You Before Anyone Else (24 page)

Finley

“Hips! Move those hips!” Iris shouts, beating her sneaker against the dance floor in time to the music.

Hip-hop has never been a strength for me, but I'm definitely getting better.

Iris watches me for a few seconds and then quirks an eyebrow. “Is that an unpointed foot? And loose knees? Look who's learning how to ruin her ballet technique.” She addresses the class of twenty or so dancers. “Everyone applaud Miss Finley Belton for pulling that ballerina stick out of her ass.”

I start laughing and lose my place, getting behind the music by a few counts. Iris resumes banging her sneaker on the floor while a giant bag of ice rests over her left knee. I refocus and get back into the number we've learned today. But over the course of this class—forty-five minutes so far—the middle-aged woman beside me keeps glancing my way. I can see her gaze roaming to the left through mirrors. She did this during the contemporary dance class before hip-hop as well. I did a good job ignoring her during the last class, but now it's getting to me.

I swiftly swap spots with the dude behind me and then another woman behind him until I'm nearly in the back of the room. I push myself to go full out for the remainder of the class, even though I'm exhausted after a long catalog shoot this morning, standing the whole time and a million outfit changes, plus I took three classes last night. I think I'm addicted. Today, I finally broke down and bought the punch card Iris's been pushing for weeks now. It seemed like too big a commitment, buying fifty classes. Like holding that punch card meant officially declaring my return to dance. But now, instead of twenty dollars per class, I'm paying ten. Money is money, and the last thing I want to do is drain my savings.

We finish class with the usual cooldown stretches. I head straight for my bag in the lobby, grabbing my towel and attempting to dry off my sweat-soaked tank top. I've got the towel over my face, blocking my view, but I can feel someone behind me, standing and waiting. I drop the towel and spin to face the middle-aged woman who had been eyeing me all evening.

She sticks out a hand. “I'm Lenore Jacobs. Founder of a modern dance company in Manhattan.”

Uh…

I stand there, holding the towel to my chest and not moving.

Lenore laughs and withdraws her hand. “Iris said you would be a tough sell.”

“Tough sell for what?” I crumple the sweaty towel and drop it on top of my bag.

“Auditioning. For my company,” she says. “You're an incredible dancer. Lots of heart, but no guts. Yet. Which is something I love. I want credit for helping my dancers grow and find that emotional connection to their dancing.”

“Auditioning,” I repeat. “For a company.”

“For my company,” she corrects. “That means I'm in charge. And you've already impressed me…”

When I don't respond—my tongue is literally tied, my brain pulling in multiple directions—she goes on to explain details about the company studio in midtown that they share with a reputable ballet school, the pay, the other dancers, the housing they have if I need it. My head is spinning, but I do catch the part where she says they spend about half the year traveling around the world, performing.

“Touring will be the easiest part. I work my dancers to the ground when we're not on tour. We rehearse four to six hours a day and spend another hour or two collaborating on choreography and concepts. We're world famous because of our artistic visions and how we use dance to show aspects of humanity that reach a very wide audience.”

“Don't let her scare you off with that artistic mumbo jumbo,” Iris says, walking up beside me. “She wants well-trained dancers with the right body type just as much as any company.”

“True,” Lenore says. “But my definition of right body type is a bit broader than the New York City Ballet's. We want healthy dancers, so we don't have the same strict rules other companies have. It's very much a collaborative environment built on trust. If you tell me you need a break, I won't ever tell you no.”

I can't quite explain the feeling of both dread and excitement building in me. It's something unfamiliar, wanting this big thing all for myself. “It sounds amazing,” I finally say to Lenore. “But I'm working on reopening my parents' studio, and my boyfriend needs help with…”

My voice trails off when Lenore starts shaking her head. “Don't answer me now.” She hands me a card—the same one Iris gave me after my first class here—and says, “All I'm asking is for you to come and meet my dancers, talk with them, rehearse with them. One day. That's it.”

Lenore turns to leave before I can tell her no thanks—on purpose, I'm sure. Iris is still standing there looking at me, along with a couple dancers still straggling behind after class. My face heats up.

