You Before Anyone Else (25 page)

Finley

“You'll definitely make sure Eddie gets the cookies and croissants?” Elana asks for the hundredth time today.

“I promise,” I say for the ninety-ninth time. It took a while for the baked goods production, coupled with Eddie actually meeting up with Toby Rhinehart, to come together, so I can't bear to tell Elana that Eddie and I have been on the outs for a few days.

Or maybe he's been busy. I don't know. Regardless, I told Summer to hand over the stuff when Eddie stops by so that I would have some more time to deal with everything. I know those cookies are safe with Summer.

“If you ask Eddie,” I tell Elana, “he'd probably let you go with him to meet up with Toby.”

Elana slows her treadmill down to walking speed—we're at the gym—and then stares at me like I'm nuts. “I couldn't. I would freak out. He's just so…”

“Famous?” I suggest. Though I kind of freaked out too, he really did seem pretty normal. But whatever. I won't force her.

We have to stop the conversation, because my phone rings. It's a number I don't recognize, but it's a state office. I have a feeling I know what this is for. I stop my elliptical and answer it.

A woman on the other end quickly explains that she's setting up interviews for a case and asks if I'm aware of the circumstances and willing to speak with a judge about a client of Ron Miller's in mid-September. That's well over a month away.

“Um…yes, of course. I'll do whatever you need me to.” Despite our recent snag, I'd never let that stop me from helping him with this trial.

We set up an appointment, and I quickly add it to my calendar. When I finish, Elana is staring at me. “What's going on?”

I give her the briefest summary of Eddie's life story, and then I wait for her reaction. Her eyes widen. “Oh man… Do not tell my mother any of this!”

Seriously? How exactly would I do that?

“She'd flip out.” Elana says something in French, perfectly mimicking her mother's tone. “This is what happens when you talk to boys!”

We go back to working out again, but when we finish, Elana says, “You guys are fighting, aren't you? Or did you break up?”

I wipe my face with a towel, hiding it from her. “Why would you think that?”

“I can just tell,” she says. “Something is off.”

“We aren't fighting.” That's mostly true. We're disagreeing. We're keeping our distance. Not speaking. But fighting…not so much.

Elana looks panicked all of a sudden. “He's still going to give the cookies to Toby, right?”

I laugh. “Of course. He's not that kind of guy.”

“Good,” Elana reasons. “Because my mother would kill him.”

Somehow, I don't doubt that.

Eddie

By the time I arrive at Toby's “decoy house,” my fingers are about to fall off from lugging the grocery sack of baked goods from my parenting class. I've still got my fake baby—perfectly burrito wrapped—in one arm when the door to the apartment opens.

A big dude with a long beard glares down at me from his nearly seven-foot height. He looks like he's about to stomp on me, but then I hear a voice behind him.

“Rocko, relax. Don't kill anyone.” Toby pushes past the big dude and stands in front of me, grinning. “Don't worry. He only inflicts pain if you've got mud on your shoes—” He spots the fake baby and stops. “Oh, look at that little—”

I wait for him to lean in and then laugh at his reaction. “Plastic doll?”

I remove the doll from the blanket and hold it up by one arm. For just a brief moment, I panic and look around. If Roberta, my infant care instructor, saw me holding a baby like this, even a fake one, she'd flunk me in a heartbeat.

“Dude…” Toby says, laughing. “Totally got me with that. But seriously, what the fuck?”

The big guy is still staring, but Toby nods for me to walk into this elaborately decorated apartment. It's filled with bright whites and contemporary blues. Off in the corner of the main room, there's a miniset for a photo shoot. A man in a suit is over there talking to a woman.

Toby turns to me and lowers his voice. “Give me that baby. I'm gonna freak out my manager…tell him a woman dropped it off on the doorstep.”

He takes the baby, rewraps the blanket decently, and then decides against it. “Actually, I think I already used this prank last year with Bessy's doll.” He drops the doll back in my arms and nods toward the hall. “Let me show you around.”

I follow behind him, poking my head into a room fixed up in pink and white lace and another one in blue with baseballs stenciled onto the walls.

“Hilarious, isn't it?” he says. “Give my kids three minutes in this place—maybe one minute—and you wouldn't even recognize it. Somehow, people believe the ‘interior' photos
People
magazine loves to publish.”

