The Bride Wore Size 12 (17 page)

“How about simply asking us how our day is going,” Sarah says. “That’s the customary way of greeting one’s coworkers.”

Kyle looks a little lost, but asks gamely, “How is your day going?,” swallowing so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob.

I’m starting to wonder if maybe Sarah is right: could it be that there aren’t any decent guys left?

As if on cue, the door to Lisa’s office is thrown open, and she stands there with a clipboard in hand, looking paler than usual, some of her dark hair slipping out of the clip into which she’s attempted to tuck it, but otherwise seeming like her normal self.

“Hi, guys,” she says, moving aside to make room for someone who’s been inside her office to pass through the doorway. “I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, Dave Fernandez.”

As soon as Sarah lays eyes on Dave Fernandez, who waves amiably in the general direction of everyone in the office, she begins to choke on the fry she’s just swallowed.

I don’t blame her.

“Dave will be moving onto the fourteenth floor,” Lisa goes on, ignoring Sarah’s sputters, “just as soon as Jasmine’s room becomes available.”

“Hi,” Dave says. His voice is deeply melodic, his manner easygoing. “Lisa’s told me a lot of nice things about you guys, and Jasmine too. Wish I could have known her. Sorry to be meeting all of you under these circumstances, but I’m glad to have the privilege, just the same.”

He’s several years older than the other boys—older than Sarah, and possibly even Lisa—which might explain his self-assured nonchalance, but I think there’s something more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, though. Possibly it’s the fact that he’s wearing well-scuffed cowboy boots beneath his jeans. Cowboy boots, in New York City! His underwear isn’t showing either, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s properly buttoned.

He still manages to look cool, however. So cool that in comparison to him, Kyle looks like a middle schooler. Maybe it’s because the cowboy boots give Dave an extra couple inches in height over everyone else in the room.

“It’s great to have you here, Dave,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, assistant hall director. When you figure out what day you’re moving in, let me know. I can make sure the room is clean and ready for you.”

Dave nods in my direction. “Thanks, Heather,” he says with a smile.

Sarah has swigged some water from her New York College stainless-steel water bottle to wash down the fry, and now she nearly gags on it. I suspect that’s because Dave’s smile is so dazzling and his biceps so defined, they put even Prince Rashid’s to shame.

Sarah very badly wants to introduce herself to him, but she can’t quite seem to get the words out.

“Unh,” Sarah says.

“I need someone to show Dave over to the Housing Office so we can get his paperwork in order,” Lisa says. “Anyone care to volunteer?”

“Gurk,” Sarah chokes, eagerly waving an arm to volunteer. “Murg.”

“Not you, Sarah,” Lisa says. “I need you to stay here.”

Dave’s dark eyebrows lower with concern. “You all right over there, Sarah?”

“Oh, um,” Sarah says. She chokes some more, her face turning a delicate shade of magenta. “Yes, thanks, I just, ahem, swallowed wrong.”

“I hate when that happens,” Dave says with another one of his amazing smiles.

“Howard, Kyle, would one of you mind?” Lisa asks.

Kyle whips out his cell phone and glances at it. “Ooo, can’t, Lisa, I’m late to meet my trainer.”

“I c-can’t either, Lisa,” Howard stammers. “I have to study.”

Lisa frowns at Howard. “Classes haven’t started yet, Howard.”

“I’m t-trying to get a head start on my reading,” Howard says. “I’m premed, remember?”

Lisa gives Howard an odd look, but it doesn’t matter. There are plenty of other volunteers.

“I’ll do it,” Rajiv says. “I’m heading in that direction anyway.”

“No, no,” Sarah says, leaping up from behind her desk. “Really, I don’t mind doing it. I’m free.”

“You aren’t free, Sarah,” Lisa says, looking annoyed. “I’m expecting Jasmine’s parents within the hour. I need you here.”

Sarah looks crushed but, never one to shirk her duty, says, “Of course. Well, nice to meet you, Dave.” Having recovered from her embarrassing drooling incident, she thrusts her hand toward the new hire. “I’m Sarah Rosenberg, the building GA.”

