You Before Anyone Else (8 page)

Finley

Dad and I head out back, each of us carrying a plate of burgers to grill. The second we step onto the patio, Eddie's voice rings loud and clear from around the side of the house.

“I'm sorry I missed the appointment…of course I'm still planning on signing—things are crazy with my Princeton classes right now. It's not easy to get back to New York.”

I open the grill, allowing it to clank loudly to dilute Eddie's voice. Dad follows my lead, lighting the grill and making more noise than necessary.

“…I'd rather you didn't tell her that I haven't signed yet…”

“So,” Dad says, obviously wanting to let Eddie have his privacy. “Jason is back.”

I groan internally, remembering Summer's embarrassing hijacked call to Jason last week. “Yeah, I know.”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie says to the person on the phone. “Tuesday night. Princeton alumni center. Got it.”

“Anything happening with that?” Dad asks, working hard to ignore Eddie.

“Not sure.” I slide the first burger onto the grill and let the sadness and confusion roll over me. What am I not sure about? Jason or me? I don't think we're a factor any more.

Before I have to decide, Eddie comes around the house and onto the patio. He's startled to see us here but hides it well. The color has drained from his face, and his eyes no longer hint at amusement but instead are full of panic.

“What's wrong?” I ask immediately.

He scratches the back of his head, his gaze drifting from me to the pool in the backyard. “Oh…nothing. I'm good. Just had to take a phone call…” Dad and I both hang there, waiting for more, but Eddie forces a grin and points at the pool. “Wow, nice. How deep is it?”

Dad and Eddie begin a lengthy discussion on the inground pool structure while I cook dinner. On the train here, I got super nervous thinking about everything Eddie doesn't know regarding my family. I'm surprised he hasn't asked me more, but maybe this is one of those “treat others as you want to be treated” situations. He's not asking much, because he doesn't want me to ask about his family. Or phone calls that leave him panicked.

Later, after dinner, Eddie and I get roped into hanging decorations in the backyard for the party tomorrow. All
Star Wars
–themed, of course. Eddie seems oddly comfortable, and I'm back to wondering what he hasn't had a chance to sign because he's been so busy with “classes” and who this “her” is.
Forget it, Finley. It's none of your business.
He's just hanging out for the weekend. Nothing more.

“Where do you want the Jedi banner?”

I shake my head and refocus before glancing around the patio, which is now lit by light-saber torches. “Um, I think maybe here”—I point to the edge of the patio roof that faces the pool—“but it might be too high to reach without getting out the ladder.”

“We can do it.” Before I realize what's happening, Eddie hoists me up onto his shoulder and grabs a roll of tape along with the banner. His fingers spread deliberately across my stomach, and my heart picks up speed in response. But when my dad rolls into the family room, glancing outside, Eddie shifts his hand to a more polite location on my hip. “I've never had a birthday party with decorations like this.”

“Like what?” I ask, reaching for the post to secure one corner of the banner. “
Star Wars
–themed? Me either.”

Eddie laughs and tightens his grip on me before walking across the patio to hang the other side. “I mean kid-themed. I can't even remember a birthday party of mine with kids other than my older sister.”

“Never?” I tape the other corner up, and then Eddie backs up so we can check out the Jedi sign that reads “Happy 6th Birthday, Braden and Connor.”

“Nope,” he confirms. “But I don't remember all my parties, I guess.”

I know very little, but I'm already disturbed by the coldness of his home. Then Summer's accusations come back, and I work hard to lump Eddie into the wounded animal category. But when he sets me down on the ground again, the heat of his body hitting mine, all I can think about is him gripping me tight after I led him up to my bedroom the night of the party, his voice quiet and confident in my ear, telling me to relax, telling me I'm beautiful and perfect and yeah…

I take a giant step back from him and say as firmly as possible. “We're just—I mean, you're here as my friend. Got it?”

“Got it.” The amusement returns to his face. He leans in to add, “Naked friends.”

I point a finger at him in warning. “Once. And only once.”

“Right. Of course. Gotta be true to the one-night stand club.” Eddie lifts an eyebrow, his grin too big and confident.

My dad chooses that moment to open the sliding glass doors and say, “So…I'm assuming you don't need me to get sheets and blankets for the pullout couch?”

I snap around to face Dad, my cheeks probably bright red. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Just figured Eddie might be staying in your room.”

“Dad!” Jesus Christ, why can't he be a normal father and pull out a shotgun at the sight of a boy near me?

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Just trying to be cool, you know?”

“Well, stop,” I snap. “And yes, sheets. Blankets. Pullout couch. All of that.”

After Dad is gone, I glance back at Eddie, expecting more of his teasing, but he looks almost as embarrassed as I am. Maybe even a little anxious. He scratches his head again. “You don't think he heard the naked friend comment, do you?”

I laugh, the humiliation already dimming. “No, he didn't hear you. And even if he did, it wouldn't be a big deal. Unfortunately, he
is
one of those cool dads. Maybe not cool, but realistic. I am eighteen. Not fifteen. And I live on my own now.”

An awkward silence falls between us—the problem with one-night stands, I'm quickly learning—and we both put a bit more distance between us and continue the decorating. When we finally go back inside, my dad and the boys are in bed. I hang back, not wanting to stand close to Eddie now that there's a bed in the family room. Eddie doesn't go near the couch bed either. He strolls past the photos on the wall, stopping at one hanging above the mantel.

