Being Perfect

Prologue & Chapter 1

"There's no such thing as perfect," he says while softly brushing a strand of loose hair out of her ridiculously perfect face, smiling at the irony of his own words. "But if there was, you'd be pretty close."

I keep staring at the lines in front of me and as usual my sight starts to blur with the tears that inevitably crowd my eyes, whenever I open your book. Then why do I still do it, every night since that night? Because every time I reach the final lines I answer them for you: Yes, I've learned that my fight for perfection is a futile one. Yes, I want to live the reality and see if it holds more than the illusions did. I even answer the questions you never put to paper: Yes, I regret what I did and more, the things I did not do. I wished it would have been different. But you never answered my text.

Every day I walk outside I do it with the absurd hope that you will be there. That you will stand by the news stand at the corner, smiling at me with that intimidatingly handsome smile of yours. I picture it to be a little reserved, a little hesitant. A news paper under your arm that you didn't have the mind to read and a cup of cold coffee in your hand, that you have forgotten to take so much as a sip of, while waiting for me.

See? I have it all perfectly planned out in my head. And that is exactly why it will never happen. Because there is no such thing as perfect, right? I miss you, Dylan.

Chapter 1

Scarlett Deveraux

"Scarlett!" The high-pitched voice of my mother reaches the door a split second before the clicking of her heels against the marble hall way floor in front of my room does. "Scarlett, are you not ready yet?" She opens the door without knocking and looks at me, one brow raised. No, she doesn't look, she assesses. "You look gorgeous, honey," she says, one richly accessorised hand stemmed into her slim hips, her slight southern accent lingering in the room alongside her heavy perfume. When my mother was my age, she was a real Southern Belle. I like to think her Southern roots and my father's long line of Park Avenue ancestry made me the perfect fit for this life.

I try to keep my smile a nice, pleasant one. Not too broad. But it is hard. It almost never happens that she says something like that without ... "But didn't you have time to do something with your hair?" I force my smile to stay in place. I know how to do that. "I am about to, Mom." "Good, the Brooks' will be here in less than 30 minutes. You know how your father gets when you are late."

I know she only wants what is best for me. I had not planned to change my hair from the free flowing, voluminous blonde curls into anything else. But as soon as she has left my room I sink down in front of my vanity and start to gather the loose strands up into an intricate up-do. If the Brooks' are coming to dinner, I cannot risk looking anything but my best. My father has been very clear about that yesterday and I can't disappoint him. I reach for my lip gloss and apply another layer of the softly shimmering rosé tone that accentuates the blue of my eyes so well. Just to be sure.

I think I've never disappointed him so far. And how could I? I am top of my class, on the guest list of every important Upper Eastside event and as head of my school's charity committee, in charge of most of the philanthropic functions of Aston High. There is however one event on my social calendar that is more important than anything else: Cotillion. No matter how long I have been a part of this society, I will fully become a member the night of my formal debut. And you cannot make your formal debut in front of all of Park Avenue without the perfect suitor to offer you his arm to guide you down the stairs that will lead you to your future. This is why the Brooks' are coming to dinner. Or better: This is why especially one Brooks is coming to dinner.

***

The staff my mother hired for tonight has set the table in elegant white and silver. Two high candles shine their soft light underneath the heavy chandelier. I have always liked the small little dots of light it's prisms throw onto the table, making it look as if diamonds had casually been strewn onto the spotless tablecloth. I try to slow down my nervous heart by listening to the unobtrusive jazz beats playing in the background. I am about to smooth down my already perfectly smooth dress for the sixth time, earning a slightly worried glance from my mother, when my father steps into the huge dining room. He gives me a short once over. "Hello Dad," I put all my available confidence into my voice as he sits down, giving me a short nod. "Scarlett. You picked a nice dress for her, Ava."