You Before Anyone Else (23 page)

“What's not true?”

“You being nothing without your family name.” She continues to study me so intensely, I start to get uncomfortable. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I say automatically. “That's what I'm working on. Being something without them.”

She shakes her head. “I mean right now. Like this very second. You as this person across from me. You're something.”

“Okay.” I smile and reach for her hand, tangling it with mine. “Whatever you say.”

She jerks her hand back, not returning the smile. “I'm not kidding. You are good at lots of things. And you always have this look, like you're thinking about everything. Turning it around in your mind. I noticed that just minutes after I first met you. And it has nothing to do with your upbringing or your family. Privileged kids often have a narrowed perspective. You're different. Not because of them, but despite them.”

I stare down at my hands. I don't know if that's true or not. I don't really know if I'm that different from other kids like me. I just know that I want to be different. It's kind of the only thing I know about myself at the moment. Despite doubting Finley's theories about me, I lift my head and look at her again before saying, “Thanks. For this. For all of it.”

I pull her closer until she's sitting between my legs. When her cheek touches my chest, she says, “Can we please end every dinner with you stripping off your shirt?”

I laugh and then rest my chin on the top of her head. “I should probably call the lawyer now. Update him on my dinner with the fam.”

Her lips touch my neck. “Five more minutes.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “Yeah, okay.”

My heart hasn't returned to normal pace yet. Maybe it won't until all of this is over and dealt with. I glance at the time on my cell and groan. Finley lifts her head. “What's wrong?”

“I have that parenting class in an hour.” I pull myself together and sit up straight. I'm so not in the right mind for lessons on lifesaving or diaper changing, but I guess that's sort of the idea. When you have a kid, you don't get to pick and choose when to take care of them. You have to do it, even on your worst days.

Finley

The first thing Ron Miller, family law attorney, says when Eddie and I sit down in his office is, “So, your father offered me fifty grand to not represent your paternity case. He also informed me that you're a drug addict and a compulsive liar. And that the mother of your child feels threatened by you and wants nothing to do with you.”

Eddie nods slowly, pulling in a deep breath. “Huh. That's…well, that's interesting.”

“It's bullshit,” I blurt out, but Eddie lifts a hand to stop me. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek just to keep from arguing further. He didn't go through the stress of standing up to his family to have this happen.

“Anything you need to tell me?” Ron Miller asks.

“I think my father summed it all up well,” Eddie says, his voice tense.

Ron's eyebrows shoot up. “So it's all true?”

“There is a tiny sliver of truth in each of my father's claims.” Eddie maintains direct eye contact with the lawyer and taps a finger on the desktop. “I definitely have to give him credit for that.”

“Then tell me those slivers of truth,” Ron says.

I'm surprised by how calm this lawyer is after hearing all this. But maybe he's seen a lot worse, dealing with family court all the time.

“I have used recreational drugs before. I lied to my parents about being at Princeton for the summer program. I haven't shown up for anything. I've been working in New York and living in an apartment with twenty other guys,” Eddie rattles off. “And the mother of my child is very threatened by the fact that I won't sign away my rights, and both our parents forbid us to see each other, but even without that, I'd say there's a good chance she'd rather not be around me. I'm making her decision more difficult. I hate that it's like that, but there is no other way.”

Ron folds his hands on top of the desk and looks right at Eddie. “When was the last time you used drugs?”

I open my mouth to protest him answering that question, but I don't get a chance.

“Last winter,” he says right away. “In January.”

“Alcohol use?”

Eddie glances at me and then back at Ron. “Six or so weeks ago.”

The night we met. Great. I'm a contributing factor to that. But he wasn't drunk. Does that matter? It's amazing how terrible our lives can seem when presented in this manner.

“You've been attending the parenting classes I recommended?” Ron asks.

“Yes.”

He hasn't missed a single one. Not even the class right after the dinner debacle. I've caught him reading the material they hand out on his free time as well as tons of online articles on parenting. After looking over some of the material myself, I've concluded that both my dad and I suck at parenting by this course's standards.

