You Before Anyone Else (20 page)

I nod. We've been hashing out details for over an hour. The more missing pieces I fill in for her, the more relaxed she seems to get. “I've been looking online.”

I grab my phone from the nightstand and pull up a list of links I've saved. She looks them over while I dive into the box of low-fat crackers, eating two or three at a time.

“Connecticut, huh?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Those swim team parents must have really done a good job welcoming you.”

“I think I marked that one before.”

Fin puts the phone down. “So how does it work? She's already doing the adoption stuff even without your permission?”

“That's allowed.” I exhale. “But the rest, I'm not completely sure about. It isn't very straightforward. I need to talk to the lady at the agency… I'm not supposed to know which agency Caroline is working with, but the secretary from the lawyer's office slipped up. And basically, there's one lady in charge of the agency—Dina Jackson. I've got her office address and phone number.”

“And you haven't called her yet?” She seems shocked by this. “You could have put a hold to her family search.”

My neck heats up. “I didn't want her to tell Caroline before I got a chance. Plus, I was waiting to find out for sure about the trust fund stuff.”

Finley shakes her head. I think she's still in shock over that piece of information. “Now that the cat's out of the bag, I'd say talking to this Dina lady should make the top of your to-do list. At least so she knows that you want your right of notice or whatever it's called.”

“Definitely,” I agree, and then, because I'm still in shock myself, I look her over, waiting for signs of regret. “I can't believe I haven't scared you off.”

“Where would I go? You're in my bed.” She reaches across the bed and steals a cracker. “But now that I think about it, you're probably right… I'd much rather hook up with a shallow guy who's got no future plans.”

“What happened to boring and predictable?” I hook an arm around her waist and pull her under me. I wait for her to smile up at me, and then I lean down to kiss her. “Thank you. For being here. I needed that.”

She rests her hands on my face. “I owed you. For watching my brothers. Picking a fight with the asshole guy at the swim meet.”

“So is this how it's gonna be?” I touch my forehead to hers. “I do something for you, and then you do something for me?”

“Pretty sure that's how it works,” she says with a nod.

Just from that tiny offhand comment, a weight lifts off me. I'm not completely alone.

“You know who knows a lot about all the best neighborhoods in Connecticut?” Finley asks, and I shake my head. “My dad.”

The idea of Finley telling her dad all my secrets is, to say the least, really scary, but I don't exactly see another way for this to play out.

“And you really need to come clean with your parents very soon,” she adds. “At least tell them you're not at Princeton.”

I roll onto my back and groan. “Now I regret telling you anything. Too much logic for me.”

She props up on one elbow, her fingers drifting over my chest. “You're not asking them for anything. There's really nothing to be worried about.” When I don't respond, her hand pauses its movement right over my heart. “Come on, they can't be that bad.”

I scoff at that. There are no words to explain.

“Then let me go with you when you tell them.”

“No way,” I protest. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Fine,” she says, all defiant. “I'm never going to believe they're as bad as you say without seeing it for myself. And what if you need backup?”

I narrow my eyes at her. “If I need backup, I'll bring RJ. He's six three.”

“It's my breeding, isn't it?” She fake sighs. “You're ashamed of me.”

I hold her face in my hands. “I'm in awe of you.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

“Uh-uh.”

But my protest gets weaker by the second. I really could use a little support. And someone to be a buffer. Hard to murder me with an innocent bystander in the room.

Finley

“I'm this close to convincing him to let me tag along to his big family showdown,” I tell Eve while we're walking down the block. “I know it's horrible to say while he's so stressed and all, but I'm a little bit fascinated by the idea of meeting these backstabbing, rich, Manhattan people. Is that terrible?”

She laughs. “I don't know what it is, but it's nice that you're willing to be there.”

Eve asked me to do another shoot with her this afternoon, and I gladly agreed, knowing I needed a distraction. Yesterday, I officially submitted my business loan application, and I'm half expecting my dad to show up, Caroline-style, to tell me I'm ruining my life and I just need to go to college or join a circus. So far, he doesn't seem to know.

No reason to tell him until I know something for sure.

I attempt to stretch out my lower back while we're waiting to cross the street. Eve looks down at me, bent over beside her. “What are you doing?”

“I'm sore all over, thanks to you and your demanding ways.” I stand upright in time to see her cheeks turn pink.

“Sorry. I just get into finding the perfect shot, and I forget—”

“That my head doesn't actually spin three hundred and sixty degrees?” I suggest, thinking of the shot we pulled off in Central Park today, where it looks like I'm sitting on an invisible chair, suspended several feet off the ground. I surprised myself with the height of my jumps. She just kept saying, “Think you can get any higher?” and I kept doing it. It was exhilarating. But now, I'm feeling the aftereffects.

Eve laughs, and then she glances at me twice in a couple seconds, biting her lip. “So, I was wondering if you'd be willing to do one more shoot.”

“Really?” I gape at her. “You don't have any better, more qualified ballerinas to use? And when are you going to tell me what it's for?”