I refrain from telling him that my own home—my parents' place—is in similar perfect order.

“So this is just for your marketing or whatever?” I ask.

“And so the paparazzi don't follow me home for real.” He opens the door to an office and leads me inside. He's already got the signed pictures ready on the desk.

I offer up the ten-ton bag of baked goods. “I had to sit beside this and smell it for two hours.”

Toby pulls out a bag of croissants. He looks them over wearily. “I'm not supposed to eat this shit.”

“What, carbs?” I ask. Dating Finley has made me pretty familiar with the anti–white bread movement. I suppress the ache in my chest, thinking about her again. I need to figure out how to fix this thing with us.

“Well, yeah, that too. But I cheat all the time,” Toby admits. “I just mean shit people bring that got baked in their house. Security makes me swear not to eat anything someone hands me that isn't sealed.” He gives me this look like I'm supposed to come up with a reason I know for sure it's safe to eat. “Think they'd poison me?”

“Hell if I know. But if you're not eating them…” I reach for the bag and grab some cookies, stuffing one in my month. I've developed a motto this summer: never turn down free food. Yeah, French Mama is definitely a baker. “These are unreal.” I swallow my last bite and add, “Don't worry. I'll tell them you ate fifty cookies and raved about them. If you want, I can dispose of the evidence…”

I scoop up the pictures from the desk and carefully slide them into my backpack. I figure he's got celebrity stuff to do and doesn't need me hanging around. But apparently, I'm wrong. He drops into a comfy desk chair, tosses his feet up on the desk, and points to an identical chair in the corner.

“Have a seat.” He's still eyeing the baked goodies, but after I sit, he turns his attention back to the fake baby that I've dropped onto the floor by my bag. “So what's the story with the doll?”

I glance at the well-diapered doll—I'm getting much better at this—and then back at Toby, deliberating what to tell him. Why the hell didn't I stuff it in my bag? Probably because I felt Roberta watching me from all angles, sending her detailed report on my infant caregiving skills to a family court judge.

“You really want to know?” I ask Toby.

• • •

Toby sits there, silent, his thumbs wrestling each other. It's the most serious I've ever seen the guy. Finally, he says something. “Your family fucking sucks. I don't even know them, and I wanna send Rocko to kick their asses.”

Toby reaches under his desk and opens the door to a minifridge. He takes out a beer for himself and offers me a soda. I take a long drink and then panic for a second. “You're not, like…gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

He makes a big show of punching buttons in his cell. “Just a sec. I got the
Enquirer
on speed dial. Hello? Anonymous caller here. I've got a story for you… It involves some Manhattan elitists and one very rich baby daddy.” He tosses the phone on to the desk and rolls his eyes. “You're in my fucking decoy house. You know how many people step foot in this place? Less than ten or twenty…I don't know exact numbers, but it's not many.”

I lean back in my chair, not sure what to say about that.

“I'm not saying I'm naive enough to assume you're trustworthy—I barely know you. But I did know, from when we first met, that you were a guy who knew how to keep his fucking mouth shut. And I was right.” He tosses a guilty look at the doll by my feet. “Sorry, I shouldn't swear in front of the little one. It's just that I keep it in check at home, so it's, like, all bottled up and shit whenever I leave the house.”

“You ever take infant care classes?” I ask him. In my class, I'm usually seated between two middle-aged pregnant women whose husbands aren't in the class, but all the other dads are there. Though not alone like me.

“Yeah…” Toby says slowly. “No. None of that. We just dropped the first one a lot and then figured it out. That's not gonna fly for you though. Plus, it's always better if you don't drop them. So I hear.” He eyes me again, thinking. “You're good with this lawyer you've got? Because I could make some calls…”

I nod. “He seems good. And he hasn't made me pay him yet, so that's another plus.”

“You'll be rich again soon enough.” Toby starts to say something else and seems to stop himself.

“What?” I ask.

He blows out a breath. “What if you lose and the kid gets adopted? Are you gonna stay cut off from your family?”

