You Before Anyone Else (28 page)

My heart is literally beating out of my chest. I'm worried they can hear it all the way across the waiting room, but all three are too involved in their own problems to even notice me here.

“If I see him and then I have to…” The woman breaks down again.

“But if we don't take him home,” the man tells her, “he'll be turned over to the state. It seems wrong for him to be with strangers the first few weeks of his life, and who knows what those homes will be like?”

I shudder at the thought.

The woman sits up and wipes her face with her hand. “No…you're right. It's not fair to that poor baby. Just because I can't handle it.”

“You don't have to move forward,” the business-suit lady says. “You have no obligation to care for this baby if a judge might not approve the adoption. Most couples would back out at this point.”

The woman nods and then gives her husband a small smile. “Well, we aren't most couples, are we?”

A brick sinks into the pit of my stomach. My heart continues to beat loudly enough to drown out parts of their conversation. But I catch the woman saying, “My parents are flying in from Seattle. I can't even tell them anything, because they're in the air right now. They'll be devastated.”

“You've definitely got a piano player on your hands,” a familiar voice says. “Either that or a pickpocket.”

I jump and turn my head to see Sam rolling into the waiting room. I feel like I've just been caught watching porn or something. My head is still deep in the conversation across the room when I greet Sam. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Thought you might need someone to hang out with,” he says like it's no big deal when I know it had to be. “Fin said she's stuck at that casting for a few more hours. The boys are at a campout with their cousins.”

The couple finally notices me sitting here, and they halt their conversation. The guy stands and holds out a hand. “Let's go see him. He's all alone in there.”

He's not alone
, I almost say out loud. But he kind of is. I don't know what happens to me—it's like an out-of-body experience—but when they walk out of the room, I tell Sam I'll be right back, and I follow them.

The couple leans against the glass, watching Mason while the business-suit lady hangs back, messing with her phone.

“He's perfect,” the woman says.

“That hair is something,” the guy says. “My mom will go nuts over it. You know how she is about babies with curly hair.”

The woman sighs. “He really does look like a Mason.”

The man nods and puts an arm around her shoulders like this means they've lost. I force back the lump in my throat, and before I can stop myself, I open my mouth and say, “I'm sorry.”

Eddie

Both of them look over at me, and it doesn't take long for the pieces to click into place. From the corner of my eye, I see the business-suit lady—their lawyer, I assume—tuck her phone away, her eyes wide.

I rest a shaking hand on the wall and repeat the words again. “I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't know about the parents flying from Seattle and…I didn't know. I'm just—” I release a shaky breath and look at Mason. “I'm just trying to do the right thing.”

No one says anything. I touch my forehead to the glass and wait for this ache to leave my chest. What am I doing? Why would I take that baby from this family with grandparents and—

The woman takes a step in my direction. “Maybe…maybe we can work out something…”

“Eddie,” Sam says from behind me. His voice is sharp and direct. “Let's go back to the waiting room.”

“Wait,” the woman says, her eyes pleading with me. My own mother would never fight for me like this. “Just give us five minutes—”

“Eddie,” Sam says, and I peel my eyes from them and follow him. When we get to the waiting room, he points to a chair and orders me to sit. “You can't talk to them.”

I don't want to fall apart. Not here. Not now. I press my thumbs against my eyelids, ordering them to stay dry. Then I look up at Sam. “What am I doing? I can't do this. I can't give any kid what they can.”

Three point two million dollars won't buy Mason that life. One with generations of love.

Sam rolls forward and grips both of my arms. “Look at me.”

I do.

“Those people are desperate for a baby. They can't help you make this choice. You have to figure this out yourself.”

“I just don't want to be my father.” I shake my head. “I have to be better than him. Or else, I've got nothing.”

“So be better than him,” Sam says.

“But he deserves that family or one like them,” I admit though it kills me.

“I don't mean be a better parent than him, Eddie. Be a better person. Do something with your life that says ‘Fuck you. I'm not you.' You don't have to raise a kid at eighteen years old to prove you're not him.”

I nod, but I'm still not sure I can just… Fuck. I don't know.

“Turn all of it off,” Sam tells me. “All those other people you're listening to right now. Screw them. It's just you and what you want. What will make you happy? Knowing that baby is with you, or knowing he's happy?”

I nod again, too afraid my voice will shake if I talk.

“Whatever you decide, you have to make peace with it,” Sam says. “You have to think it and not feel that ache, that feeling of guilt or regret. Choose whatever does that for you, okay? You have your whole life to be a father to someone. And you can be a great one. Now, or it doesn't have to be right now.”

