You Before Anyone Else (3 page)

Eddie

Other than the bad taste in my mouth, I don't have any signs of a hangover. Which means I got it right this time. Alcohol only. No drugs. And I drank just enough to have fun but not so much that I screwed up my entire life. Maybe you can't screw up your life twice? Maybe it just goes from not-screwed to screwed?

Finley's bed is soft and girlie smelling, but I'm sure it beats Dima's couch, especially with a party going on all around. Not exactly sleep-friendly.

I roll on my side and check out Finley. She's lying on her back, still sound asleep—snoring—her blond hair a tangled mess all over the pillows. Guess we got a little wild last night. A grin spreads across my face. This whole adventure was not something I'd planned on. I'd even say it was something that freaked me out a little—sex with a stranger. Right when we started stripping each other's clothes off, the doubts crept in. I hadn't done this in months. Not since Caroline. And that turned out to be a nightmare times ten.

Finley must have sensed my hesitation, because she opened a drawer next to her bed and pulled out a pack of pills, waving it in front of my face. Then she grabbed a handful of condoms and set them on the nightstand. “Birth control. Condoms. We're good, okay?”

The logic and attraction clearly won over any doubts.

Finley stirs, waking up slowly. I push some of the hair off her face. “Hey…”

Her eyes dart around then widen when they rest on me. She shoots upright and shoves me out of the bed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Uh-oh. Not good. “You invited me, remember?”

She releases a groan and then jumps out of bed, flashing me a little skin before she can get a robe on. “I invited you last night. Not this morning!”

Oh good. She remembers inviting me. I open my mouth to reply, but I'm interrupted by my jeans hitting me right in the face.

“I'm gonna be late, and you're still here.” She's flying around the room, pulling items from the closet and tossing them onto the bed. She sees me still standing by the bed, holding my pants, and freaks out. “Put your clothes on! Seriously. You were supposed to leave after—”

Her mouth hangs open midsentence, her eyes roaming up and down my body, like she's remembering that we had sex. She laughs, shaking her head. “Of course. It figures I'd screw this up.”

The clock beside the bed catches my attention. Oh shit. I booked a job. This morning. And I left home yesterday with no new home to go to. “Hey, do you think I could use your bathroom, maybe take a quick shower?”

Her eyes grow even wider. “Are you kidding me?”

“So that's a no?” I slide my pants on and glance around for the rest of my stuff.

Finley swoops down, scoops up my clothes and backpack, then shoves them at me. She unlocks the bedroom door, opens it, and pushes me outside, slamming it behind her. I stand in the living room, my shoes, shirt, and bag in my arms still.

“No!” A voice says. I look around and spot a dark-skinned, middle-aged woman in the kitchen. She glares at me and stalks in my direction, waving a spatula. “No, no, no!”

I spin around and head for the door. The crazy woman starts swearing at me in French, moving closer and waving that spatula like she plans to beat me with it. I dive for the hallway and walk barefoot up one floor before I stop to catch my breath and put my shoes and shirt on. I knock, quietly at first, on Dima's door, then louder after he and his roommates don't answer. A door opens next to Dima's apartment, and an old guy pokes his head out and glares at me.

All right. Guess I'm not showering this morning. I'll have to find a public bathroom to at least clean up a little.

I walk outside and get hit with warm June air despite the early hour. Starbucks is around the corner. After assessing the cash situation in my wallet, I decide to limit myself to only a small regular coffee. I sit down at a table to plug in my phone, and I'm welcomed with several text messages. The first is from Lana, my dad's assistant.

LANA:
Your father wants to set up dinners for you with a few of his friends. Let me know what your schedule looks like once you're settled in.

The second one is from RJ, one of the only friends of mine I still talk to who hasn't ditched me, whose family hasn't been ruined by my father's actions. But lying to loyal, helpful people makes communication with said people a bitch. Well, the guilt is a bitch anyway.

RJ:
Dude, how the hell is Princeton? U so don't deserve to be there but hope ur having a blast. Maybe I'll take a train out there sometime soon.

I almost can't read the next text after RJ's, but I haven't been able to talk to her in weeks, so I'm compelled to see her words at the very least.

CAROLINE:
Heard you left yesterday. You made the right choice, E.

I stop reading after Caroline's text, ignoring the three my older sister, Ruby, sent. I rub my temples and try to take in slow deep breaths, pulling my thoughts back to last night. To the calm focused energy I had while my hands wandered over Finley's body. I think this is going to be my happy place.

For most of my life, girls have either made me anxious, guilty, nervous, or some combination of those three things. Not that I didn't enjoy any of those experiences, but the enjoyment came in tiny doses while the rest of my feelings consisted of the previously mentioned anxiety, guilt, or nerves. But last night, with Finley, it hadn't been like that at all. I worried it would be—and did it anyway. Something about her made me feel important, purposeful. She liked everything I did and told me, straight up. I've never had a girl do that before.

