“I had skinny girlfriends. Sometimes I had buff girlfriends. They were all society’s definition of hot.” Pictures of Nate and various girls flew past now. Some wolf whistles sounded, and I rolled my eyes.
“And then at USC, one of the art magazines did a spread of plus-sized models, nude. And because of how sad I had been as a kid, and how much I had been taught that anything overweight turned into anything bad, I let what happened to me eight years before turn into the most hateful article I’d ever written.”
Various phrases from the article zoomed onto the screen, ending with the one I thought was worst: Big bones didn’t make them like this, big meals did.
The room was completely silent.
“The day that article came out, I was a hero in the gym. All my buddies clapped me on the back. And my girlfriend giggled because she was so the opposite of all the stuff that I thought was so very wrong. And I even got some comments telling me ‘way to go,’ on the site.
“But the next day, as often happens with these things, there was a side effect. A ripple. One of the girls in the photo shoot for that magazine? It was her first time posing nude.” A photo of a girl with skin the color of chocolate and short, curly hair, probably a size bigger than me, in jeans and a sweater, filled the screen.
“This is Anna Hawthorne. She read my article. And what she had done, posing for that spread? Had taken all her courage. And she didn’t have that much left to deal with the stupid opinions of jerks like me. That night, she tried to kill herself.”
There were a few gasps in the crowd, but it was mostly silent.
“I felt awful. Of course, by then, there was nothing I could do. I sat with her in the hospital. I apologized. And I quit bodybuilding, because I didn’t like what I had become when I was in that environment. I was arrogant, and I thought that the way people looked could tell me something about who they were.
“So I transferred here to a school in Philadelphia, hoping to escape it all. But I should have known, you can never escape your past. Almost as soon as I set foot on campus, I ran into the first girl who had ever made me feel good about myself, no matter how I looked.” A photo of him and me came on the screen—one of the ones we’d snapped on a cell phone after rock climbing. “And I realized that she was the last girl I ever wanted to make me feel that way, too. I fell in love with her.”
“But, once again, I made a really big mistake. I didn’t tell her what a jerk I used to be about girls that had a little extra weight than your average praying mantis, and she found that article that caused Anna Hawthorne so much pain. And it caused her pain, too.”
“But the truth is, from the moment I saw her again, I realized that not only do I not find the thinnest bodies the most attractive, but that what our bodies look like doesn’t even factor into the equation. I love her just as much meeting her now as I would have if I met her two years ago, when she looked different.”
“That girl’s name is Catherine, and she’s a really impressive fashion design student. I worked with her, I’ve seen her in action. She has incredible ideas, and I know that when she shows you this project, she will blow you away.
“And since she asked me never to talk to her again, I just want this opportunity to tell her, for the first and last time. I love you, Cat. Thank you for everything.” His voice hitched at the end, and he sat left the stage and took a seat across the runway from me.
Shit. Shit, shit shit.
I’d had no idea. How could I? Anger and guilt roiled through me in equal measures. I should have let him explain, maybe. But it was too late now, and if my Real Women Project wasn’t basically a big “fuck you” to ... well ... him, I didn’t know what it was.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I walked up the stairs to the podium, particularly aware of the hot lights shining on me. Sweat beaded at my hairline.
“Ah....thank you, everyone. And thank you, Board, for considering my entry.” I cleared my throat. This was going to be harder than I thought. “A year ago, I weighed about sixty pounds less than I do today. I worked as a model, and I think I even shared the runway with some of these beautiful women behind me. I was in a horse-riding accident last spring break. My tibia was shattered, and now a rod and bolts replaces the solid bone that once was there. Ah....”
I shuffled my papers. Oh, Jesus. This was going to be ridiculous.
“I couldn’t exercise, and I was on steroids. And I was depressed. So, in ten months, I gained about sixty pounds. And now I look like this. When I came back to school, the guy I’d been seeing dropped me like a bad habit. And I felt horrible.
“I was so depressed, it was starting to get hard to function. I saw a therapist, and she told me to get back into modeling—nude modeling. That’s how I met Nate. But then...he hurt me. And I cried.” I laughed, trying to hold back tears at that moment. “But then I got my act together, and realized that with or without him, or any guy, or any modeling gig in my life, I was just fine. I was still me, still lovable and worthy and attractive. No matter what I looked like.”
“I didn’t find any models for this project. Every model is me. Because this journey is mine, and I am a real woman.”
The applause was ridiculously loud for just an introduction, and I was so embarrassed of the attention that I was relieved when the lights went down.
Joey had helped me settle on a slow, sexy track as a backdrop for the photographs, mostly because she thought it would be a good contrast to what people normally heard behind these things—it would make them slow down, and concentrate on the cards I held in front of each outfit.
