Halfway Perfect by Julie Cross Read Free Book Online Page B

with one hand. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. If I had known, I would have lied and told him he had the wrong building.”
    I shake my head. “It’s not your fault. I should have been honest with you a long time ago. Besides, he’s completely civilized. It’s the two of us. We’re a mess together. A complete mess. And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I’d have to deal with that world again.”
    â€œWait…” Her hand drops from her face, and her forehead scrunches up. “Did you say you saw him this morning?”
    My body is beginning to relax or else it’s turned to Jell-O from being tense all day long so I lie back on my bed and give her all the details of this morning’s photo shoot. Everything.
    â€¢ • •
    I groan and pull a pillow over my face. “Please don’t Google me. The stories will have you convinced I died of an overdose while in a drug rehab. And I got fat. I’m sure somebody has decided that I left and then got fat. For models, that would be worse than drugs.”
    â€œThat’s fucked up,” Steph says. “You didn’t actually go to rehab, right?”
    I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I’m still an addict, can’t you tell?”
    â€œYou don’t look like an addict,” she says, laughing. “And I still can’t believe you made it into Columbia with all the correspondence courses and working full time.”
    The truth is, I never stopped wanting to go to college. Modeling was fun at first. It was an escape from everything I hated about my life. But it also felt temporary, like a bridge I’d use to get where I really wanted to be. But there were long stretches of months with Wes when I lost sight of that and when I let myself think he was enough for me.
    I hate how weak I got. How stupid.
    â€œOkay, so let’s go back to the part where you gave a hot underwear model your email and phone number.” Steph is still on her laptop looking for my Seventeen cover debut, most likely. I’m not going to try and stop her. She’s been supportive enough already. Actually, she’s been supportive since the day I moved in. If it weren’t for her, I would be all study and no play.
    â€œI never called him an underwear model,” I correct. “And I didn’t give him my number. Okay, I did, but not the way you’re implying. I just thought he might like the running group, and I need someone else for my 5K team.” I lean over the bed and raise my eyebrows. “Maybe if you would have agreed to join, I wouldn’t need to give my number to strangers.”
    Her eyes stay focused on the computer. “I already told you, running makes me sweat and then I itch. So, is he hot?”
    â€œHe’s a model, of course he’s hot.” I pull out my phone to glance at the text Alex sent me earlier and as I’m saving his number, I catch myself fighting off a smile. Good thing Steph isn’t watching me. “He seems nice. Like easy to talk to, you know?”
    Steph grins at me, sets her computer aside, and holds out a hand to pull me off the bed. “You just got really awesome news and we’re celebrating with ice cream. My treat.”
    I’m not sure I could eat right now. Too much emotional drama. But it feels good to talk to someone, to not have to hide the ugly parts of my life. “Okay, but I want to hear your pitch for that journalism midterm project thingy.”
    â€œMidterm project thingy,” Steph repeats, rolling her eyes. “You know, journalism is not that far off from photography. You could stand to take my passion a bit more seriously.”
    We both laugh. It’s an ongoing debate between us—photography versus journalism. Unlike a math or science career, both of our majors include a wide range of talent. You’d be surprised what can pass as a great photograph or a noteworthy story.
    I slide my