by Meg Cabot
Pam’s face twists in pain—even though I’m the one who’s bleeding.
“Garfield!” she cries, in anguish. “No! Let him go, you witch!”
Witch. Not bitch.
Priceless.
I’m not sure, given my state of semideafness. But I think I hear voices in the hallway. Suddenly there’s pounding on the door to the apartment.
“Put the gun down, Pam,” I say, stalling for time. “Put the gun down, and no one—including Garfield—will get hurt. It’s not too late to give yourself up.”
“You—you meanie!” Pam’s eyes are bright with tears. “All I wanted was what I deserved! All I wanted was to make a clean start! Why can’t you just let the cat go, and we’ll call it even? I’ll go—I’ll take Garfield, and go. Just give me a head start.”
“I can’t do that, Pam,” I say. “You already called the cops, remember? In fact—I think they’re here.”
Pam spins around just as something that sounds like a small explosion goes off in the hallway. A second later, four or five of New York’s Finest, their guns drawn, burst into the living room.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone before in my life. I’d have rushed over and kissed them if I hadn’t been so busy concentrating on not getting my hands gnawed off.
“Ma’am!” the first cop cries, the mouth of his piece pointed at Pam’s chest. “Drop the gun, lay down on the floor, and place your hands upon your head, or I will be forced to fire.”
I’m busy thinking it’s all over. I’m busy thinking, Swell, okay, she’s going to put the gun down, and I can put this stupid cat down, and then I can go home, and this will be all over, and I can go back to my boring little life, for which I will never again be ungrateful. I love my boring little life. I love it. Thank God this is finally over.
Except it isn’t. Not by a long shot. No pun intended.
“You don’t understand,” Pam wails, waving her gun at me. “She has Garfield! She won’t let go of Garfield!”
Oh God. No. Please, no.
“Ma’am,” the officer says again. “I’m asking you again to drop the gun, or I will be forced to fire.”
Drop the gun, Pam. Pam, please. Just drop the gun.
“But I called you,” Pam insists, still waving the gun around. “She’s the one who threatened me!”
The next thing I know, another shot’s been fired. I have no idea whose gun it’s come from, or whether or not it strikes home, because I’ve hit the floor, clutching Garfield to me and curling into as small a ball as I possibly can, with the thought of trying to make myself into the tiniest target possible. The cat, for his part, has stopped trying to bite me, and is now clinging to me as tightly as I’m clinging to him. If his ears are ringing anywhere near as loud as mine are, I figure he has as little idea what’s going on as I do.
All I know is, it’s just me and Garfield, all alone in this world. Just me and him. All we have is each other. I’m never letting go of him. And I’m pretty sure he’s never letting go of me.
It isn’t until someone lays a hand on my shoulder and shouts, “Miss! It’s all right to get up now!” (apparently, he had to shout in order for me to hear him, since my hearing was so blown on account of the gunfire) that I uncurl myself and look around to see that Pam’s gun has been wrestled away from her—primarily because some excellent marksman has shot it out from her fingers. She’s cradling her now useless and bloody fingers in her uninjured hand, and blubbering out a confession to my old friend, Detective Canavan, who looks at me tiredly above the semihysterical woman’s head.
Wedding china? he mouths.
I am in so much shock, I can’t even shrug. The truth is, I don’t get it, either. But then again, there’s a lot I don’t seem to get. Like why, even though the police officers and EMTs keep offering to take Garfield from me, I still can’t let him go. In my defense, he won’t let go of me, either. It’s like we’re the only two stable beings in a world turned suddenly topsy-turvy.
I’m still holding on to him—and he to me—half an hour later when Detective Canavan finally escorts me into the elevator and then out into the lobby. Flashing red lights from all the cop cars parked outside Owen’s building reflect against the marble and brass—but that isn’t the only difference between now and when I’d gone upstairs a few hours earlier. Something else has changed as well. It takes me a minute to register what it is, and that’s because my hearing still hasn’t quite recovered from the gunfire.