The outfits themselves were gorgeous—a red satin evening gown, the flowy white blouse, the tweed suit with ruffles peeking out everywhere. Each design had been inspired by the architectural insights I got from Nate, almost without realizing it. Each design on a plain-colored background. And for each photo, I held up a simple white board sign with hand lettering:
The thing is
As much your words hurt my heart
I needed to see what an asshole you were
To realize that I was
Who I was
Worthy
Strong
Deserving.
Without you.
I am real. I am beautiful.
Even though I’d known what the last shot was, it surprised me when I saw it—me, sitting cross-legged in a chair in the sunlight. Naked, and holding the sign in front of my chest.
When the lights went up again, the applause was thunderous. And then, they got even louder. After a few seconds, Nate started the standing ovation.
I counted to ten before I stepped up to the microphone again.
“Thank you, so very much.”
And that was about all I could take. I walked off the stage as quickly as I could without looking like a freak. I knew I was supposed to sit in my seat, but as the dean of the school said, “Next up, our second of three entrants in the Real Woman Project....” I passed my seat and just kept going.
I made it out into the hallway, a long empty space lined with trophy cases and speckled tiled floors. Even though the fluorescent lights were atrocious, at least it was light and open and cool. And I could breathe.
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to talk to Nate. But I did know one thing. I wanted to find out. The anger and panic and nervousness roaring through my ears must have blocked out the sound of his footsteps.
“My buddy runs sound.”
I whipped around to face him.
Nate stared at his shoes, and shrugged, catching my eye for a second. “He got me that intro spot. I have no idea what he told the dean, but ... yeah.”
I just stared. My mouth dropped open, but I couldn’t even begin to form coherent thoughts. Between the true story behind the article, and the reason he had actually come here to Philly, and the fact that he had said he’d loved me, and the way I’d called him an asshole via cardboard sign in front of thousands of our classmates ... I didn’t even know where to start.
> “I meant every word,” he said. “I know I was an asshole, but you have to believe me. Things are different. My attitude, and...me. I’m different. And, for what it’s worth, I do. Love you. I hope you heard that. Did you?”
It was all I could do to choke out, “Yes.” My chest burned. My whole body burned. I loved him too. Why couldn’t I get the words out? All I could do was look at him with a trembling lip.
Now he spoke so quietly, you could have heard a pin drop next to us. “Didn't I talk about us like we were a thing from our first date? I fell in love with you that first time we went out for burgers and dancing. I love our weird dates and your belly laugh and how you see beauty in everything. Except yourself. And I love being the one to help you get there. I love the way you daydream, I love the way you hold my hand. I can’t stop thinking about the way you taste."
His voice dropped on that one. Like he was saying something holy.
But I still said nothing.
“Look, you said we weren’t going to hang out, and I respect that. So I’ll just ... leave you alone. But ... you were great. Really beautiful, Cat. Even though you called me an asshole, I’m really proud that I know you.” He took five steps away, then stopped, and turned over his shoulder. Speaking to me, but not talking to me. “And just so you know—I wasn’t going to tell you this, because it sound so stupid and self-centered and dramatic—”
“Just say it.” My voice was a tangled whisper.
“I’m leaving. I’m going back to my dad’s. My enrollment back at USC is still valid and I’m going to go to a satellite campus.” He looked back down, facing away from me. “So. Goodbye.”
He walked three, four, five steps back into the auditorium, where he knew I couldn’t chase him, because the next project was being showcased.
And once again, I dissolved into tears, and texted Joey, who gave up her spot at the showcase and walked my sorry ass back to the sorority house.
Chapter 18
I lay wide awake in bed, thinking of everything. Finally putting all the puzzle pieces together in my mind. My head pounded with the post-crying jag I’d been on.
But there were no tears left, so I’d washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair, and climbed into bed under the covers. Joey asked if I was okay, and I just nodded numbly, shut out the light, and stared into the darkness.
And stared. And stared.
And couldn’t sleep. And couldn’t stop replaying his words over and over in my head.
He loved me. He had changed. I had changed.
This was stupid.
“This is stupid,” I whispered as I grabbed my nearest pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt that was huge, but warm and comfortable.
I punched the number for a cab service into my phone, noting the time as I did. One thirty-five a.m.
I didn’t give a shit.
The cab came ten minutes later, the exhausted-looking driver informing me that the fee was double between one and five in the morning. I just handed him a twenty and gave him Nate’s address, seven blocks away.
The whole ride over, I was on edge. A new energy rushed through me and suddenly it was clear as day. I had to kiss him, had to tell him over and over that I loved him, and that I was sorry, that I understood now. But most of all that I loved him.
I had one hand on the seat belt buckle and the other on the car handle as we pulled up. The cab had barely stopped rolling when I hopped out. I bounded up the steps, and had my fist ready to knock on the door, when it opened inward so fast it took my breath away.
But when I saw Nate on the other side, I was truly breathless.