“I can't tell you yet.” When I roll my eyes, she says, “I know, I know, I'm sorry! But Janessa said—”

“So it's for Janessa Fields,” I say, thinking hard. What would Janessa be into that might require odd ballerina photos, some with a hot nondancer guy? Janessa has recently moved into the high-fashion photographer realm, but her background is more
National Geographic
than Prada. She has a
New York Times
–bestselling book of her photos of malnourished children in Africa.

“She's my mentor, and she advises me on everything,” Eve says, probably to derail me from whatever path I'm considering.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Anyway,” she says, being evasive again. “I have this concept that's a little more…edgy.”

That catches my attention. “Go on.”

“It would involve”—she looks away from me and forces the word out—“nudity.”

I try to look not freaked out, but Eve doesn't seem to expect me to be cool about it. “Please tell me this isn't for any kind of magazine, because that's where my head is going right now.”

“No magazines. It's an artistic statement,” she explains, and the way her face lights up, the passion coming from her, I can't help but want to be involved somehow. But no clothes at all—yikes. “I have some sketches…” She whips out her notebook and hands it to me.

While we walk, I flip through the pages, taking in the penciled outline of a nude female dancer. It's definitely not trashy. And it doesn't seem like the parts I'd like to cover up would actually show that much. “I'm assuming this would be an indoor shoot?”

“Of course.”

“No team of twenty extra people?”

“Just me.” She flashes me a grin. “Unless you want to bring Eddie along.”

Yeah, that seems like a distraction waiting to happen. I hand the sketch pad back to her. My dad is always telling me the importance of taking artistic risks. I'd say this is an opportunity for me. “Okay, I'll do it. Awkwardly, I'm sure, but I'll give it a try.”

“Really?” Eve practically squeals. I nod again. “I'm gonna try and get a studio booked this week.”

We're in front of the dance studio where Alex and Eve's friend works. I stop at the door, feeling overwhelmed by the idea of taking a class. Eve gives me a nudge. “Go on. I'll introduce you to Iris. She's cool.”

I take a deep breath and walk inside. The place is kind of dumpy looking but funky at the same time. I learn from Iris, the fortysomething studio owner, that most of the students are adults, and most people take drop-in classes, meaning they come when they can and pay per class. I hand over twenty bucks for the six o'clock class—advanced lyrical dance. Not a ballet class, but not a terrible thing, considering my toes are a bit beaten up from all the pointe work lately. I used to take every dance type the studio offered—tap, jazz, acrobatics, hip-hop, lyrical, Irish, musical theater, ballet. But as I got older, I had to drop a few of those to fit in four to five ballet classes a week.

Eve has a night class to get to at Columbia, so I walk into the studio alone. Well, not alone, because there are at least twenty people on the floor stretching. The idea of being under all their scrutiny nearly sends me out the door again. But then I'd have to tell Eve I chickened out. Damn, why did I let her walk here with me? Now I have someone holding me accountable.

“You won't need those,” Iris says, eyeing the pointe shoes in my hand.

I shake my head and toss them onto my bag. “Right. I knew that.”

The four minutes it takes for class to start are agonizing. I can't stop fidgeting with my tank top, pulling my spandex shorts down, tying my hair up again. But then the music starts, and following along with these warmups that more than half the class seems familiar with occupies all of my brain space.

Later, when we're deep into learning the combination, Iris walks past me and taps her toe against my knee. “Looser. Take that perfect technique and let it go.”

I smile down at my feet. Perfect technique. My mom would definitely be proud to hear that.

• • •

“Did you enjoy that?” Iris asks me after class when the studio is nearly emptied out.

The front of my tank top is soaked in sweat, my hair too. But I'm not tired. I'm high on energy. “Yeah, a lot,” I admit.

She grins at me and nods for me to follow her down the hall toward the front desk. “Where are you studying dance? Or are you already with a company?”

“Um…no.” I haul my bag up to my shoulder. “I'm modeling right now. But I'm planning to reopen my parents' studio.”

She asks me a few questions about this, not shying away from the subject when I bring up my mom. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“That's what I thought.” She shakes her head. “Teaching in a studio is great, don't get me wrong, but you don't do it when you're dancing like you are—at your prime. You do it after your knees and back betray you.”

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I wouldn't say I'm at my prime. I mean, I just started up again. I'm a little out of shape.”

“Is that right?” She lifts an eyebrow. “In that case…” She leans over the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a business card. “Have you heard of this group?”

I glance at the name of the dance company on the card and shake my head.

“They're newer, lots of young talent, fresh choreography, less ballet, more contemporary,” she says. “Pay's not great, but doable. I think you'd be a perfect fit.”

I take the card from her, just to be polite, but hold it tentatively between my fingers.

“Go.” She waves me off. “Look them up on the Google like all you young ones do. They have auditions next month. I've got dozens in my classes here preparing to audition for them. You might be one of the few I'd bet on making it in.”

“Thanks.”

I don't know what else to say. I can't believe she thinks I'm good enough for a professional company after one hour-and-a-half class, but then again, auditions often aren't even half that long. My dad used to tell me the first fifteen seconds could make or break an audition. Maybe that's more of a theater saying, because I sure as hell didn't win any awards looking nervous and clueless at the beginning of class tonight.

