The Bride Wore Size 12

by Meg Cabot

  “Don’t worry,” I say, from between gritted teeth. “The choices are prime rib, lobster tail, and salmon.”

  Furious, I slam the door before he can reply, then whirl around to stomp toward the front stoop of the pink brownstone Cooper and I are going to pledge to share together forever in one month. I could almost swear I hear Detective Canavan laughing behind me.

  So, apparently, can the small party gathered on Cooper’s stoop.

  “Who’s that?” Nicole, Cooper’s youngest sister, pops up to ask, eyeing the Crown Vic as it begins to pull away. “Was that a police car?”

  “Of course it wasn’t, dummy,” her twin sister, Jessica, says laconically. She stays exactly where she is, draped across several steps like a fashion model—or a jaguar—too lazy to move. “Police cars are black and white. Or blue and white. And they have the word ‘police’ written on them. Don’t be such an idiot.”

  “It looked like a police car,” Nicole says suspiciously, “painted not to look like one. And those guys in the front seat looked like undercover cops. Why were you riding around in a car with undercover cops, Heather? Is everything okay?”

  I glance at Hal, who seems to have shrunk in on himself a little more every time either of the twentysomething twins said the word “cop.” Cops are not well liked among many of Cooper’s friends, for reasons I’ve always been too wise to ask about.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “Those guys just gave me a ride home from work.”

  Nicole looks surprised. “Don’t you work a block from here? Tania pointed the building out once when we were down here shopping for the baby. She said it’s that one with the blue-and-gold New York College flags in front of it. She said the cafeteria used to be a ballroom in the old days and was really nice until the college bought the building and did a renovation on it and now it’s super crappy and filled with cockroaches and—”

  “Oh my God,” Jessica groans, throwing her head back so that her long, dark hair puddles onto the step behind her. “Shut up, Nicole. Can we please go inside, where it’s air-conditioned? I’m going to die, it’s so hot out here. Plus, I have to pee like a racehorse. I’m not even kidding. I was about to go in the street between two parked cars before you pulled up.”

  Nicole looks nervously up at Virgin Hal, who hasn’t said a word. “She was,” she assures me, in a whisper. “But I told her it wouldn’t be appropriate in front of him.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t care,” Jessica says with a shrug of her slim shoulders. “We’re all human. And when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “Um,” I say, regarding the odd threesome. “I’m not sure this is really the best time for a visit, you guys. I think Cooper’s friend Vir—I mean, Hal, here, has a meeting with Cooper, so maybe it would be better if you girls came back some other time.”

  “Oh, Cooper isn’t here,” Nicole announces. Unlike her sister—though the girls are twins, they’re far from identical—Nicole is heavyset, her hair dyed an unflattering auburn and twisted into Princess Leia buns pinned to the sides of her head, her summer dress rumpled and ill-fitting. In fact, it appears on closer inspection to be some kind of romper rather than a dress, a garment someone must have told her she looks good in.

  Only what salesperson would be so cruel? Nicole looks like an upside-down ice cream cone. Being a big-boned gal myself, I know how difficult it can be sometimes to find stylish clothing that fits well, but I also know better than to buy something just because some salesperson who works on commission says it looks good on me.

  “We’ve been calling and texting him,” Nicole complains about her brother, “but he isn’t picking up.”

  Hal uncrosses his ham-size arms to wave at me to get my attention.

  “Hey, Heather,” he says in a voice that’s surprisingly soft for someone his size, though I know from hushed stories I’ve heard about him that Virgin Hal’s shy demeanor is deceptive. Those arms have apparently crushed skulls like watermelons. “Cooper is going to be unavoidably detained. Nothing to worry about, but he asked me to stop by and check on a few things around the house.”

  As soon as Hal says the words “nothing to worry about,” I know I need to start worrying. If Cooper isn’t picking up when his sisters call—and he hasn’t texted me back either—but he’s sent Virgin Hal over to “check on a few things around the house,” something is seriously wrong.