“I was just—”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I—”
The same awkward talking-at-once as our first date. In just eight weeks, everything had changed so much.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.” He stepped toward me, put a hand out as if to touch my face, and then let it drop.
I caught it on the way down, and held it to my chest. “I’m sorry, too,” I said. His eyes flashed to mine, full of surprise and desire and hope.
And then, in one fast, breathless moment, we said it at exactly the same time: “I love you.”
I couldn’t have kept myself off of him if I tried. I threw myself at him, pressing tight against his body, and he responded with one arm around my waist and one hand in my hair. We stood there, our lips crushing together desperately, tongues exploring places they’d already memorized a thousand times. It didn’t matter. I would never be able to get enough of him.
His strong hands, the ones I’d wished would never leave my body so many times, slid down my torso, gripping and squeezing and molding my body to his. And then, they were on my thighs, and in one smooth motion, Nate had hoisted me up so my legs hitched around his waist, never breaking our kiss. He stumbled backward, and fumbled for the key to his apartment.
I had no idea how my sweatshirt came off, or who kicked off shoes when, or whose hands frantically pushed down whose pants. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. I needed Nate’s hot, hard body against mine. In mine.
When we finally broke our kiss, I caught his earlobe between my teeth and told him as much. And then he groaned from somewhere deep inside, and laid me back on the bed, and ran his hands over every inch of my skin, following soon with his lips and tongue.
By the time he’d made it down to my stomach, leaving a hot, wet trail, I was writhing and desperate for him. “You are sweet, and delicious, and absolutely perfect.”
“And you are a sex god,” I whined, half giggling. “Never stop.”
“I won’t, if you tell me I don’t have to. I meant it when I said you were the last girl I ever wanted to make me feel this way.”
“What way?” I whispered, temporarily ignoring the need that pulsed through every muscle in my body.
“Like you’ll always want me, no matter what.” He slid back up and kissed me fully, slowly on the mouth, his warm breath mingling with mine and tasting sweeter than I’d ever remembered it.
“Now that I know you’re not an asshole anymore.... Unh.” I moaned, as his mouth returned to my stomach, then down to my hips.
“And never will be again, I swear to you, Cat,” he murmured just loudly enough for me to hear.
“Then yes,” I said. “Always.”
In an instant, his mouth was back on mine, and we were wrestling on the bed, rolling and straining and fighting to get even closer.
And when he finally, finally buried himself in me, his white-hot heat filling me with steady, insistent thrusts, his moans filling my ears and his tongue tracing patterns on my neck, and finally, finally, a melting heat burst through my entire body and I clenched around him again and again, I knew.
I was beautiful, and he was gorgeous, but the most amazing thing about us was how perfect we were together.
And that would always be the same, no matter what.
Acknowledgements
If I’d created the story you just read all by my lonesome, it would have probably sucked. Thankfully, I had a lot of help.
Giant hugs to my first readers and partners in crime, Lyla Payne and Paisley Grant. There’s no one I’d rather share secrets and hatch plans with. Love you both.
Picture Perfect was my first project with Copyeditor Jim (Thomsen) who made an encouraging comment about the story with every update, and indulged me with a wink and a laugh on occasion, too. Oh, and the important stuff – great work with the grammar, spelling, and structure, Jim. You’re like coffee and concealer for a girl who partied too hard last night. Thank you.
Thank you to my publicist, KP Simmon – you make magic happen. I’m madly in love with you, and I don’t care who knows it.
Molly Hansen, my proofreader – those seven mistakes you caught would have been damn embarrassing – more for Copyeditor Jim than for me. Thank you.
Cait, my digital formatter who swept in to save the day at the last minute – Thank you.
Thanks to my friend Sarah, who had
gone from thin girl to slightly-less-thin girl almost overnight, and advised me on exactly how rock climbing straps would cut into one’s ass.
Rachel, Alexa, and Andy, thanks for reading and telling me how true this story rang for each of you – you all are beautiful.
Lastly, thanks to every single writer who was told that stories about people in college would never sell, and who wrote them and published them anyway. You gave me the confidence to put what I think is an important story out into the world, naysayers be damned. You’re a brave bunch, and I’m proud to count myself among your ranks.
To everyone who read this and found a little bit of herself in Cat – thanks for loving this story and nudging it a bit farther out into the world, you bunch of stone cold foxes, you.
About the Author
Alessandra Thomas is a New Adult writer who swears she was in her twenties yesterday. Since that’s sadly untrue, she spends her time looking back on her college years fondly, and writing sexy stories about guys and girls falling in love and really living life for the first time.
When she's not writing, you can find her with a spoonful of ice cream in one hand and the newest New Adult release in the other.
Picture Perfect is Aless’s first New Adult novel. She had so much fun writing it that it definitely won’t be her last.
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