by Julie Cross
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Also by Julie Cross and Mark Perini
Halfway Perfect
Copyright © 2016 by Julie Cross and Mark Perini
Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Nicole Komasinski/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image © Aleshyn_Andrei/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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 systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without 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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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Eddie
Chapter 2: Finley
Chapter 3: Finley
Chapter 4: Eddie
Chapter 5: Finley
Chapter 6: Eddie
Chapter 7: Finley
Chapter 8: Eddie
Chapter 9: Finley
Chapter 10: Eddie
Chapter 11: Finley
Chapter 12: Eddie
Chapter 13: Finley
Chapter 14: Eddie
Chapter 15: Finley
Chapter 16: Eddie
Chapter 17: Finley
Chapter 18: Finley
Chapter 19: Eddie
Chapter 20: Finley
Chapter 21: Eddie
Chapter 22: Finley
Chapter 23: Eddie
Chapter 24: Finley
Chapter 25: Eddie
Chapter 26: Finley
Chapter 27: Eddie
Chapter 28: Finley
Chapter 29: Eddie
Chapter 30: Finley
Chapter 31: Eddie
Chapter 32: Finley
Chapter 33: Eddie
Chapter 34: Finley
Chapter 35: Eddie
Chapter 36: Finley
Chapter 37: Eddie
Chapter 38: Finley
Chapter 39: Eddie
Chapter 40: Finley
Chapter 41: Eddie
Chapter 42: Finley
Chapter 43: Eddie
Chapter 44: Finley
Chapter 45: Eddie
Chapter 46: Finley
Chapter 47: Eddie
Chapter 48: Finley
Chapter 49: Eddie
Chapter 50: Eddie
Chapter 51: Finley
Nine Months Later: Eddie
Nine Months Later: Finley
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Back Cover
To all the dreamers dreaming.
CHAPTER 1
Eddie
“Name?”
“Eddie Wells.” I stop myself from adding “sir” to the end—a habit that’s been beaten into me since learning to talk. Regular guys don’t bother with those formalities.
The guy in front of me holds out a hand, and before I can react and shake it, I realize I’m supposed to hand him something.
I don’t have one of those book things yet. All I have is a color printout of a few Polaroids that I just took at the modeling agency. The girl who I explained this to is all the way across the room, holding the clipboard with my size card.
Six people are now staring at me. My palms dampen, but I avoid wiping them on my jeans. I could tell him that I’m not sure how this is all supposed to happen, stumble over my words and look like a desperate idiot, but I doubt that’ll win me any jobs.
I lift an eyebrow. “So…are we taking some pictures? I haven’t done this before, but my agent said we were taking pictures.”
He stares hard at me, raising an eyebrow to match mine. Everyone else is still, watching. Finally, the girl with the clipboard jumps into action. She and the guy who seems to be in charge lean their heads together, looking over my size card and whispering loud enough for me to catch most of it.
I hear the girl mention Shay Silver, the agent whose office I left less than thirty minutes ago. Last week, right outside a store in Soho, I had just put in an application to work there, and Shay had stopped me and promised ten times the income doing this modeling thing. I hadn’t believed her, but after looking into it, skepticism turned to hope. And my decision was made—leaving home, defying my parents, lying to nearly everyone, and pretty much giving up my friends, social life, and well…my life as I know it. Knew it. All to stand in front of these people while they whisper about me.
“Eddie Wells,” the guy in charge says. “Good call shortening your name. The real thing is a bit of a mouthful.”
I roll my eyes. “No kidding.”
Laughter fills the room, and I have to work hard not to do the deer-in-headlights thing. Or tug at my shirt collar. Shay Silver had spent a good forty-five minutes going on about the types of jobs I could book, the clients who would like my look, whatever the hell that might be. I understood exactly two things from that conversation—directions to the casting and her advice to appear confident.
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing to look like you belong, Eddie.”
I’ve never felt more out of place in my entire life, but the goal is only to look like I belong.
Within seconds, the guy in charge is directing me to stand in a line while a photographer takes pictures. I do what I’m told, keeping my face and shoulders relaxed like I don’t care if they like me or not. It’s an attitude I’ve never really tried out before, and I’m surprised how freeing it is. To be someone else.
“What do you like to do for fun, Eddie?” the photographer asks me.
Fun. I think I remember that word. Barely. But what does Eddie Wells like to do for fun? “Whatever I can get away with—parties, concerts, skydiving. I’ll try anything once.”
