“Wh—” is the only sound I can get to come out of my mouth, on account of the jeans…and the my-being-a-total-loser-who-is-completely-in-love-with-him part.
I watch as he takes a newspaper out from beneath his arm, unfolds it, and places it in front of me.
“Wh—” I say again. At least, that’s how it sounds to my ears.
“I wanted to make sure you knew about this,” Cooper says. “You know, before Us Weekly starts calling, and catches you by surprise.”
I look down at the paper. It’s the New York Post. On the front page is a large, blown-up photo of my ex-fiancé and Tania Trace dining at some outdoor café in SoHo. Underneath their images are the words, in eighteen-point type at least:
THEY’RE ENGAGED!
13
She shut you out.
What’d you do to deserve this?
She shut you out.
Put you out of service
Did she think you’d take this lying down?
Does she think you like playin’ the clown?
I’d never shut you out.
You gotta believe me.
I’d never shut you out.
You’re all I need.
Baby, can’t you see?
Don’t shut me out.
“Shut You Out”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Valdez/Caputo
From the album Staking Out Your Heart
Cartwright Records
Wow. That didn’t take long. I mean, considering we’ve only been broken up for, what? Four months? Five, maybe?
“Wh—” seems to be the only sound I am capable of making.
“Yeah,” Cooper says. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
I just sit there, looking down at the photo of Tania’s ring. It looks just like MY ring. The one I’d ripped off my finger and thrown at them when I’d caught them going at it in our bedroom.
But it can’t be the same ring. Jordan is cheap, but not THAT cheap.
I open the paper, and flip to the page with the article on it.
Look at that. They aren’t just engaged. They’re going on tour together, too.
“You okay?” Cooper wants to know.
“Yeah,” I say, glad I’ve gotten back the ability to say something besides “wh.”
“If it’s any comfort to you,” he says, “her new single got retired from TRL.”
I know better than to ask Cooper what he’s been doing watching Total Request Live. Instead, I say, “They retire videos when they’ve spent too long on the list. That means the song’s still totally popular.”
“Oh.”
Cooper looks around, clearly seeking a way to change the subject. My office is sort of the reception area for Rachel’s office, which is separated by an attractive metal grate that I’ve been trying to get the maintenance department to replace since I arrived. I’d decorated my area with Monet prints upon my arrival, and even though Rachel had wanted to replace the Giverny water lilies with anti–date rape and community development posters, I had held my ground.
I read in a magazine once that Monet is soothing. That’s why you see prints of his work in so many doctors’ offices.
“Nice place,” Cooper says. Then his gaze falls on the jar of condoms on my desk.
I feel myself turning crimson.
Rachel chooses that moment to hang up the phone and lean out of her office to ask, “May I help you?”
When she sees that the visitor to our office is of the male persuasion, over six feet and under forty—not to mention totally hot—she says, in a completely different voice, “Oh. Hello.”
“Good morning,” Cooper says politely. Cooper is unfailingly polite to everyone but members of his immediate family. “You must be Rachel. I’m Cooper Cartwright.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rachel says. She shakes the hand he offers and smiles beatifically. “Cooper…Cooper…Oh yes, Cooper! Heather’s friend. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Cooper glances in my direction, his blue eyes crinkling more than ever. “You have?”
I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I try to remember what I’ve ever said to Rachel about Coop. Besides the fact that he’s my landlord, I mean. Because what if I said something really indiscreet, like that Cooper’s my idea of a perfect mate and that sometimes I fantasize about ripping his clothes off with my teeth? I’ve been known to say things like that sometimes, when I’ve had too many Krispy Kremes combined with too much caffeine.
But all Rachel says is “I suppose you’ve heard about our troubles here.”
Cooper nods.
“I have.”
Rachel smiles again, a little less beatifically this time. I can tell she’s mentally calculating how much Cooper’s watch must cost—he wears one of those gadget-heavy black plastic ones—and deciding he can’t possibly be worth a hundred grand a year.
If only she knew.
Then the phone on her desk rings again, and she goes to answer it. “Hello, Fischer Hall. This is Rachel. How may I help you?”
Cooper raises his eyebrows at me, and I remember, in a rush, what Magda had said, about Rachel being Cooper’s type.
No! It isn’t fair! Rachel is EVERYONE’S type! I mean, she’s attractive and athletic and well put together and successful and went to Yale and is making a difference in the world. What about ME? What about girls like me, who are just…well, nice? What about the nice girls? How are we supposed to compete with all of these competent, athletic, shower-taking girls, with their diplomas and their Palm Pilots and their teeny tiny butts?