“What will it hurt to meet her crew?” Iris asks. “Are you afraid you'll like it too much?”

She leaves me too, abruptly like Lenore. My head is such a jumbled mess when I turn around to exit the building that, at first, I don't even notice Eddie standing right in front of me. I jump after seeing him. Had he been standing behind me the whole time?

“Hey…” I fumble with the strap of my bag, not looking him in the eye. I called him my boyfriend out loud, didn't I? Is that okay? I said he needed me. Maybe that was too much. Maybe he didn't hear me. “What are you doing here?”

“Figured we could walk home together.” He takes the bag from my shoulder and puts it on his. He sounds like his normal self. “Are you hungry? Want to pick up some dinner?”

“I was planning to eat leftover casserole. There's probably enough for both of us.” I look at him. “But it's super healthy. Just a warning. Green stuff, lentils, the works.”

Eddie smiles at me. “Free dinner is free dinner.”

By the time we get to my apartment, I'm nearly convinced that he didn't catch any of that conversation. He seems way too cool and relaxed.

I should be relieved. I can tuck it all away as something cool that happened to me once. But I can't seem to shake Iris's accusations that maybe I'm afraid I'll like it too much. I have daydreamed about performing on a live stage again. But I've also fantasized about a studio full of little dancers lined up in front of the mirrors at Belton Academy, bellies sticking out, Care Bear underwear poking out of some of their leotards. Little girls who can't wait to put on a tutu so Grandma and Grandpa can see them dance in the recital. My parents used to put on the best recitals. We sold tickets to people who didn't know any dancers in the show.

I shove those thoughts aside and attempt to not look so conflicted.

Summer is sprawled out on the couch, going through the mail, when we walk inside. She's wearing her bathrobe, her nose is red, and her hair is…well, it's not perfectly in place.

“Are you sick?” I ask her.

“Allergies,” she answers, topping it off with a sneeze all over the mail. “Eve dropped these off for you and Elana.” She holds out two gold cards with silver cursive writing on the front. “How come I didn't get an invite to the Guggenheim?”

I glance over the invitation. It's for a show displaying Janessa Fields's work and launching her newest book, titled Limbs.

I glance down at the bottom of the invite and see:
And featuring work by newcomer Eve Nowakowski from her series titled Hands
and Feet.

Before I can figure out why I got invited to this show, my phone rings. Eve.

“Did you get the invitation?” she asks before I even say hello.

“Looking at it now.”

“I was afraid Summer would shred them,” she says. “Okay, so I know it's all been super secretive, but I want to hang a couple of your photos in the show, and I want you there to see it. What do you think?”

“First of all, aren't they your photos? And second, that's amazing! Of course it's okay—” I freeze, remembering something. “Wait…which photos? The ones with…with—”

“No clothes?” Eve supplies.

I glance around to see if Eddie or Summer heard her through the phone. Summer is now in the kitchen attempting to make tea with the kettle—a disaster waiting to happen. “Yeah. Those.”

“I was hoping to include one,” Eve says. “Or maybe two…”

I can hear the concern in her voice. She's dying to put her best shots in it, and those might involve me with no clothes. I sigh. “Okay, you have my permission. Guess I won't be the first nude body to enter the Guggenheim.”

Eddie lifts his eyebrow but stays quiet. Eve squeals on the other end of the line. We end the conversation quickly after I promise to be there Friday night.

“I knew a girl who got desperate and did the nude modeling thing,” Summer says from the kitchen. “She ended up with pics of her and the Brazilian wax she was wearing all over the Internet. She OD'd on heroin three months later.”

“Thanks, Summer. I'll keep that in mind.” I head into the kitchen and snatch the tea kettle from her. “Sit. Stop trying to cook things, or you'll start another fire. We haven't replaced the fire extinguisher from last time.”

She flashes me her sweetest smile and plops down in a kitchen chair. She looks over at Eddie. “Do you have your own drawer yet?”

I turn around long enough to glare at her. I make Summer her tea and then a grilled cheese sandwich to go with it after she begs me and claims she's too sick to make her usual protein shake. I'm impressed she's actually going to consume solid foods. Finally, I heat up the container of leftover casserole and bring it to the couch along with a couple forks.