“I'll never see him again?”

“You can see him,” a woman's voice says. “You can see him whenever you want.”

Sam holds up a hand, stopping them from coming closer.

The lawyer tries to get the woman to leave. “Mrs. Kingsley, we should discuss this privately—”

Sam gives them a pointed look. “Good idea.”

“But if we can just talk about it together,” the woman argues.

The lawyer steps in front of her. “He can't authorize anything. He's not the one who created the adoption terms.”

“But he's the father,” the man says. “He has a say in this.”

I look at them, grateful for their offering me the choice. “She's right. I don't really have a say.”

“Maybe on paper you don't,” the guy says. “But to us, you do.”

“I think adoptive parents manipulating a birth parent is frowned upon in family court,” Sam tells them.

Both of them clamp their mouths shut, their eyes wide with fear. I appreciate Sam's help. I do. But they didn't mean to manipulate me. They're honest people. My whole life has been about contracts and policies and how to get around the rules. My parents couldn't even trust Caroline to keep my identity a secret. She knew I was the father, and she still couldn't just say that so we wouldn't need the court-ordered paternity test. I'm so sick of that shit.

“It's okay,” I say. “I want to talk to them.”

“Eddie,” Sam starts at the same time as their lawyer tries to get them out of here.

I look at Sam. “I've got nothing to lose talking to them.”

With a sigh, he concedes, and they politely tell their lawyer to get lost. When they sit down across from me, I try to study them enough to see hidden flaws, parts of their lives that are ugly.

“Caroli—” I start to say Caroline and then remember that they don't know who she is and they aren't supposed to. “Mason's mother isn't going to change the terms. She's…she's just not.”

They look at each other, and then the man speaks up. “We don't need a contract to tell you that you can see your son. Anytime you want.”

“You have our word,” the woman adds.

Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. I fight them off again. I can already see Mason with them. I can see them hanging pictures of him on the wall, taking him to swim meets. I want to hate these thoughts, to banish them, but I don't. It feels right. I think this is what Sam meant when he said I need to be at peace with it.

Call me the most crazy naive businessperson ever, but I believe them. I believe they mean it. I can see him. I don't have to say good-bye forever. Caroline might need it to be all or nothing—she has plans, and she knows who she is. I don't know any of that yet. I just know that I created someone, and I want to see how he turns out. I want that more than almost anything else.

I wipe my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. “Okay.”

“Okay?” they both say, confused.

“Okay, I'll take your word.”

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but I shake my head. I stand up. I have to get out of here. “You don't have to call him Mason if you don't want to.”

That's the last thing I say before tearing out of there in search of someplace where there aren't any people.

Finley

“Can you pull your hair up above your ears,” the casting director says. “Face right…”

I do as I'm told, moving without thinking. My mind is still back at the hospital with Eddie. I can't believe he got to see and hold Mason. I wish I could have seen that.

Maybe I can see it soon. My agent said this was for a pretty big job, so that's why I didn't skip it and stick by Eddie's side all day. But it also means they're likely to be done with me in the next thirty seconds.

“And face forward again,” the man with my card directs. “You can put your hair down and relax.”

I drop my arms and stand there, waiting to be told they've seen enough. On impulse, I glance at the exit and then quickly back to the director's face. Finally, I just decide,
screw it
. I'm over worrying about my every little move, scripting my answers if I'm questioned at a casting. I haven't knitted in almost two months.

“Anything else?” I prompt.

The casting lady had had her head down, flipping through a fold on her clipboard. But she lifts her head and smiles at me. “Sorry, I was just admiring these photos an agent sent over today. We have stacks of portfolios of models who list dance as one of their hobbies or talents…” She looks over at the three or four other people in the room, and all of them laugh, in on some joke, I guess.

They take one more full-body picture of me, and I'm about to take off, but then a woman wheels a chair over to me. The director waves a hand at it. “Have a seat, Finley.”

I almost tell them I have to be somewhere soon, but I'm too curious to take off. Dad is at the hospital with Eddie now. I'm sure they're both having a blast, teaching Mason show tunes. It's never too early to start, my dad always says.

After I sit down, the director does the same, setting her clipboard on the glass table between us. “As I was saying before…lots of dancing models that turn out to be…well, not dancers.”

Maybe Summer has ballet listed as one of her talents? That would explain the pointe shoes in the Prada shoot.

“Well, I actually have some dance experience,” I admit, figuring I'll cut to the chase.

“Oh yes, we know,” she says. And then she lifts a photo from its envelope, and my mouth falls open the second I see it. It's one from Eve's exhibit at the Guggenheim. One of my nude ones, though I'm folded in half and sideways. All you can see is the side of my leg and my spine.

