Halfway Perfect (16 page)

November 26, 12:05 p.m.

An old man in dress pants and a Bill Cosby sweater greets us at the door. The place looks cozy, but not tiny like most New York City apartments. He's definitely not broke from teaching all those classes at Columbia, that's for sure.

“These are my friends, Alex and Elana,” Eve says, pointing to each of us.

“Tom Larson.” The man reaches out to shake our hands. “My wife will be thrilled to have you. Looks like she's cooking for a hundred.” He disappears with all our coats and then, after returning, ushers us into the living room.

There's a fireplace and a grand piano and at least five floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Eve is already taking it in, probably debating scanning every title one at a time.

“Thanks so much for having us,” I say on my and Elana's behalf. Elana's pressed herself into Eve's side and gone completely quiet.

A door swings open and the scent of onions and celery wafts toward us. A petite older woman with a mix of gray and brown hair enters the room. She smiles at the three of us. “Which one of you is Eve?”

Eve lifts her hand a bit. “Me.”

“So glad you came,” Mrs. Larson says. “Who are your friends? Are they students too?”

“Alex and Elana.” Eve points to each of us again. “And they're not students, they're, well…”

I decide to intervene again. “We met Eve at a photo shoot for Calvin Klein. She was assisting the photographer.”

She looks us over and takes in my designer shirt and jeans and Elana's Armani pantsuit. Then she turns to her husband. “Wasn't Janessa working for Calvin Klein?”

Professor Larson scratches the top of his head, where his hair is the thinnest. “Well, that would make perfect sense, then, since Eve is working with Janessa.”

We all laugh and Mrs. Larson claps her hands together. “Okay then, mystery solved. Small world, isn't it? And we're so happy to have you. Hope you don't mind, but I'm going to have to return to the kitchen.”

The way Eve is biting her nails and shuffling her feet around, I get the impression she's nervous. It could be because it's a holiday and this isn't her family. I don't know much about Eve's family other than when she told me her parents are assholes. She doesn't bring them up, so I've left the subject alone.

Maybe her nerves have to do with a weird academic thing since we are at her professor's house. Maybe she thinks she's being graded or something. I could totally see Eve worrying about shit like that.

“Do you need any help?” I ask Mrs. Larson.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You'll have to roll up those sleeves.”

I grin and begin unfastening the button at my wrist. “I can do that.”

Eve jumps to attention. “I'll help too.”

We leave Elana with Professor Larson and follow his wife into the kitchen. I'm already at the sink washing my hands when Mrs. Larson pulls out a cutting board and top-grade chef's knife.

“Have you ever used one of these?” she asks both of us, holding up the knife.

Eve shakes her head.

“Only when my mother wasn't looking,” I say.

“Alex will be chopping, then. And I won't tell your mother.” After digging through the fridge, she tosses several clear plastic bags of veggies onto the cutting board and hands me a towel to dry my hands. “And Eve gets to peel.”

Eve follows my lead and washes her hands. “What am I peeling?”

“Potatoes?” I say, guessing. “Maybe sweet potatoes?”

Mrs. Larson smiles. “You've done this before. Willingly or by force?”

I laugh, thinking of my brothers shoving me into the kitchen with Mom while they watched football all day. When I was really young, my job in the kitchen was to give Katie pointless tasks and make her think she was actually helping while keeping her out of my mom's way. “Well, it's willingly today. That's all that matters, right?”

“Good answer,” she says.

Eve is wide-eyed, like she has no idea what to do with the potato peeler she's just been handed along with the big sack of Idaho potatoes. Mrs. Larson laughs at her expression. “Go on. Just give it a whirl. No one's grading you.”

I have to snort back a laugh, and Eve rolls her eyes in my direction. Mrs. Larson sets up a pot of water on the stove to get it boiling and I begin chopping zucchini.

A buzz comes through the kitchen intercom system, and our cohost rushes out to answer the door.

“I feel like I'm doing this completely wrong,” Eve says from her spot over the garbage disposal. “I don't think there'll be much potato left by the time I get done with it.”

I smile at her and set down my knife. I take the mostly peeled potato from her hand and rinse off the gritty brown substance. “There. Now you can see what you actually need to shave off.”

She stares at me and then takes the potato back. “That's much better. Thanks.”