  I also know Hal isn’t going to tell me what it is. That would be breaking whatever absurd “gentleman’s code” he and the rest of Cooper’s friends have with one another. I’ll have to wait until Cooper gets home to find out what’s really going on.

  “Well,” I say tightly. “As you can see, ladies, this isn’t the best time—”

  “But you have to let us in,” Nicole cries, reaching down to lift the enormous silver-wrapped box at her feet. “We brought your bridal-shower gift all the way down here!”

  I glare at her. “I didn’t have a bridal shower.”

  “I know,” Nicole says. “You wouldn’t let us give one for you, which was such a shame, because Mom really wanted to, and so did Tania. I don’t necessarily believe in the institution of marriage because it’s part of an outdated, patriarchal social system that for thousands of years only benefited men and wealthy women, but if you’re going to do it, you should at least allow your loved ones to throw you a bridal shower. Especially if they want to say how sorry they are for ruining your wedding by inviting a lot of people you didn’t necessarily want to attend the ceremony—”

  “Speak for yourself,” Jessica says, springing lightly to her feet. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. That was all Nicole. I just really have to pee, so let me in.”

  I glance questioningly up at Hal, who nods and says in his whisper-soft baby voice, “It’s all right, if you know them.”

  If I know them? What does that mean?

  I look back at the girls, then say to them sternly as I climb the steps, pulling my keys from my purse, “All right, you two can come in. But just this one time. I know I’m marrying your brother, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay for you guys to drop in anytime you want. In the future, please call first. Cooper and I are private people with personal lives we’d like to keep that way—private.”

  “I’ll bet you two keep it personal.” Jessica shoots her sister a knowing look. “I told you. Now I know what to get you two for your wedding, a new spatula.”

  I knit my brows as I work the locks to the front door. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on,” Jessica says. “Fifty Shades of Grey? Don’t act like you haven’t read it. Everyone’s read it.” She winks at Hal. “Am I right, big guy? We’re definitely not eating pancakes in their kitchen.”

  Hal blinks down at her slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, shouldering his enormous duffel bag. “The last book I read was The Information by James Gleick.”

  Jessica hoots at this. “A gentleman and a scholar,” she says. “Me likee.”

  “I tried to call,” Nicole says plaintively, following me into the house as soon as I’ve gotten all the locks undone and the door opened. “But you never picked up. I left a zillion messages. You never called me back.”

  “Things have been a little crazy,” I say as I punch in the code to turn off the alarm. “It’s check-in week at the dorm, and also—”

  “I know,” Nicole says. She’s sticking beside me like glue, hauling her oversize wedding gift in both arms, so that all I can see of her above the sparkly silver bow are her Princess Leia buns and her eyes.

  She isn’t the only one sticking to me like glue. My dog, Lucy, is delighted that I’m home from work—and with company for her to sniff, no less!—and is leaping around, barking, her tongue lolling out.

  “I know about your mom,” Nicole says, trying to make herself heard above the barking. “Cooper already reamed me out about it. Heather, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know. I mean, obviously, I knew—the whole world knows how your mom stole al
l the money you earned when you were a kid. But like, I never thought if I sent her an invitation to your wedding she’d actually come.”

  “What on earth did you think would happen?” I can’t help snapping.

  “I thought your mom would call you,” Nicole cries. “In my precorps training institute for Teach for America—which, okay, I admit I didn’t pass, but that isn’t my fault, I have undiagnosed hypoglycemia—they said in order to reach their full potential, it’s important for individuals to communicate.”

  I turn to face Jessica in the cool foyer, which Cooper’s grandfather had wallpapered in wide black-and-white stripes (to match the awnings over the windows outside) and that neither Cooper nor I have ever seen reason to redecorate. Jessica has already torn past us in her haste to find a bathroom, while Virgin Hal—mumbling an embarrassed “Excuse me”—squeezes by with his duffel bag in order to head to the basement, Lucy padding after him. She’s always been particularly fond of Hal, who has a soft spot for animals.

