t help it, I’m so annoyed. “And if you tell him, I’ll… I’ll tell Tania you cheated on her!”
“She already knows,” Jordan says, looking confused. “I tell Tania everything. She said it was okay, so long as I didn’t do it again. Listen, why can’t I go with you guys? I think I’d make an awesome detective.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I say. I’m still reeling from the information that his fiancée knows he cheated on her. I wonder if she knows it was with me. If so, it’s no wonder she always gives me such dirty looks whenever she sees me.
On the other hand, dirty looks are the only kind Tania ever gives anyone.
“You don’t blend,” I accuse Jordan.
Jordan looks insulted. “I do, too, blend,” he insists. He looks down at the skis he’s holding, then hastily leans them, and the ski poles, against the wall, along with his goggles. “Can you watch these?” he asks the security guard.
“No,” the guard says. He’s gone back to whatever it is he’s watching on his tiny desk-drawer television.
“See?” Jordan holds his arms out. He’s wearing a shearling coat, multiple scarves, jeans, ski boots, a woolly sweater with a snowflake pattern stitched into it, and a balaclava. “I blend.”
“Can we go up already?” Gavin wants to know, giving a nervous look out the door. “A whole bunch of people are coming. The max capacity of the elevator is three. I don’t want to wait.”
Tired of arguing with Jordan, I shrug and point to the elevator. “Let’s go,” I say.
I’m almost positive Jordan says, “Goodie!” under his breath.
But that’s not possible.
Is it?