“I assume you've been taught the course motto?” Ron prompts. “What is said to be the most important rule about parenting?”

“Emotional and physical safety of the child is always the number one priority, and parents must put the child's needs above their own,” Eddie recites.

I applaud him silently. That was pretty impressive memorization. Maybe he should go to Princeton.

“Exactly,” Ron says with a nod. “And do you think your father's efforts to sabotage your paternity and custody case were done with those guidelines in mind?”

Eddie stifles a laugh. “Uh, no.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Ron asks, and both Eddie and I nod. “I think your father is terrified of this child being legally deemed his grandson because”—he hesitates—“correct me if I'm wrong, but your family is bound by old money, which means he probably can't undo any trust accounts or—”

Eddie sinks back in his chair, his eyes wide. “Inheritance. Jesus. Why didn't I think of that? That's why he's been so against my name being attached to this kid. Even with an adoption.”

“And the thing is,” Ron says, “adoption, for the most part, removes any trace of surname from any records for the child. And also removes any right to inheritance from the birth family once it's finalized. But there are a few very rare and very unlikely scenarios where that could be overridden. He must really want to cover all his bases.”

“Does this mean you're still willing to represent me?” Eddie asks tentatively. “I can find another lawyer, but I don't think it's going to look very good, honestly.”

Ron shifts some papers on his desk and then glances at Eddie. “I'm still willing. This is the first time I've ever been bribed by a client's parent, and I can't help it—I get fired up for a win with bribery on the table.”

“So you think he can win?” I ask.

“I think it's possible. But unlikely,” Ron admits. Eddie deflates a little beside me. “I also firmly believe he has a right to try and should indeed do just that. I wouldn't be here helping you if I thought you had an agenda other than doing what you feel is right for your kid. If this was a selfish, ‘I want control over the girl I got pregnant' situation, I'd have told you no thanks.”

“But do you think it's best?” Eddie asks so quietly it's almost a whisper. “For the kid, I mean. For my kid.”

“Hard to say. You or a loving, established family, desperate for a child to parent, hand-selected by the best adoption agency in the country…”

Eddie deflates even more.

“On the other hand,” Ron continues, “I was raised by eighteen-year-old parents, and my childhood not only lacked traumatic events, but was also full of healthy and happy memories. And being young and hip, they raised me in a way that welcomed collaborative decision making, and they were too sharp and in-the-know for me to get away with anything rebellious. Who's to say you won't create a home like that? I hope you do.”

“Me too,” Eddie mumbles quietly.

I reach for his hand, giving it a squeeze. Eddie could be that type of parent. I believe that wholeheartedly. Seeing him with my brothers, watching him watch them, listen to them when they voice their opinions, the way he shut off the TV and found other things for them to do. I mean, he was just watching them for a couple hours. It wasn't his job to be concerned with their long-term health. And he treats them like real people, like adults in the making.

But it won't be easy. None of it will be easy, and he still has so much to learn. The real test, the ‘are you ready be a parent?' test, happens after you realize that your kid will always be your kid. Forever. My dad told me that years ago, and I've never forgotten it.

Ron grins like he's satisfied with Eddie's response. “The good news is that the second you become a potential parent, your own parents lose any control over you whatsoever. Family court isn't traditional trial court. None of the judges will give a flying fuck who your father is or what he might do for them. Or to them. They are there to rule on behalf of the child. That's it. I don't agree with every ruling a family court judge has made on behalf of my clients, but I trust the system. I trust that the pros and cons are weighed carefully and that the judge believes they've made the best choice for the child.”

Eddie releases a breath. “Okay, that helps.”

“Now,” Ron says, “try and forget about your father. Work on you and your child—home, support system, list of items an infant needs that you plan to purchase, expected income for the next year, a pediatrician, plans for health care, and that includes yourself.” He tosses a sheet of paper Eddie's way that lists everything he's listing off. “It would be wise to assume your father will pull all the rugs out from under you, including medical insurance. And if you haven't made your own health a priority, then a judge is likely to assume that you will do the same for your child.”