I sink back into my chair and look up at the ceiling. I mean, I guess I hadn't thought about it like that. Not exactly. But how could I just go back home and be in that world again? Even before Caroline got pregnant—before I got her pregnant, 'cause I'm all about owning—I fantasized about running away, moving somewhere in South America, living in a little hut on the beach. Doubt I would have ever gone through with it. My guess is I would have gone to Princeton, taken a job with the family company, basically been completely miserable.

I shake my head. “I don't know.”

“I'm not saying you should go back to being their kid,” Toby reasons. “But just keep in mind that's it near impossible to get by. I had a friend in high school, kinda like your situation. His family's not as rich as yours, but his dad beat him. It was fucked up. He just decided to say the hell with it, I don't want anything from them. He went to college and, of course, didn't have money to pay for it. And he couldn't get loans or anything, because his parents made too much money. Then he wrecked his car, broke a bunch of bones, and had a hundred-thousand-dollar hospital bill. Turns out he'd missed payments on his car insurance too, and they'd canceled his policy the day before the accident. He was twenty years old and filing for bankruptcy.” He stops to think again and then adds, “I guess if you keep booking Wang jobs, you'll be fine. But you don't want to do that, right?”

“I will if I have too,” I tell him. “Beats a lot of other jobs. And Finley wants—” I almost say she wants to split rent, but then I remember that was the source of our tension the other night.

“Finley? The blond from the party?”

“Yeah.” I explain a little about her family and then how we're sort of on the outs.

Toby finally gives in and grabs one of the cookies from the bag. “YOLO!” He holds it up in a salute before taking a bite. “You should fix that. The girlfriend stuff. Let her do what the hell she wants. She seemed smart to me. Plus, you two have probably blown past the point of no return a long time ago.”

He's right. Even Sam pretty much said the same thing. It's too late to tell Fin she can't be a part of my life. She's right too. It's not my choice. It's not my place to tell her what she may or may not regret.

And somehow, I have to make things right. Not just because I need her, but because maybe she needs me. And if she does, I'm for damn sure not going to miss a chance to help her out for a change.

Then I remember something. It's Friday. I bend over, unzip my bag, and remove the invite Eve had sent me earlier this week. I glance at my cell to check the time. “Oh shit.”

“What?” Toby says. “You gotta go?”

The words
formal attire
near the bottom of the invitation catch my eye.

I look up at Toby, a sheepish look on my face, I'm sure. “You don't, by any chance, keep a suit lying around in your decoy house? Or a tux?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Finley

I've never been to an art show before or even a gallery where you meet the artist. Definitely not at the Guggenheim. The first person here that I recognize is Alex. He's dressed in a jacket and tie, and I'm relieved I remembered to put on something dressy. Since my sort of fight with Eddie a couple days ago, I'm really not in the mood for this type of event, but I couldn't not go.

Alex waves when he sees me. “Hey, nice feet.”

“Nice feet?” I look down at my open-toed sandals. I did take the time to polish my toenails. Then I remember the theme of Eve's work—Hands and Feet. “Oh right, thanks.”

My dad is supposed to be here in about fifteen minutes. He went through a lot of trouble to arrange transportation and parking. I decide to wander through the exhibits while I'm waiting. Might be best to scope out my nude photos before my dad sees them. Eve is busy talking to an older couple along with Janessa Fields.

I didn't realize she would have an entire room devoted to her photos. They're hung at different levels with various explanations below, and each has a title. I start at one end and study each photo. The first few are images Eve took of Elana's hands. I glance around the room and, sure enough, spot Elana and her mother roaming through Janessa's even larger gallery. I turn back to Elana's hands. Eve has titled one of the photos “Finer Motor Skills.” I'm proud of myself for actually getting the pun. I don't possess the intellectual abilities to even begin to comprehend most art. But this one is more obvious. Elana has such a precise, particular way of holding her pencil that seems to defy the mundaneness of the activity.

When I finally arrive at the first unclothed photo of me, I'm surprised by how not weird it is. It helps that you can't really see any of the parts that, you know, aren't ones I'd normally flash to a photographer. I'm bent over in the photo, touching my toes, the lens zoomed in on my spine and the back of my neck. Just looking at it gives me goose bumps; it's revealing and yet not. I glance down at the title: “Spineless.”

