“I hope so,” Tom gushes.

So do I…for his sake. Because if it turns out I am wrong, and Steven Andrews isn’t gay, that means there is actually something to what Kimberly told me in the ladies’ room last night.

Until I know for sure, though, I’m concentrating on the only other lead I have…Manuel’s mysterious “Steve,” which all too coincidentally turns out to be the name of Doug Winer’s brother. If he knows something about Lindsay’s death, I’ll be able to tell…at least I hope so.

If I don’t get thrown out for being a fat chick, first.

20

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 updo, 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.”