He gives Eddie a minute to look over the paper, then says, “Now, do you have anyone we could list as support for you? An aunt or grandparent within a reasonable distance of where you plan to live, to help check on you and the baby?”

Eddie looks at me, and I give him a small nod. You can say me. I'll do it. Of course I'll be there.

Ron catches on without Eddie saying anything. “Another teenager. That might not be enough.” Still, he writes my name down in his notebook.

“Finley has experience raising her brothers.” Eddie quickly explains about my family situation.

Ron lifts an eyebrow. “A father of three, certified guidance counselor, and public school teacher nearby to offer help is definitely something worth bringing up to a judge.”

“I don't know if we can—” Eddie starts.

“I'm sure my dad would be happy to offer support,” I say.

Eddie looks over at me, a question in his eyes. It's fine. We'll talk to him soon. He likes Eddie. He really likes him. Especially after hearing about the swim meet drama. I know he'll want to help out.

“Okay then.” Rod gives a nod. “Things are looking up for you, Eddie Wellington. Keep up the good work.”

We both thank him, and Ron adds, “Make me proud. I turned down fifty grand for you.”

When we exit the lawyer's office and head outside, Eddie says, “You think your dad will be okay with this? I don't want to put him in a position he's not comfortable with.”

“Relax,” I assure him. “It'll be fine.”

Eddie

I barely say a word the whole time Finley is going on about the apartments nearby that we looked at earlier today. I'm hanging in midair—not literally—watching Sam to get an idea of what he thinks about everything. Based on the fact that she jumped right into apartments and baby gear, Fin must have given him the basics before we arrived this morning.

“Don't we still have tons of baby stuff in storage?” Finley asks her dad.

Sam takes a bite of the pork chops he grilled for dinner and nods. “Two of everything.”

“My dad is a hoarder,” Finley explains.

Sam interrupts. “Recovering hoarder.”

“Right. Forgot. You went to all those meetings.” Fin rolls her eyes. “Anyway, a couple years ago, my grandma rented him a storage unit to pile all his old albums, baby stuff, thousands of pages of sheet music…we should go check it out before you buy anything.”

Beside me, Braden sighs. “Babies are gross.”

“Yeah?” I smile at him. “You used to be one, you know? Me too.”

He shrugs. “I don't remember.”

“I don't remember either,” I tell him. “But I heard it's true.”

On my other side, Connor tugs on my sleeve and waits for me to lean down so he can whisper to me. “What are you gonna call your baby?”

“That's a good question.”

Fin and Sam look at me, but I ask Connor if it's okay before I say anything. When he nods, I tell them.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Braden asks, then he glances at Finley, his forehead wrinkled. “You don't look like you have a baby in your tummy. Are you adoptioning it?”

“Adopting,” Finley corrects. “And I'm not having a baby. Eddie is…wait—” She turns bright red.

Sam laughs and then leans on one elbow. “Go on, Fin. I am so going to enjoy hearing you explain this one.”

Finley is desperately grappling for words, so I decide to rescue her. “Only girls can have babies, older girls. But all babies have a mom and a dad. No matter what. And the mom of my baby is someone I've known for a long time, way before I met your sister. But we don't really get along anymore.”

Maybe that was too frank for their ears. I watch closely for any reaction.

Braden is busy drowning his pork chop in ketchup, but he manages to nod and say, “Cool. Is it a boy or a girl baby?”

“Boy,” I say. “But I don't know what to call him.”

“Darth Vader,” Braden says. “Or Luke.”

“Or Spider-Man,” Connor offers, barely audible.

I hadn't really thought about the fact that naming this kid something other than Edward will be ruining a four-generation tradition in my family. Will that piss my father off more than naming him Edward? Doesn't matter. I'm not having a kid with V tacked onto his name.

I offer to help Fin with the dishes at the same time as Connor asks me to check out the puzzle he's been working on. Finley and Sam shove me out of the kitchen. I follow Connor into the living room to see the massive five-thousand-piece puzzle of the Sydney harbor and opera house in Australia.

