You Before Anyone Else (5 page)

Finley

Six in the morning, and I'm wide awake, making an egg-white omelet. Even after a Toby Rhinehart movie marathon with Elana kept me up late last night (okay, so maybe I am a fan of his). I figured the break in my usual morning yoga ritual yesterday had my body screaming for an early morning intervention. But it wasn't yoga I craved. Those brand-new, ready-to-be-danced-in pointe shoes sat on my dresser, calling to me all night long.
Break me in, Finley. Bet your fouettés
suck.

I slide the omelet onto a plate and leave it sitting on the counter. I'm too excited to eat. It's hard to even remember now how I could let ballet fade out of my life. Of course, I had my reasons. Pretty good ones, I think. But that adrenaline rush I got yesterday, simply pushing up on pointe…tough to top that feeling.

After lacing up the pointe shoes—they fit even better than yesterday—I move the couch back a few feet and roll up the rug on the living room floor. I face the TV and stand in fourth position, preparing for a pirouette, my pajama pants nearly hiding the ballet shoes. But it's too quiet in here. The second I hear the clump of my pointe shoes hitting the floor, I'll be distracted worrying about Summer waking up, though she sleeps like the dead. And Elana and her mom left this morning before six for a shoot in Pennsylvania.

I grab my iPod and strap it to my waist, then pop in my headphones, blasting the music. I warm up my feet like I'd done with Summer at the Prada shoot, and then, taking a deep breath, I attempt a simple, single pirouette on pointe.

The turn isn't terrible, but not great either. The rush of adrenaline is, however, amazing. I practice turn after turn, quickly moving from singles to doubles. But when I attempt to add a fouetté after a double pirouette, I accidentally kick the TV and fall into the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. I'm about to move the couch back a few more feet, when I spot a pair of hairy legs through the glass door.

I let out a yelp that would have had French Mama running out here, spatula in hand—where the hell is she when I need her?—but instead, I'm left with the option of either waking Summer or moving the blinds a bit more to see if those legs are connected to anything. Oh God, they'd better be connected to something.

My hands tremble. I scramble to detach my phone from my waist, punch in 911, and let my finger hover over the call button. I reach up and check the lock on the door—it's up and secure—before slowly peeling back the blinds. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and then open them, making sure to focus on the hairy pair of legs stretched out on a plastic patio chair Summer uses for her daily fifteen minutes of vitamin D (this is all her fault!). My gaze travels at snail pace, taking in the tan cargo shorts and hemline of a black T-shirt.

Come on, Fin, j
ust do it.

I shift my focus higher and catch the steady rise and fall of a chest. My breath comes out in one long gust. Thank God. Not a dead body.

I'm on my feet quickly, much less freaked, although if I'm being logical, a dead body poses little threat to me, while a live body…

I shake the thought away and peel back the blinds enough to see the rest of Hairy Leg Guy. My eyes land on the familiar face, the wild curly black hair.

Eddie Wells.

What the hell is he doing—sound asleep—on a plastic chair on my balcony at six thirty in the morning?

I sink back on my heels, studying him. Maybe this is my fault for pointing out my balcony the other night. I unlock the door and slide it open just enough for me to slip outside. Then I creep as quietly as possible onto the balcony. He lifts a hand to his face and rolls onto his side. I freeze in place, watching, but he doesn't wake, despite the sun landing right across his face.

For nearly two minutes, I stand there eyeing his backpack, unable to make a move. He was so careful to haul that thing everywhere he went the other night. Even in the heat of our clothing removal session, he stepped away for a moment to tuck it in the corner of my bedroom. And checked to make sure both zippers were secured. Twice.

So yeah, I'm dying to get a look inside while he's out cold. I force away the guilt. Privacy hardly applies when someone is trespassing, right?

Kneeling on the ground, I unzip his backpack. It's quieter to remove one item at a time than to rifle through it. A minute later, lined up on the concrete balcony, are the following items: deodorant, toothbrush, electric razor, expensive designer shorts, designer T-shirt, cologne (which I take a moment to sniff)…

No comb. Figures.

What is he, some kind of nomad? I thought he had an apartment worked out. Or maybe the airline lost his luggage and he's only got his carry-on.