  I don’t bother asking why Hal’s headed down there because there’s only one reason: the basement is where Cooper keeps his gun safe.

  The only reason Virgin Hal is here and headed downstairs to the gun safe with a duffel bag is that . . . that . . .

  I can’t think straight because Nicole won’t stop talking.

  “So I thought if I could get you and your mom to talk it out, you would have a tearful reunion and make up after all these years of estrangement. I didn’t think you would be so . . . so . . .”

  “Angry?” I ask her. My head is pounding. “Bitter? Resentful? Or that my mom would be such a backstabbing, conniving bitch?”

  Tears begin to trickle from the eyes behind the silver bow. “Heather, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were that mad at her. You never talk about your mom. I thought you were over it.”

  I tell myself to breathe. Everything is going to be fine. Sure, I haven’t heard from Cooper in hours, and he’s sent one of his buddies here to protect me—and also go through his gun safe—but that doesn’t mean anything is wrong.

  Yeah, right. And I’m still number one on the record charts.

  “Just because someone doesn’t talk about something doesn’t mean they’re over it, Nicole,” I say in the most even tone I can muster. “It might mean they’ve chosen to move on, but it doesn’t mean they haven’t been wounded, or that that wound, though partially healed, can’t be ripped open again, very easily.”

  Nicole’s face crumples. “Oh God. I’m so stupid.”

  The younger girl lets out a mournful cry, then turns to run away from me. Unfortunately, since she’s hardly able to see where she’s going thanks to the gigantic wedding gift in her arms, she runs down the hall farther into the house, and not toward the front door to leave.

  Great. Now I’ve done it.

  Sighing, I reach into my handbag and pull out my cell phone.

  Coop, I text. Hey, not to be a nag, but where are you? Both your sisters are here, and so is Virgin Hal. He says he’s here to protect me, but it seems like he’s hiding in the basement instead. Ha ha just kidding. OK maybe not. Love you. CALL ME. Heather.

  24

  Jessica’s Easy Recipe for Key West Lemonade

  1 oz. vodka

  ½ oz. Triple Sec or Grand Marnier

  1 oz. lemonade

  1 oz. cranberry juice

  Pour over ice. Shake.

  Garnish with lemon wedge, lime, or strawberry.

  Optional:

  Sweet/Sour mix instead of Triple Sec/Grand Marnier.

  Add generous splash of lemon-lime soda.

  Caution: this drink causes intoxication.

  I find Nicole sitting at the huge wooden table in the atrium kitchen. She’s slumped next to her gift, sobbing, her head dropped onto her folded arms.

  “Nicole,” I say, going to stand next to her. “Come on, it’s okay. I didn’t mean it. It’s not that bad.”

  This is a lie. I did mean it, and it is that bad.

  But I realize we’re going to be part of the same family soon, so I’d better figure out a way to get along with her, or holiday dinners with the Cartwrights are going to be impossibly awkward.

  Nicole doesn’t reply. She simply continues to weep.

  “Come on, Nicole,” I repeat. “I’m angry, but not that angry.”

  “You are angry,” Nicole sobs into her arms. “I’ve ruined everything. And now you aren’t going to marry C-Cooper and become a C-Cartwright.”

  “Well, I was never going to become a Cartwright in the first place, but I’m still going to marry Cooper.”

  Nicole’s head jerks up. She regards me with wide, tear-filled eyes.

  “You’re not taking Cooper’s last name?” she asks in horror.

  “Of course not,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, not Heather Cartwright.”

  “But—” Nicole sniffles noisily. There are no boxes of tissues in the kitchen, so I reach for a roll of paper towels and hand it to her. She tears a sheet from the roll, then noisily blows her nose. “But you realize Wells is your father’s last name. You’ll still be keeping some man’s last name, only your father’s instead of mine.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that.” My feelings about Cooper’s father are similar to my feelings about my mom, only maybe slightly less volatile. Only one of them is related to me, but both of them ripped me off. Cooper’s dad did it by owning the record company for which I used to work, that’s all. All record companies rip off their artists.