Then it hits me.
There’s screaming from the park.
Not chanting. Not cheering. Screaming.
I freeze with Detective Canavan’s hand on my back just as he’s about to escort me outside. My statement done—I’d given it upstairs—he’d been about to walk me home.
But now I’m reluctant to step out the door. Not into that. No way.
“It’s okay, Heather,” he says encouragingly. “It’s just those kids who were rallying earlier. They’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating,” I echo. “Celebrating what?”
“The president’s office apparently sent over a memo a little while ago. They settled their differences.”
I blink. “They…settled?”
“That’s right,” Detective Canavan says. “The kids won. The president’s office conceded on all points. Decided he’d had enough bad press lately. Either that, or he didn’t like having a big rat sitting outside his office door. He’s never been over to the West Side, obviously.”
I blink with astonishment. “President Allington settled? The GSC won?”
“That’s what I hear,” Detective Canavan says. “We’ve got the whole precinct on hats and bats, dealing with crowd control. We expect ’em to start tipping cars over any minute. Helluva night you picked to get shot at. Ah, there’s the boyfriend. Right on time.”
And with that, Detective Canavan steers me out the door…
…and into the waiting arms of Cooper Cartwright.
22
* * *
There’s no matching
My face’s shade of red
The truth is out:
Without you, I’m dead.
“Seeing Red”
Written by Heather Wells
* * *
“So,” Cooper says, as the two of us sit in his kitchen, looking at Owen’s cat as he washes himself on the mat beneath the sink, pointedly ignoring Lucy, who is regarding him worriedly from beneath the kitchen table. “We have a cat now.”
“We don’t have to keep him,” I say. “I can see if Tom wants him. He seems like the kind of cat Tom and Steve would like.”
“Ornery?” Cooper asks. “Mean?”
“Exactly,” I say. It’s nice of Cooper not to comment on the fact that I’ve already made him go to CVS to buy a cat box, litter, and canned food. I’d even spent ten minutes in Owen’s apartment before agreeing to leave hunting for Garfield’s pills, which Pam had packed away in her overnight bag. It turned out, of course, she’d intended to take the cat with her when she’d made her getaway.
The china wasn’t the only thing she’d loved that Owen had gotten in the divorce settlement, it turned out.
“Let’s see how it goes,” Cooper says. “Though I really don’t think I can live with a cat called Garfield.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “It’s kind of like having a dog named Fido or Spot, right? But what could we call him instead?”
“I’m not sure,” Cooper says. “Pol Pot? Idi Amin?”
We’re sitting at the kitchen table with glasses of scotch on the rocks in front of us. Considering what we’ve each been through, it seemed the only logical way to end the evening.
“I guess the real question is, how long is he staying,” Cooper goes on. “I don’t want to give him a name and get all attached to him—assuming one could get attached to something like him—just to have him ripped away right when I’m starting to like having him around.”
“I’ll talk to Tom in the morning,”
I say. I’m really tired. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long week.
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Cooper says.
Something in his tone causes me to look up. In the glow from the overhead kitchen light, I notice that Cooper looks a lot better than I feel…and he’s been thrown down a flight of stairs, whereas I’ve just been shot at.
It’s not fair. How come guys can go through so much more than us girls and come out looking better for it?
“Did I tell you what the EMTs said, back at the sports center?” he asks, almost as if he’d been reading my mind.
“No,” I say.
“My blood pressure’s a hundred and sixty-five over ninety-four,” he says.
“Well,” I say, taking a restorative sip of my scotch. I have to. Looking into his eyes has caused my pulse to skitter unsteadily. It’s not fair. “You did suffer a debilitating fall.”
“I’m supposed to consult with my primary physician,” Cooper says. “High blood pressure runs in my family, you know.”
I nod. “You can never be too careful. Hypertension is the silent killer.”