I sit down on the floor and study the sections he's completed. “Wow…you must have worked really hard on this.”

Connor nods, and Braden charges into the room and adds, “He did almost the whole thing at day camp, and then Riley stomped on it. So the counselors let him take it home.”

Connor looks down at the pieces, sliding two around on the rubber mats covering the floor.

“Riley, huh?” I say. I glance at Braden.

He immediately says, “I didn't see it, 'cause I'm in a different group since the camp people can't tell us apart. But Riley even tolded me he did it.”

“On purpose,” Connor adds, whispering the words.

I already want to beat this Riley kid's ass. “He sounds like a bully.”

Connor shrugs, but Braden says, “Duh.”

“I had bullies at my school too.” I dig through the box for a piece to connect. “I tried ignoring them, but that never really works. You know what does work sometimes?”

“What?” Braden says.

“Next time Riley does something that you don't like, just ask, ‘why'd you do that?'” I tell them. “It makes them so uncomfortable. Well, not everyone. Some kids will probably be, like, because I can, or because I wanted to. But every once in a while, you'll get to them.”

“I already know why Riley did it,” Braden says. “'Cause he's mean and 'cause Connor doesn't tell him to stop.”

Connor glares at his brother but doesn't object. I put a hand on his back. “It's okay. Riley probably isn't easy to stop.”

Bored with the puzzle, Braden heads over to the piano and attempts to play the song from the sheet music in front of him. I help Connor with the puzzle for a few minutes, until he can't seem to handle Braden tripping over the keys. He sits beside his brother at the piano.

“You're doing it wrong,” he tells Braden. “Like this.”

I watch Connor play through the music perfectly. He's really impressive for his age. Beside him, Braden is fuming. Eventually, he shoves Connor's hands off the keys. “I know how to do it.”

But he continues to mess up with Connor trying to correct him. When Braden looks close to tears, I pick up Connor off the bench and send him back to the puzzle pieces.

“I know how it goes,” Braden says, stubborn as ever. “And besides, I can do it different if I want.”

“Definitely,” I tell him. I play through the right-hand portion of the song and ask Braden to do the left for me. It's the part that's giving him the most trouble. He does much better with just the left hand, but when he messes up toward the end, he bangs hard on the keys. Enough to get Sam wheeling into the room from the kitchen.

“Hey, take it easy. That piano's older than me,” he jokes.

I still Braden's hand. “Try saying the notes out loud. That helps me when I'm learning a new song.”

He releases a frustrated breath and then concedes to trying again, mumbling the notes out loud. When he gets through it without a mistake—left hand only—he has a huge grin on his face. I look over at Connor and see that he's also pleased with this.

I clap him on the back. “Nice job.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “You guys better stop practicing before the neighbors accuse me of forcing you into music. Ask Fin if she'll take you to the park.”

Both of them quickly abandon their activities and head to the doorway where Finley is now standing.

“I can take them,” I offer.

Sam shakes his head. “Let Fin do it.”

She looks as surprised as me by this. I sit up straighter and swallow. Okay, I think this is the part where he tells me what he really thinks of my current situation. While she's helping the boys find their shoes, Finley gives me a couple glances, a question in her eyes. All I can do is sit there waiting for them to go and listening to my heart race.

When the front door finally closes behind them, I turn to Sam and lean on one elbow. The piano keys respond loudly and obviously, offended by my misuse. I jump a mile, my neck heating up. Then I carefully close the lid and resume my position.

“So…” Sam says, pivoting his chair to face me. It's incredible how much he and his kids match—the blue eyes, light-blond hair, tanned skin from hours by the pool. “Fin told me that you might need to use me as a reference or support for your case.”

“Yeah, but I totally get it if you don't want to be involved.” I run a hand through my hair. This is going great so far. Not. “I mean, it's a train wreck. Or it will be—”

He lifts a hand to stop me. “First of all, I think what you're doing is admirable. Of course I'm going to help you if you call me up and ask for parenting advice or anything really. So offering myself as your ‘support system' is an easy decision for me.”

