Friday, April 25, 2014

Girls Rule Friday: Heather Wells (Heather Wells Mysterious)

Character: Heather Wells

Age: 25

Likes: lattes, cappuccinos, chocolate-covered orange peels, bagels with cream cheese and bacon, Splenda, Hershey Kisses, daydreaming about kissing her roommate Cooper Cartwright

Dislikes: fat-shaming, murder scenes, her ex-fiance, cheating, liars, salad without dressing, dieting

Why We Love Her: Heather is any girl's best friend. She doesn't shy away from standing up for herself and is proud to be the average size 12 for an American woman. She never let's anyone make her feel bad about herself and has a wonderful sense of humor through everything she has to face. You will literally laugh out loud so many times from Heather's commentary and narration!!! She's just so lovable and entertaining and relatable and honest. One of our favorite female leads!!


The Allingtons’ only child, Christopher—a very good-looking guy in his late twenties, who wears a lot of Brooks Brothers, and is living in graduate student housing while attending the college’s law school—was behind the wheel of their forest green Mercedes when they finally left. Dr. Allington solicitously placed his wife in the backseat, their overnight bags in the trunk, then hopped into the front seat beside his son.

Christopher Allington peeled out so fast that people attending the street fair—oh yes. The street fair went on, in spite of the fire engine and coroner’s wagon—jumped up onto the sidewalk, thinking someone was trying to run them down.

I’ll tell you something: If Allingtons were my parents, I’d have tried to run people down, too.
Dr. Flynn recovers from my announcement that I’m leaving before anybody else. He says, “Of course, Heather. You go on home. We don’t need Heather anymore, do we, Stan?”

Dr. Jessup exhales a stream of blue-gray smoke.

“Go home,” he says to me. “Have a drink. A big one.”

“Oh Heather,” Rachel cries. She leaps up from her swivel chair and, to my surprise, throws her arms around me. She has never been physically demonstrative with me before. “Thank you so much for coming over. I don’t know what we would  have done without you. You keep such a level head in a crisis.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I hadn’t done a single thing. I certainly hadn’t bought her those flowers Dr. Jessup had recommended. I’d calmed the student workers down, maybe, and talked Sarah out of having her dance, but that’s it, really. Not exactly anything like-saving.

I look everywhere but at anyone else’s face as Rachel hugs me. Hugging Rachel is a lot like hugging—well, a stick. Because she’s so thin. I sort of feel bad for her. Because who wants to hug a stick? I know all those guys who go after models do. But I mean, what kind of normal person wants to hug or be hugged by, a lot of pointy bones? It would be one thing if she were naturally pointy. But I happen to know that Rachel starves herself in order to be that way on purpose.

It’s just not right.

To my relief, Rachel lets go almost immediately, and as soon as she does, I hurry from the office without another word, mostly because I am afraid I will start crying if I speak. Not because of her boniness, but because it all just seems like such a waste. I mean, a girl is dead, her parents devastated. And for what? A thrill ride on top of an elevator?

It just doesn’t make any sense.

Since the alarm to the fire exit is still turned off, I leave the building through it, relieved that I don’t have to pass the reception desk. Because I seriously think I might lose it if anyone says single a single word to me. I have to walk all the way down to Sixth Avenue and around the block avoid running into anyone I know—passing right by Banana Republic, which does carry size 12 clothing, but rarely has any in stock, because, being that it’s most common size, they can never keep enough of it on the racks for everyone—but it’s worth it. I am in no shape for small talk with anyone.

Sadly, however, when I get to my front door, I discover that small talk is exactly what I’m in for. Because lounging on my front stoop is my ex-fiancé, Jordan Cartwright.

And I’d truly been convinced my day couldn’t get any worse.

He straightens when he sees me, and hangs up the cell phone he’d been jawing into. The late-afternoon sunlight brings out the gold highlights in his blood hair, and I can’t help noticing that in spite of the Indian summer heat, the lines pressed into his white shirt and—yes, I’m sorry to have to say it—matching white pants look perfectly crisp.

With the white outfit, and the gold chain around his neck, he looks like he’s AWOL from a really bad boy band.

Which, sadly, is exactly what he is.

“Heather,” he says, when he sees me.

I can’t read his pale blue eyes because they’re hidden by the lenses of his Armani sunglasses. But I suppose they are, as always, filled with tender concern for my well-being. Jordan is good at making people think he actually cares about them. It’s one of the reasons his first solo effort, “Baby, Be Mine,” went double platinum. The video was number one on Total Request Live for weeks.

“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I guess Coop’s not home. Are you all right? I came down as soon as I heard.”

I just blink at him. What is he doing here? We broke up. Doesn’t he remember?

Maybe not. He’s obviously been working out. Like majorly. There’s actual definition to his biceps.

Maybe a dumbbell fell on his head or something.

Check out Author Meg Cabot on her website, Twitter, and Facebook!

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