You Before Anyone Else (10 page)

“Hey…” Warm fingers touch my face. “You okay? Want to stop?”

I look up at him. His dark eyes are now full of concern. “I can't remember… Do you remember—that night after the party—do you remember kissing me?”

“Yeah.” Eddie exhales, looking relieved. “You were standing by your nightstand, holding the drawer open, rambling about condoms and brand names and the product reviews you read on Amazon—”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Damn. I did do that, didn't I?”

“You did.” He smiles. “And then I kissed you, because I was so taken by our compatibility. I, too, have an addiction to reading product reviews.”

I flop onto my back and groan. “Why are you so adorable?”

His forehead wrinkles. “Is that a good or bad thing?”

“It's terrible,” I lie.

He stretches out beside me. “How about I tell you every single thing about me until you're so repulsed and turned off, we can easily part ways?”

Even while saying this, he's doing more adorable things, like gently pulling me toward him until my head is on his shoulder and my palm over his heart.

Yeah, this sucks. Completely.

Eddie

I open the door to Finley's dad's car, step outside, and lift my sunglasses to get a better look at the old building in front of me. It's a Victorian-style place, brown with pink trim. A rotted wooden sign sits tilted in front:
Belton Academy of Dance, Music, and Acting
. “Is this—” I start.

“My parents' studio,” Finley finishes. “Well, it was anyway.”

She strides toward the door, and I follow much farther behind. We're supposed to be picking up steaks to grill for dinner tonight. Finley glances over her shoulder and stops when she sees me lagging behind her. “Come on, I want to show you the inside.”

There's a “for sale” sign out front, and that has me moving even slower. The last thing I need right now is breaking and entering charges.

Finley reads my mind. “The real estate agent is my dad's best friend. He gave me the combination.”

I relax a bit and watch her expertly open the lock box and retrieve the key. “You come here often?”

She just shrugs and holds the door open for me. Through the doors is a narrow hallway leading to a lobby. A staircase—clearly no wheelchair access in this old building—in the lobby leads to the basement, where the two dance studios sit. The larger room has an upright piano, not as nice as the one at Fin's house, but still decent. Mirrors cover two entire walls, and ballet barres fill the other two. I sit down on the piano bench. I'm still not sure what we're doing here. “Let me guess, you stuffed those pointe shoes from the Prada shoot in your purse?”

She blushes and shakes her head. “Nope.” But then she pulls out a worn pair from the bag on her shoulder. “These fit me much better.”

I laugh—I can't help it. “So we're here to practice.”

While she puts her shoes on, I entertain myself playing around on the piano. Mechanically, my mind chooses a classical piece, and for a moment, I'm transported back five years to some stuffy, rich old people party my parents forced me to attend. My mother then forced me to play the piano for all her rich friends.
Something Beethoven or Bach
, she'd said as if she knew anything about music. Someone had mentioned having a friend at the Juilliard School to my dad, and he'd marched right over and put a stop to me playing, which had been fine by me.

I shake off the memory and switch to playing something lively, less classical and more blues feel. But I quickly become distracted by Finley warming up.

“Doesn't that hurt?” I ask when she stands on the very top of her toes.

“Yeah,” she admits. “But mostly because my feet aren't as tough as they used to be. I've got to get them worked out more.” She drops back down and turns to face me. “What was that song you were just playing?”

I shrug. “I don't know. I think it's part of something I heard once and a little improv.”

“Improv?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Like you just made it up?”

“Sort of. I mean, it's jazz, so that's part of the style.” I don't know why, but this discussion embarrasses me. Maybe because it's too much fun for me to play like that to have it critiqued and turned into something, well, not fun.

“Please don't tell my dad about your jazz ability. He'll dig up his saxophone and turn the living room into a lounge, full of cigar smoke,” Fin says, and I laugh. She sifts through her bag before setting sheet music in front of me. “Can you play this?”

“
Don Quixote
.” I've actually seen this ballet. Fell asleep in act three, if I remember correctly.

I play through the music a couple times and then when I begin the third time, I look up, and she's dancing, expertly moving through choreography that really connects with the music. My fingers fumble, distracted by her, and I have to refocus. I get stuck halfway through, unable to turn the page quickly enough, and Finley stops to catch her breath.

“I'm out of shape,” she says, though she really doesn't look that winded.

I angle myself on the bench to face her. “Why aren't you dancing instead of modeling?”

She hesitates before answering, her gaze focused on her feet. “I stopped ballet several years ago, when the studio closed.”

I gesture at her ballet shoes. “Obviously, you haven't.”

“I hadn't danced, not in pointe shoes anyway,” she admits, “until last week at that photo shoot with Summer.” Finley shakes her head. “But I don't want to dance professionally. I used to when I was younger, but now I want to teach. Here. I want to reopen this dance studio. For my mom.”

