Picture Imperfect final

by Mary

  “You know the world won’t end if you change careers. It happens all the time.”

  I finish my last bite of taco and wipe my mouth with one of the napkins. “Was it hard for you to leave modeling?”

  “No. I get to have twice the desserts and none of the guilt.” She lifts her cupcake. “If I were still a model, I wouldn’t be having a cupcake before and after dinner. But in some ways it was hard, so yes and no. It’s always scary to try something new. There’s always a risk, always growing pains when you move outside your comfort zone. But I think you have to ask yourself which worst-case scenario you would regret more: staying where you are and being miserable but secure, or risking it and losing everything.”

  Her words give me pause. What would I do if I could do anything?

  Right now, I would lick the speck of frosting on her lip. The urge is so great I lean in her direction but then stop when I realize what I’m doing.

  “You have a little frosting.” I point at my upper lip. “Right there.”

  “Oh.” She laughs and then her pink tongue sneaks out and licks it off. “Did I get it?”

  I blink and turn away to hide my very physical reaction to the motion. “Yeah you got it.”

  Since I can’t look at her right now and I definitely can’t stand up and move away, I focus on cleaning up the mess we’ve made, shoving napkins and trash into the bag.

  “Um, I better get going,” she says.

  Can she sense my awkward attraction? She probably feels bad for me. “I could order you a car.”

  “No, it’s fine, I can get an Uber. I’m already on it.” She taps on her phone for a few seconds before glancing over at me. “Starlee told me I should go to the game this weekend. Apparently there’s some rumors swirling that Brent and I are faking it. Are you going?”

  “The Sunday night game? Yeah I’ll be there. We could go together.” It’s a terrible idea. I do not need to be around her any more than absolutely necessary.

  “That would be great.” Her relieved smile lightens something in my chest. “I’ve never been to a game. I have no idea where to go or what to do.” She bites her bottom lip. “What should I wear?”

  “I’ll have one of Brent’s jerseys sent to your apartment.”

  She nods. “That would make sense.”

  “And then I can pick you up on the way. We sit in one of the boxes up by the announcers.”

  “That’s what Starlee said. I’ll be sure to be noticed there.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Does it bother you? All the pretending?”

  “It does and it doesn’t.” She shrugs and one slim shoulder pops out of the loose material of her long-sleeved shirt. “I don’t like being deceptive, but I know how this industry works and if I can save someone from the claws of that psycho Marissa, I feel like I have to, you know? And Brent is such a nice guy.”

  I have to drag my eyes away from the exposed peachy skin.

  She’s talking about Brent.

  Focus, Marc.

  “He is. He’s the best.”

  Her phone dings. “That’s my ride.”

  “Thanks for the cupcakes. Let me walk you down.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  She gathers up her stuff and we walk to the elevator in silence. Down in the lobby, I walk her past security, where she gives me a small smile with a quick goodbye.

  I turn to head back to the elevators and nod at Stan, the security guard.

  “She’s a good one.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She is.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In wisdom gathered over time I have found that every experience is a form of exploration.

  –Ansel Adams

  Marc

  I’ve been to hundreds of Brent’s games, from Pop Warner to high school and college games all the way to the professional football league.

  But I have never, in my life, spent more time getting ready for one.

  “You’re an idiot,” I tell my reflection after the third time I’ve returned to the bathroom in a vain attempt to fix the one strand of my hair that eternally sticks up in the back. “I’m like a grown-up version of Alfalfa. And I’m talking to myself. I’m an insane, grown-up Alfalfa.”

  Insane because I have a crush on my brother’s girlfriend. Excuse me, my brother’s fake girlfriend.

  The reflection in the mirror tilts his head.

  My brother’s fake girlfriend who is also a model. Well, ex-model, but the fact that she is hot enough to have ever been a model to begin with means I have absolutely no chance with her. I know this.

  Doesn’t stop me from pushing down the wayward hair one more time and reapplying another coat of deodorant. It’s not like she’s going to be distracted by my hair when my face is enough to distract anyone.

  I scheduled a car from the company to drive us to the game. The driver is waiting downstairs by the time I’m done getting ready and when I slide in the back seat, I give him Gwen’s address. There’s nowhere to park on her street so I have him circle the block while I run up to get her.

  Picking her up at her door, just like a real date.

  She would never date you, a spiteful voice insists.

  The building is older and a little shabby, smack in the middle of Morningside Heights, on Broadway near the bridge. The neighborhood isn’t bad. It’s a fairly decent part of town if by “decent” you mean there are fewer criminals per capita than Rikers. The building’s narrow entrance is between a Mexican eatery and an Indian grocer. I walk through the scented haze of curry and cumin, bypassing the buzzer by following an old lady with bulging pockets who barely notices me and doesn’t care at all that a strange man has entered through the door behind her.

  The plaster is cracked, the floors haven’t been washed in this century, and when I get to Gwen’s apartment, I nearly have a heart attack when I see the one flimsy lock on her door. This is the only thing separating her from imminent death?