My fingers land on what feels like a leather billfold. I remove it and look it over. It's Prada, probably costs three or four hundred dollars. I sit down on the ground and open it up. My gaze lands first on the driver's license tucked behind the clear plastic cover. If it weren't for the mess of dark curly hair in the photo, I would have thought Eddie was a pickpocket. Not only because it's a New York State license and Eddie claimed to be from Chicago, but also because the name across the top is Edward James Wellington IV. Not Eddie Wells.

But seriously, Eddie is a fourth? There are four of him? As my dad would say per our PG household rules, holy shiitake!

Not only did Eddie lie about his name and state of residence, his address is right here in the city, not far away from this apartment. And yet he's sleeping on my balcony in a hard plastic chair after complaining yesterday about the cost of agency apartments.

My brain is working on overdrive while I lean against the sliding door. He lied. Pretty much about everything. He made me think, yesterday after the shoot, that he's struggling financially, that he really needed money. If he lives at this address, and not as the butler or butler's kid, then Eddie—or Edward Wellington IV—has probably never worried about money a day in his life. What if this is some story our agency concocted? Make him look like he came from nothing, a human interest story. If the agency hadn't pulled some similar shit last year, with my roommate Elana, I should add, I don't think my mind would even go in that direction.

My thoughts drift back to Eddie pausing outside my door, not sure if he wanted to come in. But outside of his name and hometown, which he barely talked about, it had felt real. At least to me.

I glance at him again. Still sound asleep, he scratches at a red bump on his neck. A mosquito bite, most likely. And probably one of many. With a heavy sigh, I return the items I pulled from his wallet moments ago and begin tucking everything back into his bag. Whatever event or reason caused Eddie to lie about his name and history and live out of his backpack isn't something simple. This has complicated and messed up written all over it. The question is, do I want to get involved or steer clear? And how can I steer clear of this guy if he keeps showing up at my jobs and on my balcony?

And I still can't decide if I'm pissed off at him or not. I mean, I should be, right?

Eddie

“Eddie?”

A soft hand shakes me, creating a nice distraction from the intense itching going on all over my body. When I realize it's Finley Belton, the very person who I'd hoped wouldn't spot me out here this morning, I bolt upright.

She steps back, assessing me. I can't read anything from her expression.

“Oh, hey…” I glance around like an idiot, squinting at the sun. “I was just—”

“Sleeping on my balcony?” she prompts, one eyebrow lifted.

“The guys in my place needed a little alone time last night.” I point a finger at the floor above us. “I was gonna crash at Dima's and then…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering the awkward minutes I spent in Dima's apartment before sneaking outside on the balcony and climbing down the fire escape.

Finley and I both notice her lack of bra at the exact same time. Her cheeks turn a nice shade of pink, and she folds her arms across her chest. I avert my gaze upward.

“Then what?” Finley asks in a tone that clearly indicates my answer will determine how pissed off or weirded out she is from finding me out here.

“Then I didn't really care for their choice of evening activities.”

“Like what? Was it boy-on-boy related, because I heard that Dima likes to play games where—”

That would have been awkward but different, much different. “More like the tossing drugs onto a table for everyone to share kind of game.”

The exact thing I'd been so afraid of the previous night. The scene had been too familiar. But luckily, I had my head on straight enough to get the hell out of there.

“Oh.” The smile fades. “Right.”

“Right.”

“Not really your scene, huh?” she presses, her voice a little softer, less judgmental.

“No, not really.” I lean over and reach for my bag, then stand and toss it onto my shoulder. “Sorry for crashing here without asking. Won't happen again.”

Finley blocks my path to the fire escape. “I looked in your wallet,” she blurts out.

My stomach knots. I know where this is headed. Guess I had that coming, considering where I left my wallet. I take a deep breath. “Look, it's not as bad as it seems. I just—”

“Needed a rags-to-riches story for PR purposes?” she suggests, the judgment returning.

“No, nothing like that.” In fact, I don't want any story. Seriously. I want the opposite of a PR story. Is that a thing?

“You just didn't want anyone to know where you're from?” She leans against the metal railing surrounding the balcony, and I'm surprised by the lack of judgment on her face. “Yeah,” I admit, because that's technically true. Maybe there are other truths I can give Finley without telling her everything. I can't risk telling her everything. I can't even risk letting myself think everything. “My parents think I'm at Princeton right now. For the summer program.”

Finley's eyebrows shoot up. “You're going to Princeton?”