Silence falls between us; obviously, this is a bigger deal than I realized. I don't know what it's like for her, losing her mom. I mean, I kind of hate my parents, so it would be different for me.

My gaze drifts from Fin to the sheet music. “Again?”

She nods, and I'm relieved to have something to do. I stumble a lot less with the music this time, but my head's a mess, knowing she's shared this big secret with me, she's trusted me with a part of her that's far from basic casual information. I want to run, and at the same time, I want to take advantage of being alone with this beautiful girl who is possibly the nicest person I've ever met. When Finley makes her way closer to me, close enough to reach, I hook an arm around her waist, pulling until she's sitting on my lap.

Her face heats, but she smiles at me. “I was wondering how long it would take you to realize that we're alone.”

I lean down to press my lips against her neck. “You really are trying to ditch the good girl image, aren't you?”

She stiffens in my arms, alarmed by this reminder. I want to tell her that she's got me all wrong. I'm not the smooth guy with all the right lines she's imagined, but part of me likes the confidence that comes with this misrepresentation.

“On second thought…” Finley presses a hand to my chest and pushes up to her feet again. She's out of my reach in two seconds flat. “I like you better playing piano.”

I glance at the piano keys in front of me and sigh. “You're probably the only one.”

Finley

“You didn't even look at this!” I hold the pool catalog up for my dad to see. “Even Grandma thinks we need an alarm. Our cover isn't secure at all.”

“I'll look at it later.” Dad plops the last of the dinner dishes into the sink and grins at me. “Let's talk about your friend, Eddie. Has the title shifted to something different?”

My cheeks burn, so I drop my gaze to the catalog and flip the pages quickly. “I don't know.”

“Right. 'Cause friends usually make out in their backyard for an entire hour.”

I launch the pool accessory book across the kitchen but miss hitting him with it. Then I glance out the window to see if Eddie's still outside with the boys. His shirtless silhouette pops into view, along with two smaller ones on either side of him. “It's complicated, okay?”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Fine. I'll leave you alone.”

I give a satisfied nod. “Thank you.”

“It's just—” Dad stops abruptly when I toss him a look that says
What now?
He lowers his voice and continues. “Listen, it's not something I'd normally get involved in. It's just that I saw him looking up a phone number online this morning. Robert Lowman Esq., trust fund specialist.”

“Jesus, Dad. Seriously?” I attempt to hide the curiosity from my voice, but I doubt he's fooled.

He wheels closer to me and drops his voice even more. “I just want to make sure you're safe—you're still my baby girl. He could be in trouble, Fin. He could be into gambling or drugs?”

Well, I already know that Eddie's in a hurry to make money based on his recent and seemingly secret modeling career. I replay the anxious look he had worn when he mentioned sticking around his apartment this weekend with his drug party roommates. Somehow, I doubt drugs are the cause of Eddie's secretive behavior. But gambling? I guess it's possible. Maybe he's trying to hide his debt from his family by working it off.

“I know that he's got some secrets, but I don't think it's anything dangerous or illegal.” Of course, I have some reservations. I'm just trying to put it all together in my head. Or to not put it together. Let it go. That could be the best option. But why would he need to contact a trust fund specialist?

“Don't trust funds usually kick in at twenty-one?” I ask. “Eddie's only eighteen.”

“I think they can be set up any way you want.” Dad shrugs. “And both gambling and drug circles aren't unheard of with kids from boarding schools like Eddie's. He's a legacy. They have all kinds of secret societies, and it's just expected that they join and do whatever the group is doing.”

It all sounds so dramatic. I sneak another peek out the window at Eddie, watching him run a hand through his messy, wet hair. His swim trunks dip dangerously low, and he tugs them up the second he notices. Connor and Braden shout to Eddie, persuading him to do another dive. Instead of following orders, he makes a big show of leaning against a chair, pretending to be too busy picking his nose. Both my brothers collapse into giggles on the pool deck.

He doesn't seem like a trust fund legacy guy who lives for secret societies, drugs, and gambling. But what the hell do I know?

“I'm not trying to totally freak you out,” Dad tells me, despite all the hypotheticals he's brought up. “But I'm usually a pro at reading kids Eddie's age. They're never as mysterious to me as they think they are.”

“Except him,” I point out, earning a careful nod from Dad. “You're probably right. He's got a bookie who's about to add him to a hit list, and now we're involved. We probably shouldn't leave him alone with the boys.”

Dad lets me leave the kitchen and head outside without another word. I don't know what to believe. Maybe that's the point. Maybe the risk is not caring either way. Sometimes, people deserve a chance to be taken at face value. Without the past or future hanging over them.