“Tomorrow, six o'clock,” Iris says. “Street jazz and hip-hop. I'll save you a spot.”

I mumble thanks again and head for the door, glancing back her way a couple times. What did I just get myself into? First nude photos, then dance company auditions. Talk about rebellious.

But really, I can't let myself be swayed by generous compliments and enticing new dance companies if I want to get that studio open in the next year.

It's too late for those daydreams.

I'm deep in thought the entire three-block walk home, so when I enter my apartment and find Eddie here, seated at the kitchen table, I'm already startled. But then I realize he's talking to French Mama, in French—am I the only one who learned Spanish in school?—and no one is yelling. Or running from spatulas. In fact, French Mama is serving him a plate of food, what looks like half a chicken covered in brown sauce with fancy carrots decoratively placed.

Across from Eddie, Elana is seated, leaning on one elbow, completely absorbed in whatever Eddie is telling them. He does seem to stumble more with his French than Eve, and her accent is better too, I think. But regardless, have I landed in an alternate reality version of my apartment?

Summer, who'd been slumped down on the couch so I could barely see her, grabs the strap of my bag, preventing me from going anywhere.

“Don't go in there,” she hisses. “She made coq au vin.”

“What's that?” I whisper, though I don't know why I'm whispering.

“It's heaven,” Summer says, all dreamy, her gaze roaming toward the kitchen. “A heaven only fat people can go to.”

I roll my eyes. “You really need to improve your communication skills. Have you done that ‘How Mean Am I Really?' quiz I gave you a while back? I think it's time for another self-assessment.”

“I can't live in this apartment,” she snaps. “I'm gonna lose all my jobs. All of them!”

I clap a hand over her mouth and grin at the French-speaking table, since they're all three staring at us now. “How's it going? Having a nice chat?”

I look right at Eddie, dying to know how he got into French Mama's circle of trust.

“How could you not tell me that you met Toby Rhinehart?” Elana demands. “Eddie did a whole shoot with him!”

French Mama speaks quickly in French to Elana, her excitement too much to control. Elana translates. “Eddie asked Toby for some autographed pictures, and he said yes! He actually said yes. Eddie's going to his house or something to pick them up. Can you believe it?”

I smile. “It's about as crazy as him endorsing our book.”

“What book?” Elana asks, then she moves without waiting for my answer. “My mom is making a batch of croissants and some cookies for him and his kids. You think he'll like that?”

“Jesus Christ!” Summer gets up from the couch, stomps all the way to her room, and slams the door.

Elana's mom shakes her head like Summer is the misbehaving child she can't control. Then she ushers me over to the table. Soon, I've got my own half a chicken, drowned in a brown sauce that has a hint of a wine scent to it. My stomach rumbles in response. I'm expecting them to sit down with us, but soon Elana and her mom are gathering purses and walking toward the door.

“Need anything from the store?” Elana asks me. When I shake my head, she adds, “We have to walk nine blocks just to get European butter.”

As an afterthought, French Mama rushes back to the table, sets a red candle in the center, and lights it with a match from her purse. She gives me and Eddie this goofy smile like we're on a blind date, like we haven't already slept together.

When they're finally out the door, Eddie releases a huge sigh and then laughs. “Where have you been?” he asks.

“Dance class,” I say, staring at the mouth-watering food in front of me.

“Really?” Eddie sets his fork down and looks at me. “How'd it go?”

“Okay.” I shrug, not wanting to get into the business card Iris gave me. “Did you really ask Toby Rhinehart for autographed pictures?”

“I had to. It was kill or be killed. Or charm or be killed.” He points to his food. “You know this dish takes two days to make? Is she a chef back in France?”

“Elana's family owns a bakery, but maybe they make this chicken stuff too.” I pick up my fork and then set it down again. Summer's right. This is probably deadly. Skin on the chicken, butter all over the veggies. I lift the chicken thigh with my fork and sigh. Mashed potatoes underneath. Summer's right. We're gonna have to move out. We can't eat this stuff every day, and it will be so tempting.

Eddie watches me put my fork down yet again. “You're not eating?”

“Trying not to.” I stare at the carrots. Maybe just those…

“Doesn't dance class earn you a treat?”

“Sure,” I concede. “Usually a big bowl of fruit.”

Eddie takes several bites while I contemplate one bite. He seems to read my mind. “You have to at least try it. It's authentic.”

“You're right.” I nod. “One bite.”

Eddie grins. “I'm a bad influence, aren't I?”

“Definitely.” Though I'm not sure that's entirely true. “I still can't believe you got French Mama to turn around like that. She was dead set on keeping you away.”

“I have that effect on people,” he jokes. “But what she doesn't know is that Toby is a fan of Elana's, or one of his kids is, I think. So I'm taking more credit than I deserve.”

“How about I eat a few extra bites and we go for a run later?” I suggest.

“Deal.” Eddie's mouth is full, but he holds a hand out to shake on it.