“The hair is great,” someone says, not even bothering to whisper.
My hair is dark, curly, out of control, and always too long for my mother’s approval. She has my father’s personal assistant send me monthly haircut reminders, most of which I ignore.
“Really goes with the image.”
There they go with that image talk again.
“Eighteen—legal and on the loose,” another guy says.
This time, I refrain from rolling my eyes. I’m probably supposed to agr
ee with that one.
The talking about me while I’m standing right here goes on for a few minutes until the girl with the clipboard leads me out of the room and back into the lobby.
There’s a guy who Shay introduced me to at the agency waiting in the chairs. Dima. He’s older than me by a few years. Either Russian or Hungarian. He grins when he sees me. “How’d it go, man? You survive?”
The girl is still around, so I shrug and say, “Who knows?”
“I hear ya,” he says. “You looking for something fun to do tonight? I’m having a party. We could use a few more pretty faces, if you know what I mean.”
Just the word party turns my stomach. But Eddie Wells likes parties. “Uh, yeah, maybe I’ll stop by.”
He gives me the address along with a fist bump, and then it’s his turn to be subjected to the people inside the room.
“Eddie? Got a question for you,” the girl behind the desk says. “You didn’t list an address on your form.”
“Right. The agency is still trying to hook me up with a place, so…yeah.”
This could be a problem. I glance at the door Dima disappeared behind, and then I turn and give the girl his address. Who says I’m not good under pressure?
She quickly jots it down without question. “So, Eddie Wells… Are you available tomorrow?”
I try not to smile and instead shrug. “Don’t know. You’ll have to check with my agent.”
On the inside, I let out the biggest sigh of relief.
CHAPTER 2
Finley
“What do you like to do for fun”—he looks down at my card and then adds—“Finley?”
I take my spot in the center of the room, quickly fluffing my hair and tossing it over one shoulder. “Well, I have a morning yoga ritual, and I’ve just mastered the scorpion forearm stand pose. And knitting. I’m getting pretty good at hats. I usually spend the weekend having movie marathons with my roommates—right now, we’re all super into Toby Rhinehart. Anything he’s in, we watch a dozen times.”
The Toby Rhinehart stuff is a bit of a stretch. I do like his movies, but I also heard that Alexander Wang just hired him. I don’t know what this casting is for, but if it is for Wang, I figured being a fan of the headliner couldn’t hurt my chances.
The guy gives me a tight-lipped smile and continues asking me the basics, while others around the room make comments that any decent person would have made an effort to at least whisper.
“Too sweet.”
“The blond-haired, blue-eyed, girl-next-door look is hard to make edgy.”
“Especially with Grandma’s knitting needles in the picture.”
I force myself to smile and answer questions, ignoring the conversation and laughter happening to my right. I’m dismissed literally thirty seconds later, but I wait until I’m outside under the mid-June heat before releasing my frustrations.
That was pointless. And also like the hundredth time I’ve been labeled too sweet or not edgy enough. My agent really needs to stop sending me on these suicide missions.
Or maybe it’s me.
I check my phone for the third time since leaving the building. I slow down my pace, not ready to get on the subway and lose cell reception. No text from Jason. My stomach sinks, and then I hate myself all over again for caring. Why do I keep calling and texting him? It’s unhealthy. I know it’s unhealthy, because my abrasive and downright rude roommate, Summer, has told me this many times. This morning, for example, she said, “Get the fuck over him, Finley. The whole ‘let’s be friends with our high school sweetheart after breaking up’ doesn’t actually mean you will be. How long has it been?”
It’s been a year. I’m pathetic. But he’s home for the summer from college, and home is less than an hour commute from New York City. It changes things. Maybe.
I use every ounce of self-control I have to scroll away from Jason’s name on my phone and pick a new person to call. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Fin,” he says.
The sound of water splashing and my little brothers’ raised voices come in loud and clear in the background. “So, apparently I’m too cute and not edgy enough for today’s client.”
“Again?” he asks. “Did you get those tattoos I recommended?”
I laugh, feeling ten percent better already. “No tattoos. I think I’m ready to tell my agent to give up on booking these more mature jobs for me.”
“Fin, you gotta be willing to move a little outside of your comfort zone.”
“You’re my dad,” I argue. “You’re supposed to hate the idea of me being rebellious.”
“It’s acting, honey. Doesn’t change who you are. And maybe instead of staying in your apartment on a Friday night knitting and watching movies, you should go out, do a little research. Some method acting.”