“How did you get that?” I ask. “I don't even have a copy.”

She flips over the envelope and reads some slanted print scribbled on the back. “It's from
Vogue
's offices. Someone named Summer had it sent to your agent, who sent it to us today—”

Summer had this sent over for me from her mom's office? How did she know about the casting? Why would she help me? Did Summer just do something nice? I can't help but smile.

The casting director looks up at me and matches my expression. “Well, it's stunning, as are you and your dancing. Is this something you're passionate about or simply well trained?”

That's a tough question to answer. “I'm well trained, but…” I think for a second, wanting to explain it properly. “I'm kind of falling in love with it all over again.” My face heats up, and I clear my throat. “So to speak.”

I replay all the hours I've danced over the last month or so, trying to figure out if that's an exaggeration, but I think it's true. That's what's happening to me and dance right now. What had Lenore Jacobs said when she invited me to audition for her company? I danced with heart but not guts. Not yet.

I can't just give up on opening the studio, but shouldn't I be able to say the same thing to the dancers I teach that Lenore said to me? Shouldn't I know firsthand what it's like to dance with guts and emotion that you can only have by taking a big risk? I can guarantee Lenore knows—she's done it. She had enough love for dance to start a nonprofit company in NYC. That's no small feat.

But how long will the studio sit there waiting for me?

“So…are you interested in working for us?”

“Uh…” I pull my head out of my ass and pay attention to the woman talking to me. “You want to hire me?”

Usually, offers come after I leave the room. Plus, did she say who this job was for?

“We aren't going to negotiate here, but I'm just curious if you are intrigued by the idea of representing Chanel in a new ballet-inspired line.”

I blink. Once. Twice. “Wait…did you say Chanel?”

Everyone in the room laughs, but warmly, not like when someone made the joke about Grandma's knitting needles. The director pats my hand. “How about we let you see some of our dresses? You can try on anything you like.”

Never in my entire modeling career, not even at sixteen when I'd barely hit puberty, did I have the right measurements for Chanel.

She must be able to read my mind, because she says, “Misty Copeland will be part of this project. It's an ongoing series inspired by lovers of dance, whether dancers or not.”

Misty Copeland is one of my all-time favorite ballet dancers, and like me, she won't have Chanel model measurements. She's got an athletic build.

“So this really is a new direction,” I say, and then I'm on my feet, heading over to look at these designs. I brush my fingers over a long, pink tulle dress. “I think this is love at first sight.” Eddie is going to have some competition, because I'm about to steal this dress and sleep with it.

“You like?” the director asks.

I look at her, staring at the dress, and put two and two together. “Wait a second. You're the designer?”

“Yes.”

Holy shit.

I turn to face her. This just seems too good to be true. “And you want me to wear these? And Misty Copeland? Even though I'm not going to fit into a Chanel sample size?” Definitely don't need another repeat of the Valentino dress fiasco.

She grins. “But it is your size.”

“Really?” Yeah, I'm a little skeptical still. “You're sure you want me?”

“No,” she says, and I sink back partially behind the clothing rack of dresses. She reaches for the photo again. “I want this girl. Do you think she's available?”

I glance at my photo again, and I'm back at the Guggenheim, trying to see whatever Eve saw when she picked me over dozens and dozens of trained ballerinas. Maybe it isn't about what I see in the picture but what I'm feeling when I'm there. It's up to everyone else to see inside me. And in the picture, I'm more me than anywhere else.

I turn back to the dress and touch it again. “I think she might be available, but you should probably speak to her agent first.”

She gives me a nod. “Of course.”

When I finally walk out of that casting, having tried on four different dresses and proposed to each of them on the spot, there's a bounce in my step that I haven't had in a long time.

I quickly dial my dad's number. He picks up before the first ring even completes.

“Fin, good—”

“You won't believe what just happened to me,” I say.

“You should get over here soon, Fin.”

• • •

It doesn't take me long to find Eddie. My heart is already breaking for him. I don't know all the details—I took off before my dad could finish explaining what happened—but I know enough to know he needs someone.

He tries to discreetly wipe his face with his shirt when he sees me. I plop down on the floor beside him in this dark hallway and wrap my arms him. I don't say anything for a while, and when I do, I keep it simple. “Are you sure?”

He lifts his head and nods. I study him, trying to figure out what happened between him texting pictures and being ready to sign his rights away.

“I don't understand what changed.”

Eddie takes a breath and rests his head against the wall. “I just thought… I wanted him because he's my family. Maybe my only family.”

