Size 14 Is Not Fat Either

Gavin, on the other hand, doesn’t do as well. Oh, he’d have been fine if he’d just stood there. But he has to make the mistake of trying to pry Doug off me.

Because Doug—no surprise, really—fights dirty. No sooner has Gavin grabbed him by the shoulders than Doug’s whipped around and is trying to gnaw one of Gavin’s fingers off.

Since I can’t allow one of my residents to be eaten, I pull back one of my legs and—still clenching my coat and purse in one hand—land a heel in an area of Doug’s body where most guys really would rather not have a heel. Hey, I may not do yoga—or much of any exercise at all. But like all girls who’ve lived in New York City for any period of time, I know how to inflict serious bodily harm with my footwear.

After Doug crumples to the floor clutching his private parts, all hell seems to break loose, with objects and bodies being thrown around the loft as if it has suddenly transformed into a mosh pit. The mirrors behind the shelves above the bar are smashed by a flying billiard ball. Gavin manages to hurl a frat boy into the wide-screen TV, knocking it over with a crash and a burst of sparks. The size 2s are squealing and fleeing out into the hallway past the FAT CHICKS GO HOME sign, just as one of the pinball machines collapses under Jordan’s weight (I don’t ask what he was doing on top of it…or why his pants are halfway around his ankles).

Fortunately there’s so much chaos that I’m able to grab Gavin and shriek, “Let’s go!” Then the two of us each throw one of Jordan’s arms around our neck (he is in no condition to walk on his own) and drag him from the loft and down the hall…

…just as the sprinkler system goes off due to the fire started by the knocked-over television.

As the size 2s in the hallway shriek because their blow-outs are starting to curl, we duck through an exit marked STAIRS, and don’t stop running—and dragging a semiconscious ex–boy band member—until we burst out onto the street.

“Holy crap,” Gavin yells, as the cold air sucks at our lungs. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I say, staggering a bit in the snow. Jordan isn’t exactly dead weight, but he’s not light, either. “That was not cool.”

“Not cool? Not cool?” Gavin is shaking his head happily as we slip and slide along Washington Square North, trying to make our way west. “I wish I’d had my video camera! None of those girls was wearing a bra. When the water hit them—”

“Gavin,” I say, cutting him off quickly, “look for a cab. We need to get Jordan back to the Upper East Side, where he lives.”

“There are no cabs,” Gavin says scornfully. “There’s no one even out on the street. Except for us.”

He’s right. The park is a dead zone. The streets around it have barely been plowed at all. There isn’t a car to be seen, except way over on Eighth Street. None of the cabdrivers there can see us, however, no matter how frantically I wave.

I’m flummoxed. I don’t know what to do with Jordan. I believe his claim that none of the car services are able to make it over the bridges. And no way am I calling his dad—the man who told me nobody wants to listen to my “angry-rocker-chick shit”—to see if he can swing by in the family limo.

Jordan himself is happy as a clam, stumbling along between us, but he’s definitely the worse for wear. I can’t just leave him on someone’s doorstep—tempting as the idea seems. He’ll freeze to death. And it’s blocks—long blocks, not short ones—to the subway, and in the opposite direction—we’d have to go past Waverly Hall to get to Astor Place.

And I’m not risking running into any angry frat boys. Especially since I can hear sirens in the distance. The fire department must be automatically notified when the sprinkler system goes off.

Between us, Jordan raises his head and cries happily, having heard the sirens as well, “Oh, hey! Here come the cops!”

“I can’t believe you were ever engaged to this guy,” Gavin says in disgust—revealing, albeit accidentally, that he’s been Googling me. “He’s such a tool.”

“He wasn’t always like this,” I assure Gavin. Although the truth is, I think Jordan probably was always like this. I just never noticed, because I was so young and stupid. And besotted with him. “Besides, he’s getting married the day after tomorrow. He’s a little nervous.”

“Not day after tomorrow,” Gavin says. “Tomorrow. It’s past midnight. It’s officially Friday.”

“Crap,” I say. The Cartwrights have to be wondering what happened to their youngest son. Tania’s probably frantic. If she’s even noticed he’s gone, that is. I can’t send him back to her like this—with his pants half open and lipstick marks all over his face. God, why can’t he be just a little more like his brother?

Oh, God. His brother. Cooper is going to kill me when he finds out where I’ve been. And I’m going to have to tell him. I can’t drag Jordan home like this and not explain.

And I have to take Jordan home. It’s the only place I can bring him. I don’t think I can carry him much farther. Plus, I’m freezing to death. Pantyhose are definitely not suitable legwear the night after a blizzard in Manhattan in January. I don’t know how those girls in the low-riders could stand it. Weren’t their belly buttons cold?

“Okay,” I say to Gavin, as we reach the corner of Washington Square Park North and West. “Here’s the deal. We’re taking him to my house.”

“Are you serious? I get to see where you live?” Gavin’s grin, in the pink glow of the street lamps, alarms me. “Sweet!”

“No, it’s not sweet, Gavin,” I snap. “It’s the opposite of sweet. Jordan’s brother is my landlord, and he’s going to be upset—very upset—if he hears us come in and sees Jordan like this. So we’ve got to be quiet. Super-quiet.”

“I can do that,” Gavin says gallantly.

“Because it’s not just Cooper I don’t want to wake up,” I tell him. “My, um, dad is staying there, too.”

“I get to meet your dad? The one who was in jail?” Oh, yes. Gavin’s definitely been Googling me.

“No, you don’t get to meet him,” I say. “Because hopefully he, like Cooper, will be asleep. And we’re not waking him up. Right?”