The next photo is from the first shoot we did together, the one with Eddie, except it's just me midjump, the floor not even visible. Eve named it “Underwater.”

The third photo is by far my favorite, but it hurts to look at. Eddie is in this one. He's standing several steps behind me, watching, definitely in a way that is only done when you think no one can see you. The outline of me turning is barely visible, more like a shadow at the far left side of the photo. Eve called this one “Unconditional.”

I rub my hands over my arms, ridding them of the goose bumps. My chest aches, and my stomach is in knots. I didn't even realize until this moment how anxious I've been since he left my apartment. His words had seemed so impactful, so important. And mine had felt the same. But now, staring at the photo of us, I want to tell him it doesn't matter—where we live and what we're doing doesn't matter. Just keep looking at me like this, and we'll figure the rest out.

I reach in to my purse, digging for my phone. I need to call or text him or something. But I'm stopped by a warm hand that lands on my hip. I look down and recognize his fingers right away. I release a sigh of relief, but I don't turn around. I stand there perfectly still, hoping he'll tell me everything is okay. And if not, I just want to stay here for a minute, believing it is. I continue studying the photo until his arm slips all the way around my waist. I close my eyes and lean into him. There is no doubt now—I'm completely wrapped up in him. No way out. But how do I know if I'm wrapped up for the right reasons? Or is it Jason all over again—I need him because I think I need someone? But Jason was safe and comfortable. Eddie is none of those things. The challenges he's facing are nowhere near easy and comfortable. And since the moment I met him, I've done nothing but break out of my comfort zones.

It's real. Completely and unforgivably real. And if I weren't so wrapped up in it, I'd be wise enough to be scared out of my freakin' mind.

I break the silence by touching the fingers splayed across my stomach.

Warm lips touch my ear. “I'm sorry.”

Yeah, me too. I nod, not wanting to speak.

“I'm trying”—his head drops to my shoulder—“not to be selfish.”

I nod again.

“I promise never to tell you what to do again, okay?” He kisses my cheek, making it impossible to nod for a third time. “And…I love you.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and rest a hand on his face. “Yeah, me too.”

Eddie laughs quietly, his voice vibrating against my skin. “That was not supposed to happen.”

No kidding. I turn around and let him kiss me—more politely than either of us would like but still too much to not get a few looks from others—and then I just stay there, my cheek brushing against his blue tie, my finger hooked into his belt loop. “Where did you get the jacket and tie? I know it's not yours. Your entire wardrobe fits in a backpack.”

“A friend loaned it to me,” Eddie says.

“This photo is something else,” an older man beside us says to the woman beside him. “The rawness is such a brave creative choice.”

“I love her expression,” the woman says. “That drive for perfection is captured so well… I've seen this dancer before. I think she did
Coppélia
last year.”

“You're right,” the man says. “She must be with the New York City Ballet.”

“Probably one of those Swedish imports. I can see Northern Europe in her.”

I lift my head from Eddie's chest and look up at him. I'm trying not to laugh. Do they really think they've seen me before, or is this one of those “I'm going to out-know you” contests that are so popular in the art world? The latter is most likely.

“Swedish, huh?” Eddie whispers. “Does that mean if I take you furniture shopping at IKEA, you can translate the names of all the desks and shelves?”

Janessa Fields walks behind the couple and rolls her eyes—she must smell their BS from a distance. I step out of Eddie's grasp and take a minute to say hi to her and introduce Eddie. Janessa glances at the picture of us but doesn't mention the fact that Eddie's in it. Instead, she says to me, “I didn't know you were a dancer. I was surprised when Eve showed me the photos.”

“Yeah,” I say, my face heating up. “It's something I'm just getting back into.”

“You know she worked with over two dozen dancers,” Janessa says. “Didn't use a single photo of any of them for the show. Every dancer your age was too poised, too perfect. None of their photos revealed anything outside of their dancing ability.”

With that final note, she walks away. I'm left scratching my head, trying to catch up. But that woman is too smart and so far ahead of me, it's probably better if I don't try to analyze anything. My dad arrives, providing a good distraction, though it's Eddie who goes over to greet him. They make their way around the gallery while I stay parked in front of a photo of me sitting on the floor, fixing my shoes.

“What do you think?”