I mean, it would have been nice to get a more positive reaction from her this morning, but then again, this was obviously something new for her. I don't hate that part. It was a lot of new for me too. Like this modeling job I'm heading to now. Jesus, how the hell did I end up here?

Finley

I can't believe I'm late. How could I not set the alarm? I'm never late. My agent, Kara, is going to kill me. And it's Marc Jacobs. Granted it's a lookbook, but still, I haven't had a job in weeks.

My first drunken one-night stand, and then I'm late to my comeback job. If that's not rebellion, I don't know what is. Summer and Dad will be proud. In fact, I think I may have heard a whistle of encouragement from Summer when she walked past my bedroom door last night.

My head is pounding. I need some water or coffee or both. I pay the cabbie and rush out the door while working on unknotting the tangled mop at the top of my head until I reach the studio.

As soon as I'm at the door to the studio, Alan, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, introduces himself as the producer. I rattle off an apology. I'm never late, so excuses aren't at the ready.

“I'm sor—”

“One more minute and I would have called your agent.” He turns his back on me and walks off.

“Thanks—”

“Not another word,” he says over his shoulder. “Talent's here! Get her in hair. Hope you got coffee, Eliza. You're gonna need it.”

I run my hands through my hair, wishing I'd had time to take a shower. Wait…Eliza is here. I know Eliza.

I make my way to the hair station and spot Eliza right away. He's quite a character. Exactly the type you don't want to combine with a hangover.

“Oh my God, honey! Look what the cat dragged in.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Sorry I'm late…and sorry my hair is…well, like this.”

Despite the “look what the cat dragged in” comment and the wrinkled nose, I get a kind reply. “I'll have my manservant start you up, and you'll be in tiptop shape in no time.”

“He's your assistant, not your manservant. Be nice,” I tell him, attempting to be cool and relaxed like an edgier model would probably be after arriving late.

Eliza's assistant gives me a smile. “He's just mad at me because I'm younger than him.”

“They're breeding assistants snarkier and snarkier with every passing day. So where were you last night? Avenue, 1 Oak, or Marquee? Why didn't you invite little old me? Not cool enough?”

I'm saved from answering when Alan comes over and talks to Eliza in hushed tones, gesturing to his watch. Eventually, he scurries away to set.

“Someone's got their britches in a tizzy. Okay, manservant, we need to get her done ten minutes ago, so double-time, chop, chop. Hair needs to stand up like a candle. And get makeup in here too. Tell her breakfast is over.”

Now my curiosity is kicking in. “What's the concept?”

“Didn't you see the set, darling?”

I shake my head. When would I have had time to look around?

“It's a birthday cake, and you're going to be the decadent gothic ornament.”

I suppress a sigh. I'd been hoping for something outside of the sweet label—which would rule out posing on top of frosting and cake—though I don't know why I thought it would actually happen, considering how my castings have gone lately. But Marc Jacobs is all about being ahead of the trends, so I thought maybe…

Doesn't matter right now. I need to focus and be glad I have a job today.

I walk over to the anxiety-ridden stylist's station. Emmy has five different dresses steamed and ready to go. I'm not so disappointed in the concept that I can't take a second to swoon over the bold graphics mixed with the gothic nineteen twenties styling. It's a beautiful collection. And it's Marc Jacobs. Not exactly shabby.

I dress quickly, being careful not to mess up the big fancy bow in my hair and all the confetti. Alonzo, the Italian photographer, seems to have no issue with the late start of everything. Still, I apologize.

“It's no problem, bella. I get to enjoy my espresso and make sure the light is perfect for you, so you look like an angel.”

Would he still call me that if he knew about my night?

I blush again, taking my place on top of the huge white cake, using the prop stylist's hand to get up there. No doubt it was good for me to go out and be spontaneous, but this morning-after stuff is embarrassing.

The prop stylist gives me the lowdown on the set and where I can step and where I can't.

“Just be careful of the gumdrops—they're hollow. You could get your leg stuck, and the undercarriage is all plywood.”

I avoid thinking about legs getting stuck and switch up my pose. But my mind is racing with thoughts of hangovers and last night's hookup. The hookup who failed to exit the apartment prior to the morning like he should have. I'm pretty sure I flunked one-night stand 101.

I don't make it five minutes without the photographer calling out for Emmy.

“We need her to look more…what do you Americans say? Bad to the bone? Maybe she needs a necklace or a bag?” He turns to me. “And Finley, could you give me more anger, more aggressive facial expressions?”

Here we go again. Too sweet.

“Too angry,” Alonso says, reacting to my mood shift. “Maybe you tone it down a little, give me something in between?”

Feeling my blood slowly boil, I take a deep breath and let the loathed words slide right over me.

“How close are we with that necklace and bag?”

The stylist runs over with a whole mess of pocketbooks and necklace choices, her assistant in tow carting even more options. She whizzes through six different bags and necklaces before settling on the one that will magically turn me into the rebel everyone needs me to be.

As I move from pose to pose, my confidence finally rises. I watch Alonzo for a reaction. For verification.

“Better, Finley,” he says after a few minutes.