“You know what this means, though. No more Chips Ahoy! Nutella and Macadamia Brittle sandwiches for me.”
I shrug. “If your doctor puts you on medication, you can have all you want.”
Cooper leans forward in his chair. “You’ve been home half an hour,” he says, “and you haven’t even noticed.”
I blink at him from across the table. “Noticed what? What are you talking about?”
He points at the door to the back garden, which is located right next to the stove. For the first time I notice that someone’s installed a large dog door in the middle of it.
“Oh my God!” I cry, leaping to my feet. “Cooper! When did you do that?”
Grinning, Cooper stands as well, and crosses the room to the door to show me how easily the flap swings back and forth.
“After we got back from Rock Ridge. I ordered it a while ago. It only opens if you’re wearing this special collar—that’s the security feature, you know, to keep crackheads from using it to break in. It was really easy to install. The hardest part’s going to be getting Lucy to use it. But I figured, with your dad gone, this’ll make it easier on you when you’re at work during the day. She’ll still need her walks, but this way, if there’s an emergency, she can let herself out. If she can figure out how to do it, I mean.”
I squat down to admire his handiwork. There are a few small gaps between where he sawed and where the dog door actually slid into place. But it’s not the aesthetic quality of the job that matters. It’s the fact that he’s done something—something permanent—to his home for my dog.
“Cooper,” I say, embarrassed to find myself blinking back tears. I hope he doesn’t notice. “This is so…sweet of you.”
“Well,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “I only got one security collar. I didn’t know we were going to have two pets going in and out—”
“We’re not,” I assure him, glancing at Garfield, who has settled onto the kitchen mat and is glaring at Lucy—still cowering under the kitchen table—with balefully glowing yellow eyes. “I’ll find him a new home in the morning. Besides, he’s an indoor cat, I’m pretty sure.”
“I wasn’t even sure,” Cooper goes on, not meeting my gaze, “how much longer you and Lucy would be sticking around, to tell you the truth.”
I straighten up, and wipe my suddenly moisture-slick palms on my jeans.
“Yeah,” I say. I’m having trouble meeting his gaze. So I keep mine on Garfield, instead. “About that.”
Cooper straightens, too. “It’s just,” he says. I can’t tell where he’s looking, because I’m busy looking at Garfield. But I have an idea he’s looking at me, and feel a corresponding rise in temperature in my cheeks. “When I told you a few months ago that I didn’t want to be your rebound guy—”
“We really,” I hurry to say—because I have a feeling I’m not going to like where this conversation is headed—“don’t have to talk about this. In fact, I have an idea. Let’s just go to bed. We’ve both had a really long, hard day. Let’s sleep on it. Let’s not say anything we might regret.”
“I’m not going to regret saying this,” Cooper says.
I do tear my gaze from Garfield at that.
“You have a concussion,” I insist, checking his pupils for evenness. The EMT told me to do that. They look even enough. But how can I be sure? “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Heather.” To my surprise, he seizes both my hands in his. His gaze, on mine, is steady. Both his pupils look precisely even. “I don’t have a concussion. I know exactly what I’m saying. Something I should have said a long time ago.”
Oh God. Seriously. Why me? Has my day not been bad enough? I mean, really. Someone shot at me. A big orange cat named Garfield bit me. Why do I have to be rejected by the man I love as well?
“Cooper,” I say. “Really. Can’t we just—”
“No,” Cooper says firmly. “I know I said I didn’t want to be your rebound guy. And when I said it, I meant it. But I didn’t expect you to go out and find a rebound guy who was so—”
“Look,” I say, wincing. “I know. Okay? But—”
“—perfect,” Cooper concludes.
I blink up at him, thinking I’ve heard him wrong. “Wait. What?”
“I mean, I never expected him to ask you to move in with him,” Cooper bursts out. “Or that you’d say yes!”
“I—I didn’t!” I cry.
Cooper’s grip on my hands becomes very tight all of a sudden.