Eddie nods in the direction of Summer's bedroom and says, “And I thought I was spoiled.”

“No kidding.” I stab a vegetable and blow on it. “She knows all this already though. She's too far gone to see the error of her ways.”

“What's the green stuff?” Eddie asks, already chewing his bite.

“I love that you eat it and then ask. Testament to your upbringing. Lots of strange green food. It's dinosaur kale.”

Eddie leaves his fork in the container and leans his head back against the couch. “You should call that lady, Fin.”

“What lady?”

“The one with the dance company.” He turns his head to look at me, waiting for my reaction.

I stop midchew. So he did hear that conversation. “Why would I call her? I'm opening the studio. Probably in nine months. I won't have time to join a dance company. Besides, they go all over the world. I would hardly—”

“Be home,” he says with a nod. “You could try it out and hold off on the studio opening for another year?”

I set the container on the coffee table. “I don't want to hold off. Why would I? I mean, you're signing a lease for the two-bedroom near my house, right? You'll be moving in by the end of August.”

“It's just an option,” he says. “One you should at least consider.”

“I want to move back home soon.” I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them. “I was hoping…I thought maybe we could split the rent or something?”

God, did I just ask to move in with him? But he stays in my apartment more often than he doesn't. It's not that outrageous. It's just logic.

His forehead wrinkles. “You want to move in with me? And my kid?”

I shrug. “It was just an idea.”

“What if you wanted to move out eventually? And then I have this kid and he's gotten to know you. That's not gonna work.” Eddie scrubs a hand over his face. “I have to start thinking like that, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” I swallow a lump in my throat. Why does it feel like he doesn't want me around anymore? I hop up from my spot and busy myself getting a glass of water. “Forget I mentioned it.”

Not that it doesn't hurt to get that kind of rejection from Eddie, but he's sort of right. If he gets custody of this baby and they're living together, it's forever. And if I jump into their world and it's not forever, it's so much messier now.

When I sit back down, Eddie says, “You might regret it. If you don't try out professional dancing.”

“I know what I'll regret.” I try not to sound snippy, but it's hard. “Just like you know you want custody of your child instead of a fully qualified adoptive family. Have I tried to talk you out of that?”

His jaw tenses, and he blows out a breath. “Right. Okay. I won't bring it up again.”

We both stare at the casserole container for way too long until eventually Eddie stands. “I'm…I'm gonna go. Out. To run some errands.”

“Yeah, fine.” I close my eyes, not wanting to watch him leave. He hadn't said he was staying here tonight, but I guess I've gotten used to him being around.

But still…what right does he have to tell me what I'll regret? I've done nothing but support him and his choices. And not doing that audition, it isn't only about Eddie. It's about being closer to my family. Being home again.

At least I think that's what it's about.

Eddie

I screwed that up. Big-time. I have too many voices in my head right now. There's Sam, who wants a lot more for his daughter than being some pseudo teen mom to my kid. Then there's the side of me that wants nothing more than to see Finley every single day. And of course, that side of me that feels guilty as hell for wanting that, because it's about me and not her. It has to be about her. I had it right at the beginning, when we were first together. I knew she was better off if we just made this a temporary thing, a summer fling, like she said. But somewhere along the way, I forgot all of that. I got caught up in her.

Who am I kidding? I'm still caught up in her.

Except I'm staring down the front door of another girl's home. I think hurting Fin tonight pushed me over the edge. I need to make things right with at least one person I've screwed over.

I wonder if the doorman would let me up to Caroline's place. I don't want to run into her parents, but I probably should. I should explain why I changed my mind. That's the manly thing to do, isn't it?

I take a deep breath and pull the heavy door open. The doorman looks up the second he sees me. I recognize him, which means he most likely recognizes—

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wellington, but I can't let you go up,” he says. And he actually does sound a little bit sorry.

For a moment, I debate making a run for it, but there's no point. Another doorman is up on the penthouse floor, waiting to stop me. Instead, I go outside and stare up at her window like I had done weeks ago. A shadow moves around the room. A rush of adrenaline surges through me. I need to see her. I need to make things right. I glance around to see if anyone is watching, jump and pull down the ladder, then begin the climb up the fire escape. Eighteen floors worth of fire escape.