“Hi, Sarah Rosenberg, the building GA,” Dave says, thrusting out his own strong brown hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

It’s only when his fingers end up dangling about twelve inches higher than Sarah’s that I take a closer look at Dave’s face and realize the truth.

20

S
arah’s incredulous. “You hired a
blind
RA?”

We’re standing in Lisa’s office. Kyle and Howard have left, as has Rajiv. He’s gone to escort Dave to the Housing Office to get his paperwork completed, though at first Dave protested that he didn’t need an escort.

“I’ve already taken a tour of the campus,” he’d said cheerfully. “The Housing Office is straight across the park, then another two blocks straight from there, then it’s the first door to the right, on the corner.”

It was a strange way to put it (to a sighted person), but he was completely correct.

“I’m headed to the bookstore,” Rajiv had said, “which is in the same direction, but two doors down. Might as well go together.”

Rajiv seemed fascinated by the sight of the collapsible white cane Dave suddenly produced from his backpack, unfolded, then slashed about like a cowboy with a whip (we all backed away to avoid getting hit). I got the feeling Rajiv wanted to see Dave swinging that thing through the park. I wanted to too.

“What if I did hire a blind RA?” Lisa demands, folding her arms across her chest, then wincing and dropping them to her sides again. It was obvious—to me, anyway—that her nipples were still sore. “I never expected
you,
of all people, Sarah, to be so close-minded. Dave may be limited visually, but he makes up for it by being far from limited mentally.”

Sarah’s mouth sags open. “I didn’t mean—I just meant, how is he going to . . . ?”

“ . . . do the job for which he’s been hired?” Lisa finishes for her. “This is only a guess, but I’m thinking he’s going to do it better than either Howard or Kyle.”

“And he’s
literally
going to do it blind,” I point out.

Neither Lisa nor Sarah smiles at my little joke. I’m not surprised. Many of my finest witticisms go unappreciated.

“Dave may no longer be able to drive, or make out people’s facial expressions, or even tell what kind of food he’s feeding his cat,” Lisa goes on, “but during my interview with him, it was obvious to me that he sees a lot more than most sighted people. It might interest you to know that he served in the military over in Afghanistan. His vision problems are the result of head trauma from a roadside bomb.”

I can’t help inhaling sharply. “Oh, how terrible.” Sarah’s mouth sags even further.

“But according to his application,” Lisa says, tapping the manila file on her desk, “he’s already learned how to read braille. He’s decided to go back to school to get his master’s degree in computer science, and none of the people who recommended him for the RA position believe his lack of sight will stand in his way. His parents are deceased, so he’s here on a full academic scholarship, which means he’s also a work-study student.”

As soon as I hear the words “work-study student,” I pounce. Work-study students are like gold, because 35 percent of what they earn working for us comes out of the college’s budget, not the building’s individual budget. That leaves me more money to buy fun things, such as snacks and soda for staff parties . . . although technically I’m not supposed to be using money from the budget to purchase these kinds of items.

But after seeing the orgy of finger sandwiches in the president’s office, I’m going to be buying all the pizza and Diet Coke for the staff—what’s left of it—our budget can afford.

“We could give him a work-study position at the front desk,” I say. “There are always night and early-morning shifts open. Classes will be starting soon, and as much as Gavin might disagree, he can’t work twenty-four/seven—”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Lisa says with a smile at me. “Dave says he has this thing, some kind of label maker that prints things in braille.”

“Perfect,” I say, thinking of my emergency contact list. It would look even more brilliant shrunk down to pocket size in braille. “Working the desk will be a big change after dodging IEDs in Afghanistan, but it pays, and we definitely need the help.”

“I don’t think Dave’s going to mind,” Lisa says. “He says he’s ready to make a completely new start, he and Itchy, his cat.”

I hear a whimper from Sarah’s direction. When I glance at her, I’m surprised to see that her face has crumpled.

“Sarah,” I ask in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

Lisa frowns at her. “Sarah, I know residents aren’t allowed to have pets in the building, but I told Dave we’d make an exception for Itchy because it’s a therapy cat. My understanding is that the animal has really helped him through his recovery—”

“God!” Sarah cries. Tears are beginning to trickle down her face. It’s a repeat performance of yesterday, only this time there’s no dead body in sight. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not upset because you’re bending the rules for his cat! I think it’s incredibly sweet that he has a cat. I think it’s incredibly sweet that you—oh, Lisa!”