“I take it you haven't been subjected to eighteen years of family Thanksgiving dinners?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I think my grandmother cooked once when I was very young. Before she died. And another year, my dad took us to this diner in town and they had turkey and stuffing. And of course we did the First Thanksgiving lessons in grade school.”

“Funny that you had to come to New York City to do this holiday the normal way,” I say, making light of, not for the first time, the obvious differences in our families. “I didn't think there were actual New Yorkers who did the traditional kind of thing. I thought it'd be too trendy or something.”

“Is that why you wanted to come with me?” she asks, flashing me a smile, then her grin fades and her eyes focus on the vegetable in her hand. “I forgot one…a few years ago I had Thanksgiving dinner with the designer working for Calvin Klein.”

The knife almost slips in my hand. “Seriously?”

Looking at Alex's face right now, the openness, the acceptance, I almost want to tell him all the details of that incredibly stressful holiday. One that ended with me losing my virginity. I remember every detail like it happened hours ago.

Wes had given me almost no advance notice about this party. I'd been looking forward to a few days off and maybe some quality time with my secret older boyfriend despite the gradual shakiness of our relationship.

“Why are you dressed like a prostitute?” Wes had said the moment I opened the door to let him into the agency apartment. “I specifically said conservative attire.”

“Hannah said to not wear any major labels. This is all I had.” I followed him as he rushed in and headed straight for my closet. Hannah was Wes's assistant. She'd sent me an email with very basic instructions less than twelve hours earlier.

Wes was fuming as he shifted clothes to one side of the rack in my closet. “Hannah obviously doesn't know what happens when you're allowed to think for yourself.”

My insides recoiled at his hurtful words. They were coming more and more frequently and I was beginning to wonder if I really was clueless.

“Lucky for everyone, you have me.” He removed a knee-length dress and a brown sweater. “Stockings, black heels, hair down, not too much makeup,” he rattled off. “You've got fifteen minutes.”

I stood there, biting my nails, waiting for him to leave the bedroom. He pulled my hand from my face, examining my nails before letting out a long sigh. “You have to stop that. And you want me to leave, I assume?”

“No,” I said, even though I really wasn't sure if I could handle stripping down in front of Wes. We hadn't gotten that far yet. Underwear, sure, but I hadn't been completely naked in front of him before.

He rolled his eyes and moved toward the door. “Time to grow up, Evie.”

I let out a huge breath and hurried to change my clothes. Ten minutes later Wes pronounced me decent looking, but the tension continued on the car ride to the party.

“There are three girls in line for this CK campaign,” Wes said. “You've got at least five pounds on all of them. I've already promised the client that you would lose the weight—”

I turned around in my seat to face him. “Wait…what? I have to lose five pounds?”

Was this the reason for the knee-length dress and the long-sleeved sweater? He wanted to cover my trouble spots. I only weighed 120 pounds and at five eleven, that wasn't much.

Wes let out a frustrated breath. “God, it's only five pounds, Evie. And it's just for this job.”

I stared straight ahead. “So you're trying to tell me not to eat anything at the party?”

“Lean protein, raw vegetables, and you can have all the vodka you can handle, got it?”

“Got it.” I closed my eyes for a second, wishing for a few moments of calm to balance out this constant storm of tension.

“This job is yours to screw up,” Wes said. “You have to show some maturity. And the nail-biting has to go. And do
not
fidget with your hands.”

I didn't say anything more, because it was easier to weather Wes's mood swings with silence.

At the party, I put plain turkey breast slices and carrot sticks on my plate and nothing else, even though my stomach growled the second I smelled the freshly baked rolls. When I sat down at the table, Wes sat beside me and discreetly moved half the turkey from my plate to his and placed what looked like vodka and a few ice cubes in front of me. I stiffened under the weight of his glare and cut my meat into tiny pieces before eating only a small portion of it.

I was almost too nervous to answer the questions that the other guests happened to ask me. I'd have an answer ready and then panic, analyzing each word from Wes's perspective, and end up with my mouth hanging open like an idiot. Then Wes would pinch me hard in the side, and I'd come up with something to say. I downed enough vodka in three hours to last me for the next five parties in an effort to ease my nerves.