“Fin, make Eddie show us another back dive!” Braden demands when he sees me. “I wanna learn!”

Eddie straightens up, looking concerned. “Remember, you promised me you wouldn't try it without me here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Braden concedes. “Cracked heads. Bloody guts everywhere.”

Yet another mental image to keep me up at night.

“Hey, guys,” I say more to Eddie than my brothers. “We have to get going soon. Eddie can't do back dives for you all night.”

A chorus of disappointed noooos ensues, but Eddie does one more back dive and then heads inside to change. Shortly after, we're sitting on the train back to Penn Station.

The quiet, the lack of constant activity we've had all weekend, is unnerving.

Eddie's leaned against the window, looking like he might fall asleep any second but also like he's trying hard not to. The backpack resting at his feet has a big wet spot on the side where he most likely shoved his swimsuit. I'm about to reach in and pull it out, hang it on the empty seat in front of us to dry, but then I hear Summer's voice again, calling me a mama bear and telling me I can't help falling for guys who…what? Need help keeping their clothes dry? Would I not know what to do with a guy who had it all figured out? Someone who knew how to keep his clean laundry clean or how to sleep outside without getting bug bites? I'd like to think that's not true, that I would be fine with someone who didn't need my help all the time, but what if it is true? This has psychological disorder written all over it.

Instead of focusing on my issues, I impulsively decide to bug Eddie about his. I tap him on the knee and wait for him to look at me before blurting out, “Do you have a gambling problem?” Probably a bit too loud for the silent train.

“Huh?” His forehead wrinkles, and he sits up straight again. “What?”

A woman across the aisle glances at us and then looks away. Embarrassed, I lower my voice. “A gambling problem,” I repeat. It sounds even more silly the second time.

“Gambling, like betting on shit? Like playing blackjack in Atlantic City?” Eddie scratches his head. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Any of that,” I say, knowing already that it's not true. “Did you lose a bunch of money and you owe it to someone?”

“No.” He seems to contemplate this for a beat, then says, “Besides, don't you have to be twenty-one to get into casinos?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I sink back into my chair, wishing I hadn't brought it up. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“No problem.” He goes back to leaning against the window, but I can feel his eyes on me. “It's complicated, isn't it?”

“What?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

Eddie hooks a finger around my pinkie. “This. You and me.”

Something about the openness of his expression—like I could say anything, and he wouldn't stop holding my finger with his—causes all the feelings I've been stuffing away this weekend to resurface. “It's more than complicated. It's irrational.”

“Completely,” Eddie agrees, and he turns to face forward, appearing to be deep in thought. “But it's not complicated if it's just this. You know? Like this weekend. Like bumping into each other at a party. Like…I don't know, just this.”

I get what he's saying, and it's both disheartening and a relief. What he told me the other night, about it being okay for me to like him, is true. And there's no rule that says that we both have to rearrange our lives because we had a fun weekend together. Because I showed him my secret place and told him things I'm afraid to tell my own father. It felt good to talk about it. It felt good to kiss Eddie the other night, under the stars with no intent of thinking too far ahead. It felt good and empowering to take Eddie up to my room that night we met at the party. In truth, none of this has been bad. I could make it that way if I wanted.

Or I could just let him keep holding my hand and enjoy the remaining forty-five minutes of this train ride.

My long silence, my body relaxing against the seat again, provided enough of a response for Eddie. He sinks farther into his own seat, gives my hand a squeeze, and says, “We're good?”

I manage a small smile. “Yeah, we're good.”

The tension that had sat in the air between us is gone, and the rest of the trip flies. Both of us spend the time checking our schedules and spilling about what jobs we're doing this week. When we finally walk back into our apartment building, I try to think of something important to say.

I'm about to put my key in the door when Eddie drops his hands to my hips, slides me over, and turns me around. My heart gives two quick beats in response, and all I can think about is Eddie's mouth getting closer and closer to mine. I reach up and take his face in my hands, pulling until our lips finally collide. His fingers skim my sides, my hips, my legs, then slip under the back of my shirt.

After I don't know how long, I pull away from him, my eyes still closed. “Why are you so good at this?”

Eddie laughs and touches his forehead to mine. “So maybe we'll bump into each other again? Sometime soon?”

Those are the words I'd been digging for and couldn't form.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, still out of breath.

He kisses me again, quick but lingering, reluctant to release me. And then I watch him walk down the hall, and for the first time, I think,
What if we never bump into each other again? Are either of us going to decide to walk over to the other person's door? On purpose? With a purpose?
All we've done so far is decide not to run into each other, and it's happened anyway.

What if I want it to happen? Will that ruin everything?