Cooper is quiet for a minute. Then he says, “You tell me. I mean, it’s kind of hard to believe there’s nothing there when every time I turn around, you two are together.”
“That’s him,” I say adamantly. “Not me. I do not have feelings for your brother. End of story.”
“All right,” Cooper says, in the soothing tone in which one might speak to the mentally disturbed. “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”
“We haven’t,” I hear myself say. What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?
Cooper, who’d been about to pull out of the parking space, puts his foot on the brake. “We haven’t what?”
“Got it straightened out,” I say. I cannot believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. But they just keep coming. There’s nothing I can do to stop them. This has to be the Rohypnol. It has to be. “How come you’ve never asked me out? Is it because you’re not interested in me that way, or what?”
Cooper sounds amused when he replies, “You’re my brother’s ex-fiancée.”
“Right,” I say, beating a fist on the dashboard. “Ex. Ex- fiancée. Jordan’s married now. To someone else. You were there, you saw it for yourself. So what’s the deal? I know I’m not really your type…” Oh, God. This is going from bad to worse. Still, I can’t go back. ”But I think we get along. You know. For the most part.”
“Heather.” Now there’s a hint of impatience creeping into Cooper’s voice. “You’ve just come out of a really bad long-term relationship—”
“A year ago.”
“—started a new job—”
“Almost a year ago.”
“—reconnected with a father you barely know—”
“Things with Dad are cool. We had a nice talk last night.”
“—are struggling to figure out who you are, and what you’re going to do with your life,” Cooper concludes. “I’m pretty sure the last thing you need right now is a boyfriend. In particular, your ex-fiancé’s brother. With whom you live. I think your life is complicated enough.”
I finally turn in my seat to look at him. “Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?” I ask him.
This time, he’s the one who looks away.
“Okay,” he says. “My life is too complicated. Heather—I don’t want to be your rebound guy. That’s just…that’s not who I am. I don’t chicken dance. And I don’t want to be the rebound guy.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Rebound guy? Rebound guy? Cooper, Jordan and I broke up a year ago—”
“And who have you dated since?” Cooper demands.
“Well, I…I…” I swallow. “No one.”
“There you go,” Cooper says. “You’re ripe for a rebound guy. And it’s not going to be me.”
I stare at him. Why? I want to ask him. Why don’t you want to be my rebound guy? Because you don’t actually want me?
Or because you want something more from me than that?
Looking at him, I realize I’ll probably never know.
At least…not yet.
I also realize I probably don’t want to know. Because if it’s the latter, I’ll find out, one of these days.
And if it’s the former….
Well, then, I’ll just want to die.
“You know what,” I say, averting my gaze, “you’re right. It’s okay.”
“Really?” Cooper asks.
I look back at him. And I smile.
It takes every last little bit of strength I’ve got left. But I do it.
“Really,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
“Okay,” he says.
And smiles back.
And it’s enough.
For now.
30
Tad Tocco
Assistant Professor
Office Hours
2–3 P.M. weekdays
That’s what the sign on the door says.
Which is why I don’t understand what, when I open the door, a Greek god is doing there, sitting in front of me.
Seriously. The guy sitting at the computer behind the desk has long, golden hair—like as long as mine; a healthy, ruddy glow of good health about him; a placard on his desk that says KILLER FRISBEE 4-EVER; and the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed back to reveal a set of forearms so muscular and gorgeous that I think I must have walked into some snowboard shop, or something.
“Hi,” the guy behind the desk says, with a smile. A smile that reveals a set of white, even teeth. But not so even that they’re, like, perfect. Just even enough for me to be able to guess that he’d probably fought with his family over not wanting to get braces.
And that he’d won.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” he says. “Heather Wells, right?”
He’s my age. Maybe a little older than me. Thirty, thirty-one. He has to be, even though he’s wearing reading glasses…adorable gold-rimmed ones, though. Still, there’s a Scooby Doo lunch box on a shelf above his head. Not a new one, either. An original Scooby Doo lunch box, the ones kids had when I was in the first grade.
“Um,” I say. “Yeah. How did you…” My voice trails off. Right. I forget, sometimes, that my face was once plastered all over the bedroom walls of teenage girls—and some of their brothers.
“Actually, I saw you perform the other night with Frank Robillard and his band,” the guy says cheerfully. “Over at Joe’s Pub?”
My stomach lurches. “Oh. You saw that?”
“Jazz isn’t really my thing,” the guy says. “But I liked that song you did.”
“It was an Ella Fitzgerald cover,” I say. I really want to throw up now. Rodgers and Hart’s “I Wish I Were in Love Again” happens to be one of Cooper’s favorite songs. Which isn’t necessarily why I chose to sing it, but…well, it might have been one of the reasons.
Thank God he’d been called away at the last minute by some kind of PI emergency. I don’t think, in the end, that I could have gotten up there if I’d known he was in the audience.
“Frank and I—” I stammer. “W-we were just fooling around.”
Well, Frank had been fooling around. I’d been deadly serious…at least until no one booed us. Then I began to relax and have a little fun with it. Afterward, people clapped…but of course they were applauding for Frank (even though Patty assures me they were also clapping for me. But only for having the guts to get up there, I’m sure. I’d been rusty…and I hadn’t missed the fact that my dad, in the audience, had been clapping the hardest of anyone. I guess it’s nice to know, whatever else happens, I’ve got one parent watching my back).