Sarah raises her arms, and to my surprise—and Lisa’s too, evidently, judging from her stunned expression—throws her arms around Lisa’s neck, embracing her in what looks to me like a stranglehold of a hug.

“This is just . . . You’re just . . . This is all just so
great,
” Sarah sobs into Lisa’s neck. “This is
exactly
what the staff needs after everything that’s happened with Jasmine. Someone like Dave. Thank you.
Thank you
.”

“Oh,” Lisa says, her eyes widening at me over Sarah’s broad shoulder. “Um. Okay. Well, I wouldn’t thank me yet, Sarah. I haven’t told you the bad news.”

“I don’t care,” Sarah says, still clinging to Lisa. “I don’t care, I don’t care. I’m so happy right now. I’m so happy someone like Dave’s going to be joining our staff.”

“I bet you are,” I say. “I saw you checking out his biceps. Guess there are some decent guys left after all, huh, Sarah?”

“Shut up, Heather,” Sarah says, but happily, without a trace of her usual rancor. “You’re such a great person, Lisa. I’m serious. I know I usually have a bad attitude, and I may come off as kind of bitchy sometimes”—sometimes?—“but I want you to know that I genuinely love this job, and I genuinely love you.” She lifts her head and looks over at me. “Both of you. For real. You’re my best friends. Well, my only friends, really. But I want to make sure you know it.”

“Okay,” Lisa says, patting Sarah on the back. “That’s great, Sarah. We feel the same way about you. Don’t we, Heather?”

“You know,” I can’t help pointing out, “we don’t even know for sure that Dave’s heterosexual. He could have a girlfriend. You’re kind of just assuming—”

“Don’t we, Heather?”
Lisa says again, through gritted teeth.

“Yes, Sarah,” I say, patting her on the back the way Lisa had. “We both love you too.”

“Great,” Lisa says, prying Sarah’s grip from her neck. “But you and I are still going to have to have a little chat about some other stuff that’s going on around here, Sarah. Stuff I don’t think you’re going to like very much. But first I have to have a talk with Heather really fast. Could you give us some privacy for a few minutes? Like I said, Jasmine’s parents should be here soon, so knock on my door when they show up. And please take that dirty plate back to the cafeteria, it’s stinking up the entire office. I’ve asked you before not to eat at your desk. Bagels in the morning are one thing, but cheeseburgers are disgusting.”

“Of course,” Sarah says, practically floating.

Lisa pauses as she’s about to close the door to her office with me inside. “Where did those flowers come from?” she asks, noticing the bouquet on my desk.

“Prince Rashid had them delivered,” Sarah replies. She’s in such a good mood now, she doesn’t make any disparaging remarks about the repressive regime in Qalif, or large flowers being overcompensation by men concerned about the size of their genitalia. “He sent some to you too, Lisa. They’re up at the desk. Want me to get them and bring them back for you?”

“Ugh, no,” Lisa says, swinging the door closed. “The smell is making me sick.”

As soon as the door is shut, Lisa sinks down into her office chair, pulls open a desk drawer, and brings out a little white plastic wand. “Take a look at this,” she says to me grimly.

I examine the wand, which Lisa lays on the top of her desk. It’s clearly a wand from a pregnancy test. I recognize it from having seen them on TV and in the movies.

“Oh,” I say, attempting to sound casual. “So you did the test already?”

“Of course I did the test already,” Lisa says miserably. “I did six of them. I bought three of the kind that come two in a pack.” She pulls more of the wands from her desk drawer and lays them out on top of her desk, quite close to Dave’s file. “They’re supposed to be ninety-nine percent accurate, and they all say the same thing.”

“You peed on all those?” I ask, my eyes widening.

“Of course I peed on them,” Lisa says. “That’s how you find out if you’re pregnant.” She widens her own eyes at me. “Oh my God. Have you never done a pregnancy test before?”

