You Before Anyone Else (7 page)

Elana repeats this, and French Mama finally releases me, looking satisfied with this compromise. I rush out the door before anything changes.

Outside in the fresh air, I try to forget French Mama's motherly tone, her face, but my thoughts drift to my own mother. To me racing out the front door to meet my friends at the park and my mom stopping me, telling me to come in and eat my dinner. Often, when I'd resist, she'd simply toss the food into a container and tell me to eat while I walk. Or sometimes at the studio, between classes, I'd go to my dance bag to change shoes and find a container of fruit or a granola bar that I hadn't put in there. My mom had.

And I used to wonder when she thought about these things. What point in the day did she think,
Finley's going to need a snack about five o'clock, between modern dance and tap
? Having taken care of my brothers for years now, I get having those thoughts now, but to think about someone thinking about
me
like that…it comes with mixed emotions.

Eddie

When I walk through the doors of my new building, hours after the meeting with the bank lawyer, my mind is still there. At that polished table. In that office too big and too clean to belong to anyone normal. I've been walking around most of the afternoon, thinking. Part of me is panicking, saying
what the hell have I done?
If my father found out…

But the other part of me is relieved. Go ahead, tell him everything. Let's get this disowning me thing over with.

And I can't stop thinking about the look on Robert Lowman's face when he spoke to me in that lawyer way where someone pretends to know more than they do so they can find out how much you know.

“I don't think you're aware of the terms your grandmother set on the trust,” he said, tapping his fingers against that polished table in a perfect
rhythm.

“I'm aware of all the terms,” I told him. “That's why I'm here. I'm going to need access to those funds in the next few
months.”

Mr. Lowman's fingers stilled, and he sat up straighter in his leather chair. Before saying anything else, he shot a glance at his associates at the other end of the table. “And you think you'll meet these…uh…terms”—he stopped to clear his throat—“in the near
future?”

Without hesitation, looking him square in the face, I said, “Yes.”

His eyebrows shot up. “How
soon?”

My own gaze drifted toward the extra people in the room taking notes. They were probably confused as hell. Good. “September.”

“Well, that is soon.” More throat clearing and the inability to look me in the eye. “And your
parents?”

I shook my head. “Not involved. And I'd like to keep it that way. After this development in September, I won't receive any financial support from
them.”

Truth is, I'm not technically using any of their support right now. Even the cell phone they pay for is only being used for communication with my parents and sister. I got a new phone a few weeks ago so that I could contact Caroline without them
knowing.

“I see.” He sighed and looked at me again. He was over the shock at this point and ready to get down to business. “All we need is tangible proof that the terms have been met, then you'll sign on the dotted line and be granted full access to the trust within a few months. Though I do recommend an interest-only withdrawal policy, perhaps working with a financial
advisor—”

“That's it?” I interrupted, shocked myself by how simple this might
be.

“Yes, sir.” He twirled his pen for a moment, and I knew he was about to ask me how I found out details my parents weren't even privy to. “You were how old when your grandmother passed
away?”

“Fourteen,” I said, even though I knew he was good enough at math to figure it out
himself.

“And you don't think it's possible you misunderstood anything? Maybe we aren't talking about the same terms? I'm sworn to keep that confidential, but if you just shared your
thoughts…?”

“Nope, no doubts,” I said. And it was true. My grandmother was one of the few people in my family who I actually got along with. We shared in our dislike for my father—her own son. She told me the terms of this trust, and I'd told her she was nuts, keeping that much money from her own son and daughter-in-law. It was never me Robert Lowman was sworn to secrecy from. “You're sure there's no way for my parents to find out about this money before it's turned over to me? No way for them to gain access to
it?”

“No, sir,” he said with a nod. “Not
possible.”

I stood up, and he shook my hand. “You can't discuss this meeting with my parents, right?”

After everything that went down last winter and all the shit with Caroline, my parents would definitely be suspicious of me meeting with any
lawyer.

He dragged out his answer, leaving a two-second pause that felt like two hours. “Correct. I'm legally bound to keep this conversation between us. And any future
conversations.”

Hours later, and it's still sinking in. It feels so official now. Which is why I can't focus on much else today, including the crowd outside the apartment door.