“Wait. You didn’t?” His gaze on mine is intent. His pupils, I note, are still even in size. “Then when you were talking to Tad tonight—”
My mouth has suddenly gone dry. Maybe, I’m starting to think, my day won’t end up being that bad after all.
“I turned him down,” I tell him. I don’t bother explaining to him just what, precisely, Tad asked me to do that I turned down. He doesn’t need to know that.
“What about your dad?” Cooper asks slowly. “The thing with Larry?”
“I turned that down, too,” I say. My heart has started doing something crazy inside my chest. I’m not sure what. But I think it’s the cha-cha. “Cooper, I don’t want to move in with Tad—he’s not perfect, by the way. Far from it. In fact…we broke up tonight. And I don’t want a new recording career. I love my job. I love living here, with you. Everything since I moved in here has been so great. I like things exactly the way they are. In fact, when I was getting shot at earlier, and I thought I was going to die, I was thinking how much I don’t want anything to change—”
“Yeah,” Cooper says. “Well, I wish I could say the same. Because I’m ready for a change.”
Then he lets go of my hands and grabs my waist instead.
And before I can say anything more, he pulls me toward him and brings his mouth down—quite possessively, I might add—over mine.
A lot of thoughts go through my head right then. Mainly, I’m thinking, Whoa. I’m kissing Cooper. I can’t believe it, really. I mean, all these months that I’ve had a crush on him, and never dreamed he might return my feelings.
And all it took to get him to admit it was dating my vegan killer Frisbee–playing math professor.
Oh, and nearly getting myself killed multiple times.
But who’s counting?
Cooper seems pretty serious about this kissing thing, too. When he starts kissing a girl—well, me, anyway—he doesn’t mess around. He gets busy right away with the pressing his body up against mine very determinedly, and the molding me to him. Also with the tongue. Excellent tongue action. I’m impressed. I’m more than impressed. I’m melting, is what I’m doing. I feel like a DoveBar that’s been left out of the refrigerated case too long. I’m going all soft and gooey.
In fact, by the time Cooper lets me up for air, my hard chocolate shell is completely gone, and I’m just a big limp mess.
&nbs
p; And I love it.
“In case I haven’t made it obvious,” Cooper says, in a slightly breathless voice, looking down at me with pupils that are most definitely completely even in size, “I think you should move in.”
“Cooper, I already live with you,” I point out.
“I mean, really move in with me. Downstairs. My place, not yours.”
“You’d have to start putting your stuff away,” I say, examining the very interesting way his five o’clock shadow disappears down the collar of his shirt. “No more fast-food wrappers in the office.”
“Fine,” he says. “Well, then no more investigating murders until you have your criminal justice degree. I was thinking October’s a nice month to get married.”
“Okay,” I say. Then I look up from my inspection of what’s going on down his shirt. “Wait. What?” I think my heart has stopped doing the cha-cha and started doing something a bit more complicated. Like something that is going to require defibrillation. “Did you say—”
“Elope, I mean,” Cooper corrects himself. “I hate weddings. But I’ve always liked the Cape in October. Not as many tourists.”
“Elope?” I’m in serious need of a paper bag. I can barely breathe. I think I might be hyperventilating.
“Unless you don’t want to,” Cooper says quickly, apparently noting my stunned expression. “I mean, we can take it slow if you want. But considering the Tad factor, I figured I better—”
“Eloping is fine,” I say quickly. I can’t believe I haven’t misheard him. He meant it. He actually meant it. Our joint detective agency—the one I always fantasized about—Wells-Cartwright Investigations…not to mention our three kids—Jack, Emily, and baby Charlotte!—they might actually come to exist someday…someday soon!
Oh my God. I really am going to hyperventilate.
Wait. No, I’m not. I’m not because this is just so…so…perfect.
I can barely contain my smile. Then I realize I don’t have to.
“Eloping is a great idea!” I gush. “Can we invite my dad?”