By the time I reach her window, I'm sweaty and out of breath. I press myself against the building, trying to stay hidden. The last thing I need is trespassing charges on my record. I knock lightly on the window. When I hear the sound of someone opening it, I reveal myself and come face-to-face with RJ.

“Shit,” I say. “I didn't know you were—”

“Think you're the only one who knows this trick?” he asks, pushing the window open farther for me to come in.

“Can I come in?” I ask, looking around for Caroline.

“Tell him to jump off the fire escape,” Caroline says from somewhere inside the room.

RJ gives me a grim look. “I think that means enter at your own risk.”

I decide to take my chances and climb in the window. I look around the room, remembering the last time I was here. The day Caroline and I had to sign our eighteen-year friendship away along with the kid we accidentally conceived. It hasn't changed much, except it's messier, more lived in. Probably because she's not allowed out much. Her parents don't want anyone knowing she's pregnant. I bet they pull a car up in a dark alley and shove her inside when no one is looking.

Caroline is lying on the bed, on her side—the giant stomach trips me up again—a pillow between her legs. Her face is red, and her hair is sweaty.

“What's wrong?” I ask, moving closer without being invited. “Are you okay?”

She closes her eyes and nods.

“Heartburn,” RJ says. “And Braxton Hicks. Those are false contrac—”

“I know what they are.” Pretentious premeds. I look at Caroline again. “So it's probably a bad time to talk?”

She exhales, her nostrils flaring. “Go away, Eddie.”

Her tone isn't firm enough for me to believe she really wants me gone. Some part of her has to know that we need to talk. It can't just be between lawyers. That's what got us into this mess in the first place.

“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. “Why did I eat that pepperoni pizza?”

“Aren't you a vegetarian?” I ask. She's been one at least since middle school.

“Yeah, well, this baby isn't.” She opens her eyes and pulls herself up to a sitting position. “Did you really throw your credit cards at your dad and threaten to change your name?” Caroline rubs her chest. “I think five slices was one too many.”

“Who told you that?” I ask, but I come up with the answer on my own. The maids. Apparently, our feuding families haven't put a dent in their relationships. “That's mostly what happened.” I look around the room again and settle on sitting in the window seat across from the bed. “My dad called my lawyer and told him I was a mentally unstable drug addict who caused you to feel physically threatened by me.”

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “I didn't say anything like that…”

“I figured.” I glance down at my hands. “I'm just…I'm wondering if you're going to. You know, if someone, like, asks you?”

She clenches her jaw, anger wrinkling her forehead. “God, I hate you for doing this. I can't believe—but no, Eddie, I'm not going to make up lies about you.”

I blow out a breath, too relieved to be able to conceal it.

“But I'm not changing my mind either. I still believe the family I picked is the best option for this baby, and that's what I'm going to say when I'm asked.”

So yeah, that's a kick to the gut, but I get it. It's her right.

RJ makes a big show of clearing his throat, and eventually, Caroline rolls her eyes and says, “Fine. Show him.”

He goes over to Caroline's desk, opens a folder, and pulls out what looks like printed photos. I don't know what I expected to see, but it wasn't the face of my kid. My heart pounds. My finger drifts over the image. He's got his mouth open like he's yawning. The clarity is incredible.

“It's a 3D ultrasound,” RJ explains. “The technology is unreal.”

I flip to the next photo and immediately lean away from it. “Whoa, is that his—”

“Penis?” RJ says. “Yep. Definitely a boy.”

“Jesus, is this legal?” I'm not sure I want images of my kid's private parts floating around everywhere. I flip to the next photo. It's a clear image of his spine.

RJ moves closer and points to the center of the picture. “They're checking for spinal abnormalities. It's so clear you can count each vertebrae and see if they're fused properly. Everything was perfect.”

I hang on the word
perfect
. It's kind of a miracle that this kid is perfect, given the conditions he was conceived under. It makes me want him even more. He's already got an attitude, enough to say,
Screw you people who made me. I'm gonna function properly, even without your
help.