Eve is beside me now, waiting, like she really needs to know that I like her work. Of course I like it. It's amazing. But it's me. So that's hard to say. “I think I'm wondering what these pictures of me reveal?”

Eve's forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”

“Janessa said you ditched all the other ballerinas' pics for mine because I revealed things.” I flash her a grin so she knows I'm not a hundred percent on board with this theory.

Eve seems to take the question seriously. “That's hard to put into words…some photos are easier to explain than others.” She points to the picture of me tying my shoes. “I had the School of American Ballet senior dancers pose for me.”

I lift an eyebrow, wondering why she failed to mention any of this.

She glances at me and looks away. “Sorry. I didn't want to make it a big thing if it didn't end up being one, you know? Anyway, they all tied their shoes like they did it five times a day, which is probably about right. And your expression is different. You're thinking about the actual process. It stood out.”

She slides over to the next photo, of me leaping. “Here, your face is kind of…concerned or maybe just not completely sure of how well you're doing. I don't know much about dance, so I can't find anything wrong, but it seems like you did. And the other dancers were so mechanical. They were working. And you…” Eve pauses, searching for a word. “You weren't working. You were the opposite of someone working.”

I stare at the picture, trying to see what Eve saw.

“I guess that's why you were the most interesting to me. I only planned on doing the couples shoot for the sex appeal. You stole my attention. People search their whole lives to find something that produces that kind of passion—the work that doesn't feel like work. People search for it, but no one knows what it looks like. I wanted to take this picture, hold it up, and say, this—this is what it looks like.”

Something stirs in the pit of my stomach. It's my photo. I should know what it really represents for me. Anyone can pull something else out of, something of their own. But it was a job for me, wasn't it?

“You know Alex is one of those people wandering around looking,” Eve says, keeping her voice low. “He's still trying to figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.” She laughs at that. “It's strange to see someone look for something I found so long ago, but it's not always that easy. If you get too logical—totally Alex—or too afraid of failure—my roommate Stephanie—or too emotionally invested in something else…then all these things get in your way. Life gets in the way, you know?”

Life gets in the way.

I look over my shoulder at my dad, maneuvering the room in his wheelchair, Eddie beside him, the two of them deep in conversation.

Life gets in the way.

A middle-aged man interrupts us, pulling Eve away for an interview. I continue to move from photo to photo, searching for some sign that Eve is wrong. That I'm not in my element dancing alone for her. And how do I know I wouldn't be the same, training young dancers, telling them how great it feels to do something you love for a living and what skills will get them there?

And how will I really tell them if I've never been there myself?

I'm lost in thought when someone taps me on the shoulder. I spin around and face Eddie. The color has drained from his face, and his eyes are wide.

“What's wrong?”

“Um…” His eyes dart around the room, then he runs a finger through his hair. “Caroline is…she's…having a baby.”

“Now?” She's not due for three weeks.

Eddie nods. His phone is still clutched in his hand. I tug it and glance at the screen, reading a text from RJ along with the name of the hospital.

“Can you…” I start, not sure if I should say it. “Are you allowed to go?”

He nods again. Beads of sweat pop up on his forehead, and he looks even paler than a few seconds ago. He reaches up and loosens his tie.

My dad wheels up beside us. “You should probably be there,” he says to Eddie. “At least in the waiting room. And maybe contact your lawyer…make sure he's up to date.”

Eddie still looks like he's in shock.

I rest a hand on each of his shoulders. “Hey, are you okay? Want me to go with you?”

“No,” he says but nods at the same time.

My dad stifles a laugh. “I think that's a yes.”

I look between my dad and Eddie. Dad came all the way out here for this, and I'm leaving ten minutes after he gets here?

He nods toward the exit. “Go. I only came to meet the artists. I already talk to you enough.”

I tug Eddie's arm, and he comes to life. Finally. “Cab. We should get a cab.”

He moves quickly through the gallery and out the exit. I follow behind him as best I can in heels. We walk half a block before catching a cab. Once we're in the back of the cab, Eddie checks his phone again and inhales a sharp breath. He turns the screen toward me.

Another text from RJ:
Boy. 6
lbs. 4 oz.

Eddie looks at me, and it's like I can read his thoughts… Shit. It's real.