I shake my head and turn his cheek until he faces me. “That's not true. You have me. You have my dad and Connor and Braden.”

His eyes close, and he leans in to kiss me. “I love you.”

My heart swells to double the size. “I love you too. And I'm here for you.”

“I know, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do now,” he says. “I mean, I don't want to go to Princeton. It's not me.”

“No, it's not you,” I agree.

“I've been planning on this…on taking care of Mason or whatever they end up calling him for months. I don't know what to do.”

I kiss him again. “Anything you want. That's what you can do.”

“I just don't know how to pick up all the pieces.” He looks at me like he wants to say something else but stops. He glances over his shoulder and then back at me. “My grandmother's trust…I'm not going to get it.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything.” I roll my eyes. Is he serious? “Oh wait…does that mean you're not taking the apartment in Connecticut? My brothers will be devastated.”

“It's cheaper than anything in the city. I can still afford it,” he says. “I think it'll be nice to try living somewhere besides New York City. At least for a while.”

I'm completely content to sit in this dark hallway all night, but Eddie decides that it's time to come out of hiding. “I'm gonna go check on Caroline.”

“Are you gonna tell her? What you worked out with—”

He shakes his head. “No. She doesn't need to know. She's made peace with her decision. I don't want to mess that up for her, you know?”

I don't know. I've never had to make a choice like he has to right now.

I end up back in the waiting room with my dad. He looks stressed, probably from having to play lawyer for Eddie when he's, well, not a lawyer.

“He's okay,” I promise him for, like, the tenth time. Once we move on from worrying about Eddie, I remember what I'm supposed to talk to him about.

I spill everything in a matter of minutes from the business plan to the company auditions. And my dad doesn't look all that surprised to hear about the studio stuff. “Did you know?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to give you a chance to, you know, figure it out.”

“Or fail,” I accuse, but I'm not really mad. I'm relieved that he isn't.

“What if I told you that I found someone?” he says, and at first, I'm thinking he
found someone
, like, yeah, but then he adds, “To run the studio. For a while.”

“Who?”

“Do you remember Sophie Lucas?” he asks.

She was one of the studio's best dancers. In high school when I was really little, so of course, I worshiped her. “Yes…”

“Well, she's done with her ballet career, and if you're still dead set on dumping your money into the studio—”

“I am,” I say right away. Because that's really all I want. For it to be there again. Open and running with my mother's way of making every dancer the best they can be—Sophie would know all of that. Maybe more than me, because like my mother, she's danced professionally.

“Then you can be the owner, and Sophie can be acting director.” He looks at me, showing the first signs of emotion all evening. “And I'll…I'll figure out how to get back in there and, well, do whatever else needs to be done.”

“That's what you want?” I ask. “It's not just for me, right?”

He shakes his head. “For me. It's time.”

I nod, fighting a flood of tears. “Yeah, it's time.”

My dad rolls his eyes and tugs me out of my seat. “Enough of this. Let's go get ice cream. I've had enough feelings for a month.”

I laugh and follow him out into the hall. We bump into Eddie. “Hey, are you up for ice cream?”

“Yeah, I think that sounds perfect.” He tosses an arm around my shoulder and leads us toward the elevator.

When we're inside the elevator, I go back and forth about bringing up my casting, and then finally, I can't keep it in any longer. “So…I sort of booked a big job today. With Chanel. And Misty Copeland. And dresses I want to marry.”

My dad is not one to ever look shocked. I think he makes a point to not be shocked. But his mouth falls open, and he can't think of any words to say.

Eddie scratches the back of his head and looks bewildered. “Did I miss anything else big today?”

Dad and I exchange a look and then laugh. “Um, yeah, one other thing.”

I fill him in on the studio news and my plan to audition for Lenore Jacobs's company, then my dad says, “Want to help me build a ramp into that studio?”

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie says. “I think I picked up a hammer once. Seemed pretty simple. Plus, I'm looking for a job.”

“Well, I wasn't planning on paying you,” Dad says.

Eddie laughs. “Okay, sure. I'm up for it. I'll find a manual or something.”

“This sounds promising,” I say with a groan.

Eddie gives me one of his looks—the intense, heated kind that I haven't been able to resist since the day I met him. And I know he'll figure it out. He'll build a ramp for my dad, and even if I can't be there all the time, he'll help get that studio open.

Knowing my dad, he'll probably put Eddie through some
Karate Kid
“young grasshopper, find yourself” program with a hammer, nails, and discount plywood.

And that's probably exactly what he needs.