Halfway Perfect
Authors: Julie Cross
Copyright © 2015 by Julie Cross and Mark Perini
Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image © hexvivo/Thinkstock; Glow Images, Inc/Getty Images
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cross, Julie.
Halfway perfect / Julie Cross and Mark Perini.
pages cm
Summary: Eve's time as a fashion model nearly destroyed her and now she is determined to build a career behind the camera after landing a photography internship in New York City, bringing her face to face with her dark past, her ex, and an up-and-coming male model named Alex who is falling for her.
(trade paper : alk. paper) [1. FashionâFiction. 2. PhotographyâFiction. 3. Models (Persons)âFiction. 4. LoveâFiction.] I. Perini, Mark. II. Title.
PZ7.C88272Hal 2015
[Fic]âdc23
2014036352
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“Imperfection is beauty.”
âMarilyn Monroe
October 2, 6:45 a.m.
I cut everything in half.
And by everything, I mean everythingâbuildings, vehicles, treesâ¦people.
Through the lens of my camera, I attempt to slice a billboard in half, allowing only Conan's right half into my shot. I shift the camera down lower and zoom in on a man seated at a table across the busy street. He's got a coffee cup in one hand and uses the other to press his cell phone to his ear. On one side he's Wall Street and the other halfâthe side with his fingers gently wrapped around the paper cup and his eyes staring straight aheadâhe's an artist deep in thought. Maybe an author or a musician. Or a journalist who's feeling the emotional impact of a recent devastating story.
I lower my camera and tuck it into my bag as a woman approaches. She's exactly as I pictured herâfortysomething, brown hair in a messy ponytail, khakis cut off at the knee, tan lines in all the wrong places from hours of shooting outdoors, a giant bag of equipment slung gracefully over her shoulder.
I stand up and stick my hand out to shake hers. “I'm such an admirer of your work. I love theâ”
“Eve Nowakowski, right? Professor Larson's student?”
I have Professor Larson for three classes this semester as part of the photography program at Columbia.
“Yes, I'mâ”
Janessa Fields cuts me off again, waving a hand as if to say she doesn't have time or patience for my fangirl moment. And just like that, we're walking at a brisk New Yorker's pace and I'm stumbling to follow, despite the fact that she's the one lugging fifty pounds of equipment.
“Do you need some help with your bag?” I ask.
“I've got it, thanks.” It's clear this is not one of those times where you should insist on helping anyway. “Professor Larson is the only person in the world who can talk me into allowing an eighteen-year-old student from Bostonâ”
“Actually, I'm from Indiana.”
She glares at me, and I bite down on my tongue. “Professor Larson was my mentor years ago, so just try to stay out of the way today, understood?”
“Professor Larson didn't mention what you're working on today.”
“That's because I didn't tell him.”
She opens the door to a building and my pulse speeds up. I know this building. I've been here before. “Isn't this
S
eventeen?”
“Exactly why I didn't mention the client to Professor Larson.” Janessa Fields rolls her eyes. “I was afraid if you knew the client, you might have come with a clan of screaming friends.”
No, but I might not have shown up ha
d I known.
“I'm just picking up some equipment for the shoot today. This isn't my usual cup of tea, but we all have to do some editorials now and again.”
Not her usual cup of tea? That's like the biggest understatement of the year. I mean, seriously? Capturing third-world poverty on film versus taking photos for editorials on prom makeup or how to get your crush to notice youâthe difference is greater than the distance between New York City and Africa.
Walking through this building and toward the elevator, I'm already feeling sick to my stomach, fighting the urge to turn around and run. I'm supposed to be studying photography with a woman who can make tragedy look beautiful in a photo, not someone photographing teen models for an article about how to tell if your boyfriend's cheating on you.
Janessa yells at me to keep up, then she leaves me in the magazine's lobby while she gets her equipment from an intern. I stand at the end of a long, carpeted hallway. The walls are lined with framed covers from dozens of issues.
I stroll slowly past each one, looking at the gorgeous, perfect models, knowing more than I'd like to about what goes into those shots. I pause on an issue from four years ago. The cover features a brown-haired girl from Indianaâ
International
Model
and
Only
Fifteen
Years
Old: Eve Castle Tells All in an Exclusive Interview with
Seventeen. She's thin in a Kate Moss way, with gangly limbs and a flat chest. She was nearly six feet tall when she was in middle school, and boys used to stare at that flat chest because her training bra was at eye level for them.
My hair hasn't changed much in four years and neither has my height. But she's different.
Her
eyes are different, and she looks happier than I feel now. I almost want to reach into the picture and shake her, tell her what's going to happen to her. Maybe I can make it so she stays happy.
“Wasn't he just adorable in that issue?” someone says behind me. “Hard to find that blond, youthful, all-American look. That's probably why we've had him on the cover three times.”
He? Fifteen-year-old me may have been flat-chested, but I didn't look l
ike a boy.
My gaze drifts to the right. To the guy on the cover of a different issue. His arms are wrapped around the waist of a perky cheerleader-type model with shiny black hair. The headline at the top reads:
How
to
Win
Over
Your
Crush
This
Valent
ine's Day.