A wave of relief washes over me. Finally. Something is going right. Or better, at least.

“Okay, let's get Finley changed,” Alonzo shouts after a good forty minutes of shooting in outfit number one. “And can I get a shot list? I'm only the photographer, for fuck's sake.”

The producer runs over with his sheet, and I overhear him say, “Second model just arrived. Eliza has Eddie in makeup. He'll be ready in two.”

The photographer and producer continue their fervent conversation, but I don't hear any of it. Not after the name Eddie was dropped.

Of course. This is so freakin' typical.

Eddie

“Whoa! Be careful with that, dude.” I lean back as far as I can in the chair, blinking rapidly while the makeup brush keeps coming at me. This is worse than the dentist. Not to mention my sixties British rock and roll outfit. How do they expect guys to wear pants this tight? You can see the outline of my junk. My mom will have an instant heart attack if she sees this. She won't, right?

The makeup guy sighs for, like, the tenth time and shakes his head. “This isn't a painful process, darling.”

Yes, it totally is. “Sorry,” I mumble. My gaze drifts sideways, and I catch a glimpse of a blond with her hair standing straight up in the air. Even through the dress, the shape of her body is familiar. Suddenly, she snaps around, a glare already planted on her face.

Finley.

She stomps toward me, glancing around to see if anyone's watching. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wearing makeup, apparently.” She really did seem sweet last night.

“Right. You're wearing makeup. At the same Marc Jacobs shoot as me.” She shakes her head. “A whole apartment full of guys, and this is the one I hook up with.”

A mixture of hurt and amusement hits me at once, and I'm not sure which one to give more attention too. Why does it even matter? Last night wasn't about today. It was about last night. As it should be. I needed that.

Finley's glare dissolves, and her expression shifts to reflect guilt. “I didn't mean—”

“It's fine.” I shove a pointy pencil out of my face, pissing off the makeup guy even more. “You're allowed to feel overwhelmed.” I flash a grin. “I can have that effect on women.”

She rolls her eyes but looks calmer than a minute ago. “Sorry, it's not really about you. I just tend to fail at anything impulsive.”

Finally, Eliza says, “I've had enough, manservant. If you need something from me, I'll be on the couch.” He storms away. For good, I hope.

I turn to Finley. “Trust me, you did not fail at the important stuff.”

“Yeah?” Her cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink, but she nods, looking pleased, and turns around. “It
was
pretty fun.”

I watch her walk away behind a curtain. Her dress falls to the floor, exposing her bare shoulders. I shift in my chair and command myself to look away, but I can't. The makeup assistant turns his gaze and follows mine, then looks back at me, cocking an eyebrow. I shift my attention forward and shrug. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Emmy walks over with some steampunk accessories for me to wear and leads me down the hallway to the other set.

“We had to rent two studios for this job. Marc decided he wanted to go with the grungy London alley–style lookbook and not the birthday cake set. It's probably a bit cooler for your book.” I finally figure out what the hell she's talking about when we pass a huge, life-size debutante cake.

“So Finley was on top of that?” I nod toward the set.

“Yeah, she was a cake adornment. Precious concept, isn't it?”

I can just imagine Finley up on that cake, fuming about hooking up with a guy who ended up at her job the morning after. I shouldn't laugh, but I have to.

When we finally arrive on set, everyone introduces themselves in one rapid procession.

I run through all the names a few times in my head. It's impolite to not address someone by their full name after they've given it. Alonzo, Roberto, Emmy, Alan, Eliza—who's clearly still not happy about our makeup session before—and Eliza's assistant, who still remains nameless.

“Okay, you can take your place on set,” Alonzo says.

I make my way between a “God Save the Queen” poster with a yellow mustache and a turned-over red garbage pail.

“Here is your story,” Alonzo says. “You are a rich schoolboy, cutting class to go smoke and drink with his friends.” I stand there unchanged. I didn't know I'd be playing a character from “Smokin' in the Boy's Room.” “I know it sounds like a lot of emotions to get into one picture, but just see what you can do with it.” Without warning, Alonzo starts snapping pictures like a fiend. “Okay, change up your pose. Let's see what you got.”

I still haven't moved. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to be doing? It's not like I have a drink in my hand or a cigarette. My stomach is in knots all of a sudden. I give what probably looks like an aloof expression and cross my arms.

Alonzo shakes his head. “No, no, no. I don't want it to feel posed. It should feel lifestyle cool.”

So pose without looking posed. Sounds easy. Plus, I'm in the middle of a cheap replica of an alley in Hackney. This is really not helping.

I see Finley off to the side, watching. When Alonzo pauses to adjust the lights, she steps closer and whispers, “Don't think about the camera. Imagine you're back at the party last night, hanging out.”

Returning to the party leads to thinking about the walk up to Finley's room and everything that happened after.

“Perfect, bello!” Alonzo calls, startling me. “Keep that expression. Just change your pose.”

Finley gives me a smile from her spot in the corner. The sweet Finley returns.