I give a weak “hey, how's it going” to Joey, the coke addict I'm now sharing a bunk bed with (talk about friends in high places). He's standing outside the apartment door, chatting up two girls who live somewhere on this floor. He lowers his voice after seeing me, and I'm sure he's promising to hook them up with some of his stuff. I shake my head and start to put the key in the door but stop when I hear a familiar voice behind me.

“Oh no, you don't,” Summer says. She appears to be dragging Finley away by her shirtsleeve. Summer glares at me. “You may be hot and good in bed, but you're just a stray animal.”

Joey and the two girls stop talking and listen in with interest. I, too, am quite interested to hear how Summer plans to compare me to a stray cat. I lean against the door, my arms folded over my chest.

Finley covers her face with one hand, clearly embarrassed. Did she say I was good in bed? I mean, how else would Summer know this—

“Stay away from my balcony,” Summer demands. Then, before I get a chance to answer, she turns to Finley. “See this guy? Not healthy. Now, let's go find you a man with a fancy wallet.”

I crack a smile. Finley Belton must be good at keeping secrets. Because I definitely have a fancy wallet. And she definitely rifled through it this morning. This only makes me want her more. Unfortunately.

“Bad date?” Joey asks when they're completely out of earshot.

“One-night stand,” I say for Finley's benefit. I know how much that label means to her.

Inside the apartment, the couch is littered with takeout containers, and the sink is piled with week-old dirty dishes. I glance at the half-opened door to the bedroom I've been assigned to and then turn quickly after seeing that one of the bottom bunks is occupied. With three sets of feet. All tangled together, all contributing to some X-rated noises. I glance around again and decide it's probably a good idea to continue my long walk. Everything I currently own is already on my back, thank God.

Jesus, maybe I am a stray?

Summer is probably right to keep Finley away from me. It's complicated.
I'm
complicated.

If I were Finley, I'd stay far away from me too.

Finley

Friday afternoon, I'm wheeling my duffel out of my apartment when I nearly plow into Eddie. He's walking down the hall, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

I haven't really talked to him since the morning I found him asleep on the balcony, but we've bumped into each other a few times. Summer's warning about my “animal-rescuing habit,” plus Eve's advice to make sure that I'm benefiting from this—whatever this thing is that he and I are doing—had me reeling back a few steps, giving myself some space to assess the Eddie situation.

“Hey,” I say.

He turns to glance over his shoulder as if just noticing me. “Oh…hey, Fin.” His gaze drifts to my bag. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah.” I untuck the hair from behind my ears, attempting to cover my now-heated cheeks. Why am I blushing? “My little brothers' birthday party is tomorrow. At my house. In Connecticut…”

Eddie shifts his eyes from my bag to my face, and for a moment, we just stand there, neither of us knowing what to say. Eddie opens his mouth, but the door to the stairwell flies open, and five or six of the guys from his apartment come sprinting down the hall. Both of us dive out of the way, and Eddie ends up pressed up against me. After they pass, he clears his throat and steps back.

“Are they going out?” I ask. That might make for a quiet night in the apartment for him.

He stares at the door they all disappeared behind. “No, they're strung out. Apparently, it's extended to the apartment beside yours.”

“And that requires hallway relay races?”

I expect Eddie to crack a joke or tell me something that makes sense. Instead, his expression darkens, but he shrugs and says, “Beats me. I'm not asking questions.”

Above our heads, it sounds like a herd of elephants are running through the hallway. Then the stairwell door flies open again, and the group of guys is even larger this time. One dude with slicked-back hair and red eyes stops in front of Eddie and gives him a light smack on the cheek. “Come on, rebel boy, join the party! It's gonna be forty-eight hours of loaded fun.”

“Loaded fun,” Eddie repeats dryly. “Nice.”

After they've gone again, I glance at Eddie. He looks completely overwhelmed. “Maybe a good weekend for a visit home?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He diverts his eyes from mine. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's not going home, despite the fact that home for him is only a few blocks away.

“They might have trouble staying loaded for forty-eight hours without these…” Eddie reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and holds up a clear plastic bag full of colorful pills.