“Obviously not.” I don't mean to snap at her, but it's a sore subject. Four generations of Wellingtons have attended Princeton. It may sound ridiculous to other people, but the Princeton weight has been pressing down on me my entire life.

“All right,” Finley says, her voice softening. “So you got into Princeton, but you're not going. What
are
your plans? To make your own money and let yourself get cut off by your parents?”

Man, that really sounds cliché. But still, I nod. “Basically.”

“So is anything you've told me thus far actually true?”

I think for a minute, swallow back nerves. “I really am bad at beer pong.”

For several long seconds, we stare at each other. “No knitting hats for orphaned dogs?” Finley says finally.

I shake my head and wait.

Another long pause, and then she opens the door and gestures for me to come inside. “No one's here except Summer, and she's sound asleep.”

My gaze drifts downward, and I notice her feet for the first time. “Nice shoes. Did you sleep in those?”

She rolls her eyes. “No.”

The ballet shoes are quickly removed and tossed onto the couch.

I scratch at a patch of bug bites on the side of my neck while taking in the new living room arrangement. “Huh. I don't remember the couch being there the other day.”

“People are always moving stuff around.” Finley waves a hand and walks over to the fridge, opening it and staring inside without a specific purpose.

“I wonder why anyone would want the couch practically smashed against the wall and then all that room in middle. All that empty floor space.” I spin slowly like I'm really thinking this through.

“Fine,” she snaps. “I was practicing. You caught me. Laugh all you want.”

I'm not laughing. It's cute and a little sexy that she was dancing—braless—around the living room in pointe shoes. I bend over to examine the very tasty-looking omelet resting on the counter that divides the kitchen and living room.

Finley snatches the plate right out from under my nose and dumps the omelet into the garbage. “You can't eat that.”

I didn't expect her to turn over her breakfast to me. That would be rude. Even though I'm completely famished. She goes back to the fridge and begins tossing items onto the counter. “It's been sitting out. I'll make you a fresh one.”

Now I feel bad. “You don't have to—”

“Sit,” she orders, pointing at a chair pulled up to the counter. “You slept on my balcony without permission, so now I'm forcing you to eat my cooking.”

“Talk about hardships.” I sit as commanded and watch Finley move around the kitchen in pajama pants. “The view is really nice here.”

She glances over her shoulder and sees that I'm looking at her backside, not the balcony. She cracks an egg into a bowl one-handed. “No more of that. We're done with that.”

I grin. “Are you convincing me or yourself? I couldn't tell.”

“I'm serious, Eddie.” She sets the bowl down and crosses her arms. “I need to succeed at the one-night stand, which means you and I are just having a friendly, coworker-type chat. Got it?”

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Got it.”

She gives a satisfied nod and spins around again. I lean on one elbow and continue enjoying the view. In a little while, I'll have to go back to my hellhole apartment with way too many dudes in it, so this is nice. Accidentally getting caught.

My cell, with its one percent battery remaining, buzzes. I glance quickly at the newest calendar event:
Manhattan Trust, meeting with lawyer, one hour
. My stomach flips at the reminder, and I must look nervous or something, because Finley stops what she's doing.

“What?” she asks.

The knot in my stomach double-ties itself. But I shake my head and force a grin. “Nothing. Just a thing I have to go to in a little while.”

“A thing?” Finley asks. “That explains so much.”

She's just set a freshly made omelet in front of me, so I busy myself shoving a big bite into my mouth. The cheese is so hot, it burns my tongue. “This is really good.”

I've distracted her with compliments, and we discuss anything but my “thing” while I finish eating and then convince Finley to let me wash all the dishes—it's the least I can do.

A little while later, I glance at the microwave, checking the time, and immediately snatch my bag up and toss it over my shoulder. “I better head downstairs and get a shower before my…meeting.”

“Yeah, sure,” Finley says while shoving a clean bowl up into a tall cabinet. “Wait…” She stops and turns to face me. “Downstairs? Does that mean your agency apartment is…”

Uh…yeah. I give her a grim smile. “I didn't mention that earlier? I could have sworn that I did.”

“Nope.” She shakes her head slowly. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

“We might not run into each other much,” I offer. I don't know what else to say. She offers up a halfhearted nod and good-bye when my hand ends up on the doorknob seconds later. I guess that's to be expected.

But would it be that terrible if we did hang out?