  Or something slightly less dramatic.

  “Hey.” She opens the door with a bright smile, the glow of it distracting me from the fact that she’s wearing Brent’s jersey—the one I had sent over—on top of some tight-fitting, dark jeans.

  “Hey.”

  “I need to grab my purse.” She only has to walk a few paces away to grab the item from the couch.

  And then the view of her walking away distracts me from what I wanted to tell her.

  Focus, Marc.

  I avert my attention to her door. I can’t fix the building, but I can fix this.

  “I’m so excited, I’ve never been to a real live football game before. But did you see that article in Stylz this morning? Ugh, Marissa is such a . . .” She stops. “What are you doing?”

  The door is still open and I mess with the lock, clicking it from unlocked to locked, watching it and testing its strength. “You should really get some better locks for your door.”

  “My . . . what?” Her brow furrows and her eyes blink once, then twice. Her adorable confusion would make me grin if I weren’t worried about her getting murdered.

  “Your door couldn’t keep out a stiff breeze. You don’t even have a chain or anything.”

  She laughs. “You sound like my sister. I told her I would get a new lock installed but I haven’t had time.” The smile drops off quickly when she sees that I’m not joking. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I nod, but the frown is persistent.

  “Stop worrying.” She rolls her eyes and tugs on my arm. “Come on.”

  ~*~

  The car drops us off outside the stadium and we have to walk through tailgaters to get to the entrance.

  People stream everywhere in team colors and jerseys with painted faces. There’s stumbling drunks, partying coeds, and the smell of burgers and beers lingering in the air.

  “Hey pretty lady, you want some of my riblets?” someone calls at us almost immediate
ly. Well, at Gwen.

  I’m ready to put my head down and keep walking, but she surprises me by responding to the paunchy middle-aged guy in a Sharks jersey. “Only if my friend can have some, too.”

  He must nod or make some kind of sign of agreement, because she grabs my arm and tugs me in the direction of the tailgaters on our right.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “Come on,” she says, pushing out her bottom lip and widening her eyes pleadingly.

  I immediately relent. I’d probably chop off my right leg if she asked me to while making that pouty face.

  Mr. Riblet eyes me as we approach. “Is this your boyfriend?” he asks.

  We share a glance. “No, it’s my boyfriend’s brother.”

  “Oh girl, you playin’ dirty!”

  Some of his friends laugh and whoop behind him.

  “His brother is Brent Crawford.”

  Mr. Riblet’s eyes swing toward me, an overly exaggerated, comical movement.

  “Marc Crawford.” I hold out my hand, which he doesn’t so much as glance at.

  I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes grow so wide so quickly. “Holy shit, that’s right! I’ve seen you in interviews. I recognize you now. Your brother is the Superman? Benny! Benny, get over here! You want a toke on this, man?”

  I politely decline the joint he tries to hand me, but it doesn’t matter because all his buddies are coming over and shaking my hand, taking selfies with both of us, and shoving plates of food in our direction.

  “My cousin will never believe this! Can I put this on Facebook?”

  We spend another half hour with tailgaters. Most of them end up in a circle around Gwen, hanging on her every word and staring at her like she invented cold fusion. Or like she’s a super-hot former model. I probably look exactly the same every time she’s in my general vicinity. But it’s more than her appearance. She’s genuinely nice. She listens to everyone, focuses on whoever is speaking, and asks questions like she truly cares about the answer.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  Eventually, we leave our new friends and make our way into the stadium and up to the box.

  After showing our IDs at the door, we get in. The box isn’t huge, but it’s split into two levels, which helps add to the space. On the top level, there’s a small bar fully stocked with drinks and appetizers set out on a counter. Down a few steps are four rows of seats, with about a half a dozen chairs per row.

  There are quite a few people already there, and most of them are hanging around the bar. I don’t know any of them. I think they’re mostly wives and relatives of the other players. We get a couple of glances and then they ignore us.

  We skip the food—both still full from our tailgating experience—and find seats near the front of the box where we can watch right as the coin toss starts the game.

  “This is great. I wish I would have come to a game sooner,” she says.

  “They are fun.” But I don’t mean it. I mean, I enjoy the games and I love supporting my brother, but it’s even better with her. I never would have made friends with some random people roasting pig and smoking weed if I had come alone. I would have marched through the revelry to get to my destination, avoiding staring eyes.

  “It makes living in New York fun again.”

  There’s a pause in our conversation as Brent takes the field and we get up to cheer. And then there’s a shot of us, the camera catching our movements through the glass of the box on the giant TV screen at the top of the field.

  I wait until the camera pans back to the field and we’re sitting down again to ask, “When did it stop being fun? Living in New York?”

  “When I realized the truth about the people I thought were my friends.”

  “Was it because of Mr. Cheekbones?”