I lean in to get a closer look. My heart picks up at the mere sight of the drugs. I glance both ways down the hall, checking to make sure we're alone. “Where did you get those?”

“Just plucked them off Mr. Grease Head.”

“Just now? While I was standing right here?” I lift an eyebrow after he nods. “So it's not only breaking and entering for you. You're a pickpocket too?”

Eddie smiles for the first time today. “Piano player, actually. But you know what they say…”

I snatch the bag from his hand. “These need to go away.”

He follows me into my apartment—luckily, we're alone—and watches, saying nothing when I dump the pills into the toilet and flush them away. “You don't think I'm polluting the water supply, do you?”

“If you are, you're not the only one.” Eddie heads for the apartment door, holding it open for me. While I'm locking up again, the guys come running through the hall for a third lap, this time with a few girls in tow and several bottles of liquor sloshing as they sprint past us.

“Seriously,” I snap. “Are they actually trying to accomplish something? Record-breaking consumption while running through apartment halls?”

“No idea.” Eddie shakes his head and glances at the stairwell. He looks miserable. “Well…have a good weekend.”

I exhale. Yep, have a good weekend, Finley. A good weekend rounding up old friends who are probably too busy to hang out. A good weekend not trying to get your ex back like a pathetic, lovesick girl, and definitely not making attempts to rescue guys who were supposed to be one-night stands.

Even though Summer has made valid and very vocal points regarding my lesser habits, I'm rooted to my spot in the hallway, watching Eddie head over to the stairwell, the weight of whatever he's facing right now heavy and present in each step. I release a sigh loud enough to make him turn around. Then while I'm grumbling, calling myself all kinds of names inside my head, I do probably the best thing possible to prevent the success of my life improvement plan.

I nod in the direction of the elevator. “Come on. You're going home with me.”

Eddie

I don't know what I expected to see when I walked up to Finley's Connecticut home, but the lived-in, warm, and slightly cluttered ranch home in front of me is beyond anything I could have conjured. My curiosity had spiked even more on the train ride here after I noticed Finley starting to look nervous.

A man with Finley's blond hair rolls toward us across the driveway in a wheelchair. Finley watches me watching him, maybe to see if I have a reaction to him being in a wheelchair, but I'm too worried about other things. I slow my walk, not sure what he'll say about me being here with his daughter. I brace myself for a glare or a pointed look, but his smile is warm and nonthreatening.

Finley leans down to hug him, and then when she straightens up again, she turns to me. “Dad, Eddie…Eddie, my dad.”

I stick a hand out. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Belton.”

He looks me over, one brow lifted, before reaching out to shake my hand. “Call me Sam.” Then he turns to Finley. “I see you took my advice. Where did you find this one?”

Finley blushes. “Friends, Dad. We're friends.”

She shoots me a look like
please don't mention that night at the party
. Seriously? I don't have a death wish. He might be in a wheelchair, but his upper body is built. He could definitely fire a shotgun or swing a bat just fine.

“Eddie's with One Model Management and lives in my building. But his apartment is a bit
hectic
this weekend. He needed a place to stay.”

I cough back a laugh. Hectic is one way to put it. I clear my throat. “Hope that's okay, sir?”

Finley's dad rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Mr. Belton is bad enough. Definitely don't call me sir. Ever.”

“Sorry, sir—” I stop and shake my head. Finley and her dad both laugh. “Sorry.”

I trail behind Sam and his wheelchair when he heads inside. The second the door opens, two towheaded, identical little boys race out.

Finley scoops up the first one and kisses his cheek. The kid wrinkles his nose and swipes at his cheek. “I swear you guys get bigger every time I see you.”

She sets the kid down, and we all head into the foyer. Finley introduces me to Connor and Braden, which is a bit pointless, because I'll never be able to tell them apart. I make a mental note of Braden's red shirt today compared to his brother's white T-shirt. Finley carries Connor inside, his little arms tight around her neck. I shift from one foot to the other, slightly uncomfortable. I don't have a single memory of my sister Ruby ever hugging me. Or my parents, for that matter.