I hear the swish of Janessa's equipment bag against her water-resistant khakis. “Absolutely adorable,” she says. “Middle school boys make excellent sex symbols.”
My heart pounds as Janessa's gaze slides left, to the cover beside the “middle school boy's” photo. I glance over my shoulder at the perky twentysomething intern. She looks a little red in the face but doesn't respond to Janessa's crude remark. Janessa nods toward the photo of the guy and the girl together. “Actually, I think this kid's in our shoot today. Lucky you. You might get to meet every girl's Valentine's Day crush.”
Yeah. Can't wait
for that.
Does Janessa recognize me? Does she care? Is anyone else at the job going to recognize me? Surely I'm old news by now. What if I'm wrong and I get thrown into a situation where I have to explain why I left modeling? Might be best to take off now, just in case.
But you don't get into a school like Columbia without putting grades above emotional stabilityâat least some of the time. And I can't imagine running away and disappointing Professor Larson after he used his connections to set this up for me.
Janessa turns around and launches herself down the hall. I let out a big sigh before following her.
When we get to the studio, Janessa introduces me to the producer, who introduces us to several wardrobe and makeup people. No one gives me a first glance, let alone a second glance. For a moment, I relax. I'm in the clear.
Then I see him. Red hair gelled and spiked to perfection, slim dress pants perfectly pressed, and a button-down shirt half-untucked in that trendy way. He's barking into his cell phone, flashing a tight smile at the producer.
Wes Danes.
The air is sucked out of my lungs, my legs instantly weak.
My first thought hits: What's he doing here?
Followed by the second: I need to stay far away from Wes Danes.
Unfortunately, I've been staring at him like an idiot for a good thirty seconds instead of finding something to hide behind.
Wes gives me a double take. But he plays it cool. He doesn't show any sign of surprise beyond a quick widening of his eyes. He slowly makes his way over, walking past me with a slight nod toward the elevator.
Don't do it, don't f
ollow him.
But I can't stop my feet. He nods and they move. Traitors.
I hold my breath and follow the trail of his designer cologne through the elevator doors. As they close, the walls press in on me from all sides.
“How are you, Evie?” he asks in a quiet voice so different from the commanding assertive voice he'd used on the phone moments ago.
“Iâ¦I'm⦔ The doors open, letting us out on the first floor. I trail Wes down a hall and into a secluded corridor.
He spins around to face me. “What are you doing here?”
“It's justâ¦I have this⦔ I can't look him in the eye. “It's a long story.”
He steps closerâtoo closeâand scrubs his hands over his face. This is Vulnerable Wes. The guy I fell in love with. It'd be much easier to have this chat with arrogant, It's-Not-Personal-It's-Business Wes. “Who are you working with? What agent? And what have they booked for you? Why didn't you call me, Evie? After everythingâ”
“I'm not working,” I say, finally able to look him in the eye. “I'm here for a photography class. My professorâ”
His eyebrows lift. “You're in college? In New York?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “At Columbia.”
The surprise is evident on his face, and I feel the tiniest twinge of satisfaction.
A
lot
can
happen
in
two
y
ears, Wes.
Suddenly, a memory from two years ago returns. Him yelling at me, his warm breath in my face. The crash of the chair against the china cabinet, glass shattering all over his apartment floor. I remember the panic I fought that day. It was like my brain and body were completely torn in twoâhalf of me ready to bolt out the door, the other half clinging to our yearlong relationship. That night I had walked through his door ready to tell him I wanted out, ready to tell his boss that I needed a new agent, but the second Wes held me and said he was sorry, I caved. It took me two more weeks to leave, and I haven't seen or spoken to Wes since.
Why does a tiny part of me still feel drawn to him? I hate him. I know I hate him. But he made me love him. Apparently two years isn't long enough to make that fade. It should be, but it isn't.
“Yo, Wes!” someone shouts from down the corridor.
Wes springs into action. “We'll talk later,” he whispers.
No, we won't. Not if I ca
n help it.
He's already walking away before I can respond. He won't know where to find me, right? Why didn't I lie and say I went to NYU? But I guess Wes knows me better than that. I've had my heart set on going to Columbia since I started modeling in New York City when I was fourteen.
I recognize the guy Wes is talking to. He's the model that Janessa called a middle schooler. Except he looks older now. That cover photo was from a few years ago. On my walk to the elevator, I feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. I just look straight ahead, wishing away the heat flaring on my cheeks.
Does
he
recognize
me?
He might. Or maybe he's checking me out. I guess that's possible. Statistics are in favor of him just being a guy and staring at me for guy reasons and not personal ones.
Since I've returned to New York for school, I've been looking for a nice guy to date because that seemed soâ¦I don't knowâ¦normal. But this guy would not fit into that mold. Not even close. But I'm still in favor of being ogled rather than being recognized as Eve Castle.
I avoid eye contact and slide into the elevator the second the doors open, but not before I hear Wes giving muffled instructions. Something about impressing Elana or “making nice with her.”
I don't even want to know what the hell that means.