Eventually, the drinks and lack of sustenance caught up to me. When I stumbled into a middle-aged man who looked like he might be someone important, Wes grabbed me by the arm and said a quick good-bye, steering me out of there.

He was quiet in the car, but the second we walked into my empty apartment, he shut the door and started shouting at me. “What the hell was wrong with you tonight? Have you lost the ability to answer simple questions?”

My eyes could barely focus on the wall in front of me, let alone his storming face. “I don't know. I was so nervous.”

He swept his hand quickly over the coffee table, flinging papers and remote controls across the living room. “Do you want to blow this opportunity? Is that what you want, Eve? To go back to Indiana and live with your parents again?”

I fought off the tears that threatened to fall. “No.”

“Then why the fuck did you transform into some robot savant?” He moved in my direction, but before he could reach me, I ran for the bathroom and puked up gallons of vodka and carrot sticks.

Wes found me minutes later, leaning over the sink, fumbling with my toothbrush. He released one of his famous frustrated sighs and spread a gob of toothpaste across my toothbrush.

“I recall telling you to drink all the vodka you could
handle
.” The anger had dropped from his tone. Like maybe he'd figured out that at sixteen, I might not know how much I could handle. “Just so you know, this isn't the method of weight loss I'd recommend.”

I had finished brushing my teeth and felt about 20 percent less drunk, which basically meant I wasn't wasted enough to pass out, but plenty drunk enough to start crying. “I can't lose five pounds. It's impossible. I know they're going to pick someone else.”

Wes led me into my room and began removing my party clothes and replacing them with a T-shirt and shorts. “I want you to get everything you deserve, and I'm not sure that's possible without me intervening. You're so fucking hardheaded. If you'd just listen to me, we wouldn't have these problems.”

There was so much emptiness inside of me, so much rejection, I could hardly stand it. How many times had my own father called me fucking hardheaded? Too many to count. And then eventually he stopped calling me anything, which was even worse. “I should quit. Go to college a year early. I'm just going to disappoint you over and over again.”

“Damn it, Eve!” Wes yelled, startling me out of my tears. “Cut that shit out right now. I swear you act like a five-year-old sometimes.” He gripped the top of my arms, squeezing so tight it brought tears to my eyes again.

I tried to fight his grip and back away, but then he started shaking me, and dozens more tears tumbled down my cheeks. “Stop it. Please, Wes.”

His eyes widened, and his face filled with alarm. And then he released me. I fell back on my bed and pressed my nose into the pillow, sobbing as quietly as possible. I'd expected to hear him storm out and slam the front door, but he didn't.

Thirty seconds later, Wes lay down beside me. He placed a hand onto my back and put his mouth close to my ear. “I'm sorry, Evie. I'm so sorry. Look at me, please?”

On command, I turned my head and saw all the regret and vulnerability on his face, the kind of emotion that made me feel like maybe I wasn't all alone in my world. Then he touched my cheek and said, “This is so hard sometimes because…because I love you.”

My whole body was frozen for a long second. And then we were kissing. Like two people desperate for air, drowning underwater. Later, when he asked me if I wanted to stop, it was the first time I told him no. I was tired of the barriers between us, and him saying he loved me seemed to make this event more important somehow.

• • •

“Hey, you okay?”

My heart is racing, just thinking about the intensity of that holiday with Wes. I shake my head and attempt to smile at Alex. “Yeah. I'm fine.”

At least I know Elana's here with us and not being forced into some awkward meal with a designer. Not within Wes Danes's grasp.

Alex must have sensed something unpleasant going through my head because he looks concerned. He sets the knife down and places both hands on my shoulders and rubs them gently before planting a kiss on my cheek.

I close my eyes and try to imagine these same hands squeezing my arms until they left tiny bruises. Bruises that shined black and blue and then eventually faded to yellow after several days. It doesn't seem possible for Alex to do this. But how long will it be before I manage to piss Alex off to that point? Maybe I
have
grown up. Maybe back then, I'd been too young to handle Wes and the friction between us.

Alex holds one of the five peeled potatoes up to the light above the sink. “It's perfect. I've never seen such a smoothly peeled vegetable in my entire life.”

“I so needed to hear that.” I turn my head to kiss him, but just as my lips touch his, the kitchen door swings open.

And in walks Janessa Fields.