Caroline seems super uncomfortable about all this, but somehow, RJ must have convinced her that I at least deserved to see photos of my kid. While I'm poring over the twenty or so pics, she rattles on about anything but this baby.

“Tell me more about this modeling gig. I can't believe you're giving up Princeton to pose in your underwear.”

“I only did one underwear shoot,” I say while studying a photo of the baby's full body, curled up and asleep. “I did a shoot with Toby Rhinehart.”

“No!” Caroline pulls herself up further. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Nice guy.” I finish up with the pictures and hand them back to RJ—reluctantly, because I'd really love to keep one.

“What about your model girlfriend?” Caroline asks. “Is she prepared to be your baby mama?”

“You mean Finley?” I turn to face her. “She's definitely prepared and capable, but I don't think that's what she should do.” The fight with Finley comes back to me, and I still don't know what to do about it. “Her family is great though.”

“Right. Of course. She's perfect.” Caroline releases a frustrated breath. “That's just like you, Eddie, finding someone else to do the hard work for you.”

“I'm not letting her do anything for me.” I stand up. It might be time to go. Before I say something I'll regret or something that can be used against me later. “I'm going to have my own place. A car. Baby gear. Safety covers over all the outlets. Infant CPR card.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks me. “Like, with yourself? With your life? I know you don't need money, but seriously, you need something for you.”

This sounds like a manipulative tactic, so I don't respond.

“Eddie, you are setting yourself up for insanity,” she presses. “Maybe Princeton isn't for you. God knows you couldn't have gotten in on your own merits…”

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“Are you planning to keep modeling?”

I shake my head. Not if I can help it. Maybe if there's a delay in custody or if it takes a while to get access to my grandmother's trust. “I'll probably get another job. My girlfriend wants to reopen a dance studio. I might be their piano player.”

This seems to surprise her. She sinks back against the headboard, looking slightly amused. “You have a girlfriend. That's so…I don't know, not you. But it is though.”

I don't know what to say to that.

“I'm happy for you.” Caroline manages a smile and then it fades. She opens the bedside drawer and removes a folder. “Just look at this, Eddie. Take thirty seconds to look at it.”

I lean closer and read the label printed across the front: The Kingsley Family. I lift my hands and back away. “Uh-uh.”

“Why not?” she demands. “Afraid you'll change your mind? Is your choice that fragile?”

“I don't need to look, because my decision isn't fragile. I'm not changing my mind. Why should I feel guilty for you misleading this family?”

“I'm not misleading anyone!” She glares at me. “I'm doing what's best for my kid!”

I'm about to remind her that it's my kid too, but I don't, because (1) technically he's not mine until declared so by the family court, and (2) the bedroom door opens, and Caroline's mom, the maid, and the doorman stare us down.

RJ and I look at each other, both of us beginning to panic. But Caroline's mom does nothing more than look at RJ and point down the hallway. “Harry will see you out.”

He nods and gives Caroline a long look before leaving. I attempt to follow behind him, but Mrs. Davenport stops me. She closes the bedroom door, leaving the two of us alone in the hall.

“Name your price,” she says right away, surprising the shit out of me.

I lift an eyebrow. “My price?” Did she forget my family is richer than hers? Not that I'm connected with them anymore, but I could be if I did exactly what she's about to ask me to do.

“To drop the custody suit.” She eyes me like I'm different than the last time we saw each other. Like I'm more of a threat. I consider this a small victory. “Whatever you want, name it. A giant dance studio for your girlfriend, full private school tuition for her little brothers, a brand-new accessible home for her disabled father…”

My heart thuds with fury, and my fists clench at my sides. “Stay the hell away from her. You have no right to—”

“No right?” she snaps. “To learn more about the girl who is claiming to be a support system for my grandson? And her family who are listed as your references?”

“So he's your grandson now?” I challenge. “Since when?”

She narrows her eyes. “You have no case. No chance at winning. All you're going to do is put my daughter through hell and keep her from getting to school on time.”

“If I don't stand a chance, then why are you fucking bribing me?” I don't wait for her to answer. I show myself out, taking the stairs and heading out the back entrance.