“Well, no,” I admit. “I told you, I’ve got chronic endometriosis. I couldn’t get pregnant without medical intervention even if I never used birth control, and I’ve never not used birth control, so how am I going to get pregnant?” I remind myself never to touch that area of Lisa’s desk again, at least not until I’ve borrowed some cleansing liquid from Julio and thoroughly disinfected it. Not that I think Lisa is carrying any diseases, but honestly, used pregnancy tests are way more revolting than Sarah eating cheeseburgers at her desk. “So what do they say?”

“They say I’m pregnant!” Lisa cries. “See the plus sign? That means pregnant. Super-duper pregnant. Six times six pregnant.” She flops against the back of her office chair. “I have a dead RA, nine who are about to be fired, and a baby. Whoop-de-do! I’m the luckiest residence hall director in the world.”

I find myself needing to sit down. I sink into one of the hard-backed chairs to the side of Lisa’s desk.

After the information Eva had given me, I’d suspected Lisa was pregnant, of course, but I hadn’t fully believed it. Now that the truth is glaringly obvious, I’m having a hard time processing it.

But not as hard a time as Lisa.

“Heather, what am I going to do?” she asks, leaning forward to drop her head onto her desk. “This is so not how things were supposed to go. I just started this job. I have a building to run. I can’t have a baby!”

“Well,” I say carefully. “If you decide to keep it, I’m sure we can work something out. You bring your dog to work all the time. Why not a baby?”

Lisa, her head still on her desk, lets out a sarcastic snort. “Babies aren’t dogs, Heather, in case you never noticed.”

“Still, babies are pretty small,” I go on, every bit as carefully. “We could probably fit yours in the bottom drawer of that file cabinet over there. No one will ever even notice.”

Lisa raises her head. Her face is tear-streaked. “Cory’s going to notice,” she says, pulling a tissue from the box on one corner of her desk. “We had an agreement: no kids.”

“Well, sorry,” I say, “but if Cory was that antichildren, he should have done a little bit more to make sure you two didn’t have any.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He could have had a vasectomy.”

Lisa gasps. “Heather!”

“Why not? It’s a simple procedure that only takes half an hour to perform, and doctors do close to half a million of them every year in the U.S. alone.” I watch way too much of the Discovery Channel. “So why did Cory never get one? Do you think it might be because he’s secretly undecided on the subject of kids?”

Lisa stares at me, her mouth slightly ajar.

“Oh God, Heather. I never even thought of that. Do you really think that’s true?”

I shrug. “How should I know? But I think before you make any decisions about this, you and Cory need to have a long talk. And you need to visit your gynecologist too. Six plus signs probably mean you really are pregnant,” I say, waving my hand at her white wands, “but you never know. And remember, it’s
your
body. Whatever you decide to do is up to
you
.”

Lisa’s shoulders slump. “That’s just it,” she says. “I don’t know what to do. I feel so awful telling you all this, because I know how badly you want a baby and can’t have one, and here I am, never having wanted one, pregnant by mistake, like some dumb teenager on MTV.”

“Hey,” I say, reaching out to squeeze one of her hands. “It’s not like that. If I really wanted a kid, there are steps I could take. I’m just not any more ready to jump on the baby train than you are. But I’ll be here for you, no matter what. More important, I think Cory will be too. He completely adores you.”

Lisa’s gaze softens as she glances at a framed photo on her desk of her and Cory on their wedding day, holding Tricky, their ring bearer. “You think so?”

“I
know
so.” I give her hand a final squeeze, then release it. “It’s pretty obvious from the way he looks at you. Every time I see you guys together, his face is all goopy and smiley. He really, really loves you.”

The tips of Lisa’s ears turn red as she flushes, but this time from pleasure, not rage. “Goopy?” she echoes with a little laugh. “That’s not even a real word.”

“But you know what I’m talking about. That look guys get on their faces when the person they love is around . . . like they can’t believe anyone that amazing would ever fall for someone like them. That’s Cory, with you. It’s like he thinks he’s won the lottery or something. You two are going to be okay, no matter what.”

“You’re exaggerating to make me feel better,” Lisa says, but she’s smiling as she lifts the wedding photo on her desk and gazes down at it. “I do know the look you mean, though. It
is
kind of goopy. And he’s so great around our nieces and nephews. I always kind of suspected he secretly wanted a kid of his own . . . Oh, but, Heather, what if we have this baby and he turns out to be a serial killer?”