  “But.” Nicole blinks rapidly. “Why would you do that? Less than ten percent of women in this country keep their own names when they get married. And I thought you loved Cooper.”

  “I do,” I say, pulling out a chair from beneath the table and sitting down beside her. “But I don’t see why loving him means I should have to change my last name to his when we get married. I have a choice, and I choose not to. I like my name. Heather Wells is who I am. Maybe if we had kids, it would be different—”

  I think, fleetingly, about the perfectly behaved ghost children I used to imagine Cooper and I would have one day: Jack, Charlotte, and Emily Wells-Cartwright, in their navy-blue-and-red-plaid school uniforms. Or maybe Cartwright-Wells. I’m not sure which sounds better. Since they’re only ghost children, I have the luxury of never having to decide. That’s the comforting thing about ghost children: they aren’t real, so you never have to make the hard decisions, as opposed to real children, like the one growing in Lisa’s belly.

  “But we don’t have kids,” I finish with a shrug, “and I doubt we will anytime soon. So until we get to that road and have to cross it, I prefer to stay Heather Wells, and let the burden of carrying on the Cartwright name fall on Jordan and you and Jessica.”

  “That’s my name, bitch,” Jessica says affably, drifting into the kitchen like an overly tanned, raven-haired wraith. “Don’t wear it out. Where do you keep your glasses?”

  “Cupboard above the sink,” I say, curious as to why she wants to know.

  Jessica opens the cupboard. “Bingo. Ice in trays or ice maker?”

  “Ice maker is in the bottom drawer of the fridge. There’s a scoop. And please do make yourself at home, Jessica.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Now that she’s relieved herself and reapplied her ink-black eyeliner—which had become a bit smeared in the heat outdoors—nothing seems to be bothering Jessica. Well, almost nothing. “What’s with the waterworks over there, Baby Huey?” Jessica is addressing her twin sister, Nicole.

  “I’ve told you not to call me that.” Nicole looks even more upset.

  “Well, stop wearing rompers so you look like a baby duck in a gigantic diaper, and I will.”

  “My therapist says you’re responsible for my low self-esteem,” Nicole accuses her.

  “Has your therapist ever seen the outfit you have on right now? Because it seriously explains a lot.”

  “Girls.” I check my cell phone. Still no response from Cooper, which isn’t like him. Unless he’s dr
iving or in a meeting with a client, he usually calls back within a half hour. “Remember when I mentioned outside that I have a personal life? Well, you two are seriously infringing on it right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Heather, but you have to let me apologize about the extra invitations I sent out,” Nicole says. “Especially the one to your mom. Jessica, did you know Heather isn’t even taking our last name after she and Cooper get married?”

  Jessica lets out a whoop of sarcastic laughter as she scoops hefty amounts of ice into three tall drinking glasses. “Why would she? I’d rather be Jessica Wells than Jessica Cartwright. Why would anyone want to be related to us? Have you even seen the promos for Jordan Loves Tania? Jordan looks like the world’s biggest douche bag in those white jeans. More like Jordan Cartwrong than Jordan Cartwright.”

  Nicole looks scandalized. “Mom’s going to be really upset when she hears Heather’s not taking our last name,” she declares. “There’ve been Cartwrights dating all the way back to the Mayflower.”

  “Too bad it didn’t sink,” Jessica mutters, then asks in a louder voice, “How’s Mom even going to know Heather isn’t taking our last name? Unless some Baby Huey quacks about it.”

  Nicole looks prim. “She might notice at the wedding reception when the DJ says, ‘Announcing Mr. Cooper Cartwright and Mrs. Heather Wells for their first dance as a married couple’ instead of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Cooper Cartwright.’ ”

  “We’re having a cover band,” I say, “not a DJ. But we’re having the lead singer say, ‘Here’s Cooper and Heather for their first dance as a married couple.’ It’s more intimate that way.”

  “Ha!” Jessica cries, her catlike eyes narrowing with delight. “She got you there, Nic. How come Heather isn’t opening the tasteful gift you got her?”