Braden tugs Finley into what looks like a family room, or it might be their living room. He's talking her ear off, going a mile a minute, but I drown out the words, my gaze sweeping the room. The walls are covered with family photos, not the stiff portrait studio type that we have in a couple places at my home, but more like candid shots of family vacations and what might be the backyard pool, or pictures with Finley and her brothers in pajamas around a Christmas tree. Another wall is covered with artwork, the kind made out of construction paper with blobs of paint that resemble handprints.

Large foam puzzle pieces connect together on the floor to form a mat in the corner of the room where bins of toys and LEGOs sit around it. A chalkboard hangs at eye level for the boys with each of their names written on it, plus “Fin” and “Dad.” Tallied numbers are beside each of the boys' names.

I spin slowly in a circle, the voices around me melting into the background as I take in the room. I can't imagine having toys and construction paper in any of the rooms in my home. One of my favorite nannies, when I was around Connor and Braden's age, kept toys in plastic containers under her bed for me and would pull them out and let me play on the kitchen floor while she made dinner. Until Ruby told my mom, and I got a new nanny a week later.

The crushing fear and anxiety of needing to make a new home comes down on me again, and for a few seconds, I can't breathe.

A tiny hand closes in mine, and I jolt back to life. Braden, the red shirt twin, tugs at my hand. “Wanna help with the
Star Wars
ship?”

I can feel Sam watching from my right side. Did I look weird standing here staring at the walls just now? I look down at Braden again. “Uh…sure.”

I sit on the red, yellow, and blue foam puzzle-piece floor with both boys. Braden does all the talking, while Connor remains silent. From the chatterbox twin, I learn that Grandma gave them the
Star Wars
LEGO set for their birthday and that Grandma lives in the house next door. Also that the boys' real birthday was two days ago.

“Fin sent us a giant box of coloring books and Hot Wheels,” Braden says, using his arms to model the size of the large box.

Despite all the information sharing, I'm still sitting on a couple big questions regarding this family. But I shove those aside for now. Slowly, I slide a hand toward the LEGO pile in front of me. I haven't spent any time around little kids, and I'm quickly realizing how alien they seem to me.

“A big box of Hot Wheels, huh?” I say to Connor, trying to get him involved in the talking.

Connor nods, his head down and gaze focused on the LEGOs.

“He doesn't talk lots,” Braden tells me. “Cameron calls him deaf all the time, but deaf means you don't listen—”

“Hear,” Finley and her dad both say together. Sam adds, “Deaf means you can't hear.”

“Right. That's what I said. Hear.” Braden dumps a box of LEGOs onto the foam floor, mixing them with the new
Star Wars
set. “Cameron says Connor is deaf, but he's not.”

Connor shakes his head, agreeing with his brother.

“And Miss Leonard made Cameron sit out recess today and yesterday 'cause of it.”

“Sounds like Cameron is stupid.” I snap a few sections of the ship together and then look up when I feel two pairs of eyes on me. Both boys have sat up straighter, eyes wide, like I've suddenly grown another head.

Braden finally turns around and picks up a piece of chalk from the board. “How do you spell Eddie?”

I spell it slowly for him while he prints my name on the board, the
d
's facing the wrong direction. Then beside my name, he adds a tally mark.

“Oh…I got a point?” I don't know what great thing I did to score on their chalkboard, but whatever, I'll take it. “Thanks.”

Behind me, Finley laughs. “That's the bad word board. Whoever has the most points at the end of the day helps with the dishes or has to clean the bathroom.”

I scan my memory of the last couple minutes, digging for any swearwords that may have slipped, but come up empty. Finley leans down, her breath hitting my neck, causing goose bumps to form, then she whispers in my ear, “Stupid.”

Stupid? That's a bad word? “That's a bad word?”

Finley and her brothers all nod. I'm about to apologize when Sam interrupts, and he and Finley start making plans for dinner. After they disappear into the kitchen, I'm left with the alien kids and the LEGOs.

We work together building the ship while Braden continues filling me in on the details of his life. The more minutes pass, the less awkward it feels. But then my phone vibrates in my pocket. The second I glance at the number, my stomach plummets. I excuse myself before stepping out onto the back patio.