  She smiles. “Lucky? He was part of it. The modeling world became . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, it was like I was living in this bubble where everything was about the way you look, the people you know, your weight, your height, not even things you can control. Everything I thought I knew became a lie.” She speaks quietly; I almost can’t hear her above the buzz of the crowd.

  I want to press her for more, but now is not the time. And Brent is catching touchdowns.

  As we watch Brent lead his team to a 32–27 victory, the conversation lightens and she tells me about her dream to travel the world, taking pictures.

  “Like photojournalism?”

  “Sort of. There’s an indigenous culture in the middle of Pakistan that’s endangered and I want to create a photo essay of their traditions. A human-interest piece capturing their day-to-day lives and customs. There are a ton of cultures slowly disappearing around the world. My dream is to travel and capture some of their moments before they’re gone. I’ve been trying to get someone to take on the project, but I keep getting turned down. It’s hard to be taken seriously when you don’t look like a serious artist.”

  “I would read that story. Even though you are terribly good-looking, I wouldn’t let that stand in my way.”

  She chuckles. “I wish more editors agreed with you. I also wish Marissa would stop with her articles. Starlee hooked me up with a magazine interview over the phone this morning, and instead of asking about my idea, they asked about my relationship with Brent.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. I kept trying to change the subject to the project I’ve been working on locally—it’s a piece on endangered languages—but they just kept going back to Brent and how I felt about the investigation and could I get him to come talk to them. It was a nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with that. And now I want to know about endangered languages. What does that mean, exactly?”

  Her face brightens. “It’s really fascinating, actually. In countries around the globe, languages are dying off as people assimilate and move, but immigrants who came to New York generations ago are still passing some of these languages down.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “It really is. There’s an organization here, the Endangered Language Alliance, and I’ve been taking shots of the linguists and people who still speak the languages that they’re working to preserve. My hope is to connect this project to the endangered cultures when I go abroad . . . if I ever get the chance.”

  Our conversation is cut off as Brent catches another touchdown pass and our box explodes in a frenzy of clapping and shouting.

  There’s no more time for conversation. The box has gotten more and more packed as the night’s gone on. Now the noise is riotous and the game is nearly over.

  Once it ends, we escape the box to meet Brent downstairs. It takes a little bit of time getting through the crowds, but we would have to wait anyway for Brent to get changed.

  When we get down to the locker room door, we have to wait even longer. There’s press coming in and out. Some of them stop and snap pictures of Gwen.

  She puts on a good show, smiling for the pics, but I can see the tension in her jaw.

  Finally, Brent exits into the hallway. Gwen runs up and hugs him, continuing the charade.

  But then he bends down slightly and kisses her on the mouth. And it goes on for a bit.

  Gwen stiffens, then relaxes into the embrace and my heart tugs in my chest.

  Does she want to kiss him?

  Is she enjoying this?

  Maybe I imagined that initial tensing of muscles and resistance.

  After what feels like hours but is probably only a handful of seconds, they break apart.

  Cameras are flashing and snapping. Some of the reporters are tossing out questions about their relationship and demands for more public displays.

  They both play it off, yelling no comment with a laugh, linking hands, and heading away from the gaggle of press toward the parking garage.

  And like the thirdest wheel on the most awkward of vehicles, I follow them.

  ~
*~

  Brent’s car is parked at the stadium, a black Porsche Panamera.

  It’s a sleek and sexy car and he looks great in it.

  I get in the back seat.

  We head to Gwen’s apartment, and they laugh together the entire drive. Gwen tells Brent about our tailgating experience and he talks about some of the things that happened on the sidelines during the game.

  There’s an open parking spot down the block near Gwen’s building. I stay in the car and Brent goes with her to her front door.

  I can’t see them from here.

  It’s no big deal.

  It’s not like they’re going to make out or something while I’m waiting. After all, that shot in front of the cameras was just that, for the cameras. Right?

  But still. I move into the front seat and then wait in quiet agony until Brent reappears moments later.

  “Dude, her apartment has like no security,” he says.

  “I know, that’s what I told her.”

  “We need to take care of that.”

  “I was planning on it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  He nods, comfortable in the knowledge that I’m on top of it. “I invited her to Connecticut next week for the holiday.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Stylz published an article this morning that our relationship is all a ruse.”

  “What is it with that magazine?”

  “Marissa. I got word today that she’s not cooperating with the Sharks’ investigation. Something Starlee is having a field day with. She’s getting counter articles written to point out that little factoid, but she wants more.”

  “Marissa must be obsessed with you.”

  He shrugs. “I guess. Anyway, we have to step it up and make it seem more legit. It’s my fault. The season is always crazy. And we hardly ever show public displays of affection. Plus we’ve only gone out places we know we will be seen where the paparazzi are likely to lurk.”

  “Is that why you . . . ?”

  He grimaces slightly. “Yeah. Was it obvious? I apologized just now and explained to her why I kissed her like that without warning. She understood. She’s so cool and laid back, you know? We text sometimes when I’m on the road and she’s so sweet.”