Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“You know everything.” He laughs. “We talk every day.” He strips out of his sweatpants and shirt he wore for his drive over and into a pair of distressed jeans and a collared shirt.
“It’s not the same,” I whine. “You’re living this amazing life, and I’m stuck here in Piermont without you.” I pout. Up until this last year, Nick and I have always lived close enough that I could take the bus, or bum a ride from someone, to visit him. He even went to college locally at North Carolina University. Now, though, things have changed.
“I need details,” I beg. “Tell me about the traveling, the money, the fame. I saw you on TMZ at a charity function in New York with Alessandra Starr!” I sigh. Alessandra Starr is an up-and-coming model. She was a lot like me—a nobody from a small town—trying to make a name for herself. She was at the right place at the right time, and boom! Now she’s the face of several different companies, including MAC and Lancôme.
“She’s not really my type,” Nick admits, as if I care about who his type is. I want to know what it’s like, not who he’s in love with this week.
“Nicholas Shaw!” I shriek. “I don’t care who you like or don’t like. I want to know about New York… about the event! Did you meet a lot of famous people? When you travel, do you get to order room service? Did you go to any popular clubs? What’s it like to see your name and picture plastered all over the magazines?”
Nick rolls his eyes and sits next to me on his bed. “You know I don’t care about any of that. I’m doing what I love. Playing ball.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. I shouldn’t have expected Nick to understand. He was raised with money. To him, this is all just another day in the life of Nicholas Shaw. He might be my best friend—and our moms might be best friends—and we might’ve grown up only a few miles apart—on opposite sides of the train tracks—but we might as well be from two different planets.
“I have a surprise for you.” He grins wide and stands, then walks over to his luggage. He pulls an envelope from it and hands it to me. Just as my fingers are about to grasp the paper, he pulls it back and laughs.
“Nick!” I growl. “Give it to me.”
Chuckling, he hands the envelope to me, this time letting me take it from him.
I open it and read over the document once, twice, a third time. This can’t be real. “Nick,” I whisper, “what did you do?” Tears form in my eyes. The paper falls from my hands, and my arms wrap around his neck. “Is this for real?”
“It is.” He laughs. “I had to do a photoshoot with Elite for Movado, and while I was there, I ended up having brunch with Alessandra and Brenna Myers.
I gasp. “Brenna Myers? As in the Brenna Myers…the VP of Elite?” Elite is one of the top modeling agencies in the world.
“Yep. I mentioned I have a friend who would give her left arm to get her foot in the door…”
“Please tell me you didn’t make me sound desperate, Nick,” I chide.
He laughs some more. “Give me some credit,” he says. “Anyway, Elite has a summer internship program, and after showing her your photos, she opened up a spot for you.”
“Ohmigod!!!” I squeal. “I can’t believe it. This is really happening.” I hug Nick again. “Thank you so much!” I grab the paper from the floor, where it fell, and read it again and again. This is actually happening. I’m going to graduate and get out of this hellhole. I’m going to New York!
“Wait,” I say, thinking about the details. “Where am I going to live?” This is New York we’re talking about. I doubt I can even afford a cardboard box there.
“While you’re in the summer program, you’ll be living in an apartment with the other girls. It’ll all be paid for by Elite. Once it ends, if I need to help you, I will. Don’t worry about that now, though,” he says, reassuring me. “Just focus on your dreams.”
I don’t even realize I’m full-on crying until Nick swipes a falling tear with his thumb. “Celeste, I know this is what you want, but trust me when I say, being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Everybody is so damn fake.” His voice is soft, non-judgmental. He’s simply being honest—as honest as he can be as a man who’s grown up with money, while I’ve grown up in a trailer park. “I thought once I was away from my parents it would be different,” he adds. “The women are all fake. Alessandra…she’s fake.” Nick frowns in disappointment.