I hear a loud shout of cannonball! followed by more splashing. “Dad, do you think it’s a good idea for the boys to be in the pool without Grandma or me around?”
My head is now clouded with visions of Connor or Braden sinking under in the deep end, arms flailing, while Dad tries to maneuver his wheelchair to the side of the pool and get him out. And then the neighbor finding all three of them at the bottom of the five-foot end hours later.
“They’re great swimmers, Fin. Relax.”
“They’re five. Nobody is a great swimmer at five.” I have the sudden urge to turn around and catch a train to Connecticut for the weekend. New York City still overwhelms me. And knowing most of my high school friends are back home makes me itch even more for something familiar.
“I’ve taught them rescue skills,” Dad jokes. “Boys? What’s the number to nine-one-one?”
I hear them both laugh and shout, “Duh? Nine-one-one.”
God, I miss them. I go a few weeks without seeing them, and they’ve both practically become different people—new words, new skills, new everything. And I’m missing it by living my life in New York. At least, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Really, I’m doing it for my dad. Maybe if I stretch out of my comfort zone a bit, he’ll stop worrying about me so much. “All right. You’ve pissed me off, and now I’m ready to go perform wild acts of rebellion. So thanks for that.”
“Parenting at its best. Have fun, Fin. Talk to you later.”
Now all I have to do is think of something unruly that I might actually enjoy.
I rack my brain for ideas all the way back to my apartment, and after a quick and somewhat uncomfortable conversation with my youngest roommate, Elana, and her mother—who is French and speaks literally no English—I find Summer in her room. I close the door behind me, just in case Elana’s mom has picked up any English since this morning. That woman is fiercely overprotective. Last fall, Elana came to the United States on her own and became an instant star. But some pretty bad stuff happened to her, and her parents put the brakes on and took her back to France for a while. Now, she’s here again for some summer work. With her mother. They’ve only been here a week, but already, Summer has put in many complaints to the agency. Good news is we both got discounts out of it. Which is why I tolerate French Mama with little complaint, while Summer does just the opposite. Unlike me, she doesn’t need the money.
“She won’t stop cooking fish! I opened all the windows, and I still can’t get the smell out!” Summer says the second I shut the door. She’s sprawled out on her bed, a bottle of bright-red nail polish in one hand and the brush in the other. “Fish covered in shit that’s probably a million calories. If I wanted to live with someone’s mother, I would have stayed at home.”
Home for Summer is a posh apartment in midtown with her distant and very successful mother, who happens to be a creative director for Vogue. And who is way too busy for her daughter.
“What kind of wild Friday night activity do you think I could successfully pull off?” I ask, leaning my back against the door.
> Summer looks up. I’ve intrigued her. Usually, she doesn’t bother with eye contact. “Still getting the Mary Sunshine label?”
“Something like that,” I admit. I’m not one to get competitive about jobs, but Summer gets all the best high fashion gigs. She’s leaps and bounds ahead of me. And don’t even get me started on Elana. I mean, God, she’s only fifteen.
“Burn your knitting needles.”
“Come on, I’m serious,” I plead.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Miss Irish Catholic Goody Two-shoes. You’re not a virgin, are you?”
I fold my arms across my chest, glaring at her. She knows I had a boyfriend for all four years of high school.
“Good.” She smiles. Summer likes getting to people. It’s one of many defense mechanisms. Yes, I’ve been to therapy. I learned the lingo. “That opens the options a little. What about drugs? You tried any?”
“No, but—”
“I’m not suggesting you become a meth addict, though that has worked for some before, but I mean, like, coke or molly, something that gets you in touch with a new side of yourself.” She waves at me to shut up when I try to protest again. “It’s empowering. You’ll feel like a whole new person after. Or maybe a little adventure in sexual exploration. Something purely about pleasure, as in your pleasure, not his.”
Already, I’m envisioning ripping some faceless hottie’s clothes off and taking advantage of that lock on my bedroom door.
“Dima’s having a party,” she says, either reading my agreement to this plan from my face or not caring either way. “Come with me. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of trouble for you to get into.” Summer opens a drawer beside her bed and tosses a handful of condoms my way. They fall to the floor, scattering. “Take some of these, just in case. Never go to a party without condoms. That’s what my mom always tells me.”
I look them over, not wanting to commit to anything besides simply attending this party upstairs. “Think I need that many?”
“Better to have and not need.”
My mom used to say that all the time. Somehow, I doubt she would have been proud of my application of the saying in this context.