My mouth falls open. I don't know what to say. I didn't expect such a positive response from him. “Really? You mean it? I don't want to need help, but I guess it's important. For the case.” I hesitate and then add, “Plus, I probably will need help.”

“You shouldn't hesitate to ask
me
,” he says with a tone that is both warm and free of judgment. However, I catch the emphasis on “me.”

I clear my throat. “I'm guessing there's a but in here somewhere.”

“Not exactly,” he says, his gaze flitting to the front door and then back to me. “But I have to be honest—my daughter…this is not what I want for her. I'm not saying I won't accept her choices. She's free to do whatever she likes, and I will always support her. But this isn't her child. She's not a pregnant teen—no offense to you and your situation—but it doesn't seem fair she might have to be tied down like you are.”

“I never asked her to do anything—” I protest.

“I know that, Eddie. Of course I know that. But this is Fin we're talking about. Do you think she would ever walk away from you, now that you're planning on raising a child on your own? She doesn't know how not to be selfless.” He lifts his eyebrow. “My guess is you already know that about her.”

I almost tell him that I'm not taking advantage of her because of this, but I don't think he meant it like that. I lean further on my elbow, the weight of this hitting me hard. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don't know.” He shakes his head, looking as stressed as I feel. “Maybe nothing. It's just hard for me to see her doing this again… I mean, she helped raise her brothers when she was still a kid herself. That's not your fault, and it's not completely mine either, but that doesn't make it any easier to see her in the same position all over again. God, she's not even twenty.”

“I won't make her responsible for my kid,” I tell him, hoping he'll believe me.

“No, you probably won't,” he agrees. “But she will. Just watch, she'll give up things she wants so she can play house with you. A good-looking guy who loves her brothers and wants to raise a baby on his own—might as well be crack to Fin. And this business plan—”

I straighten up again, alarmed. “What business plan?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Did she really think I wouldn't find out she's trying to buy a studio in the neighborhood? The real estate agent is one of my best friends.”

“You told her you know about it, then?” I ask. This could be a good thing. He doesn't seem angry. She's been worried he'd be angry.

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “I'll let her take it as far as she wants first. She definitely surprised me though. I really thought getting her to move to New York would help…” He hesitates before adding, “I thought she'd go back to dancing. She's so talented.”

I scratch the back of my head, not sure if it's my place to tell him that she's been dancing. A lot. She's takes a class nearly every night at Iris's studio. And I can see her changing physically from all the training. She's always stretching now too. Every time she's sitting down or hanging out, I look over, and she's got her legs out to the side, stomach flat on the floor. Sometimes, I can't even watch her when she's like that. It looks too painful.

I decide to tell Sam a small portion of Fin's secrets.

“She showed me the studio,” I say. “I saw her dancing. She asked me to play a piece from
Don Quixote
for her. She's amazing.”

“Yes, she's incredible.” He scoops up a red ball in the way of one of his wheels and tosses it in the air. “But I've known since the day she refused to continue dance anywhere else but her family's studio that loyalty would be her biggest curse.”

“I kind of like that about her. Loyalty is pretty much obsolete in my family.” I take a breath, hoping it will clear my head. It doesn't. “That's not all I like about her. There are so many things. I think…” Sam looks up at me, waiting. “I think I'm in love with her.”

He stares at me—not with disappointment, luckily. “I figured.”

“So yeah.” My neck heats up even more. I hadn't planned on saying that out loud. Especially not to Finley's dad. Before telling her. “That makes it a little difficult to…you know, tell her to get lost.”

“Yeah.” Now he looks disappointed. “I know that too.”

“But I'll try…” I drop my gaze to the piano, tracing a finger over the cracked wood. “I owe you that much.”

He gives me this look that clearly says
bullshit
, then he grips my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Well, at least you're a millionaire. She can marry rich. That was my other dream for her.”

I release a short laugh. He definitely passed on some of his odd, honest sense of humor to Finley. “Glad I could help out with that.”

Sam seems to have some resolve about his concerns. Me, on the other hand… I'm having trouble shaking them.