“Is this your mom?” Eddie asks. I nod, waiting, knowing what's coming next. Eddie adds, “She doesn't look like you at all.”

“Yeah, I know. My mom used to joke all the time that my dad must have been running around on her, since none of her kids look like her.” I slide closer to him, assessing the photo of the dark-haired woman. It's been a while since I've really looked at these photos and remembered my mom like this. I'm still staring at the picture, my thoughts elsewhere, when Eddie says, “Was it a car accident?”

I wouldn't say that it's difficult for me talk about it. I've made peace with it, I keep my mom close to me, and I believe in heaven. But whenever I have to explain to someone who doesn't know anything about my family, someone like Eddie who've I've kept things cool and casual with, it's not easy.

Heat rushes to my face. I glance sideways at Eddie for a second and see that he's moved on to one of our last family photos, one where my dad is standing to his full height of six feet two and my brothers are little rubber-necked infants.

I open my mouth to answer Eddie's question but then decide to nod instead. I don't want to hear any emotion in my voice. I don't want to move backward.

“Were you—” Eddie starts.

“No. I was at the studio.” I take a breath, surprised by how steady it is. Surprised that saying these details out loud hasn't transported me back to that day. “Connor and Braden were in the car.” Worry creases his face, so I add, “They were fine. Barely a scratch.”

Eddie turns to face me, his gaze so heavy and intense that I pull in a breath and hold it. “You have her eyes.”

I hang on to his gaze, my feet shuffling closer until heat fills the space between us and completely envelops me. My head clouds with a million thoughts—
Who are you, Eddie Wells? What is your story? Why does it seem like you have so much to tell? And why is your mouth so easy to stare at? And why do I want to kiss you so badly?
I can hardly remember kissing him the first time, or maybe I'm refusing to let myself remember, but this only means it would be like the first time again.

My fingers brush lightly on the front of his T-shirt at the same time as his hand drifts over a loose strand of my hair. My eyelids begin to flutter and close, my heart thudding a million beats a minute.

Behind me, a door opens, and I jolt back to reality. Eddie releases a nervous laugh, and I shake my head and back away. “Friends. Just friends.”

Both of us pull ourselves back together. Eddie seems to be done with his Belton family inquisition, so I move on to more technical hostess duties.

For a couple minutes, while I'm handing Eddie a towel, pointing out the bathroom, and showing him the path that needs to stay clear for my dad's wheelchair, it does feel friendly. Just friendly. But when I finally close my bedroom door and I'm lying in my bed, my heart's still racing, and my cheeks are still warm.

I bury my face in a pillow and groan loud enough to release some of my frustrations but not enough to alert anyone else.

Summer is right. I'm drawn to the guys who need rescuing. This has to stop. Now.

Finley

I had anticipated one or likely two little boys keeping me from sleeping in this morning, so I'm not too bothered by music waking me up. I roll over in bed, glancing at the clock: 7:10 a.m. Definitely not too early for Connor and Braden to be up. Especially on the day of their birthday party—something that has become a neighborhood affair around here.

I toss back the covers and venture out to the living room to see the twins seated on either side of Eddie on the piano bench. I lean against the doorframe and watch Eddie's fingers fly over the keys—he wasn't kidding when he said he was a piano player. The music book opened in front of him is one of my dad's favorites—
Broadway Belter's Songbook
. He's helped tons of actors land musical roles with these songs over the years, even some who were less than stellar singers.

Conner and Braden are, in fact, belting out the lyrics to “Maybe This Time” while Eddie plays along. Eddie's wearing a bewildered look, but he smiles when he glances over his shoulder and spots me. He lightens his touch on the keys and asks, “Is this too loud? Your dad is still sleeping, right?”

“He'll wake up to his favorite song,” I say with a shrug, not wanting to explain that my dad has probably been up for at least two hours. It takes him that long just to use the bathroom and get showered and dressed in the morning, but I know he wouldn't want me to explain that to Eddie.

Eddie returns to playing at full volume while my brothers continue to sing. The longer I stand there, the more animated all three of them become—even Connor, who often uses music as his excuse to speak—and the more I'm laughing.

“Why do they know this song?” Eddie shouts to me.

Dad wheels in and answers, “Because it's in their blood.”

I roll my eyes. “Because they've been force-fed show tunes since birth and aren't allowed to listen to the radio.”

“It pays the bills, right?” Dad flashes me a grin and then moves closer to Eddie. “You sing too?”

“As little as possible,” Eddie says, and my dad laughs.

Dad flips pages in the
Broadway Belter's
Songbook
and thus begins a testosterone-fueled show tune jam session. I watch for several minutes, surprised by how at ease Eddie now seems in front of a piano compared to around my dad last night. After a way too loud rendition of “Everything's Coming Up Roses,” I retreat to the kitchen to make breakfast. The songs continue on and off for a couple hours until my grandma comes over from next door to get the party food ready and the boys are too wired to stay inside any longer.

“Don't go in the pool until I get out there!” I shout at Braden when he nearly plows me over while I'm carrying their
Star
Wars cake.

Eddie brushes up behind me. “You know, if you give directions using a negative, they only hear ‘go in the pool.'”

I stop my life-saving quest to turn and look at Eddie. “Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

“Everyone knows that rule.” He flashes me one of his cheeky grins and opens the sliding glass door so I can put the cake outside.

I'm about to tell him exactly what I think of his little rule when my foot catches on the step, and the cake slides from my arms.

My heart jumps up to my throat, but a pair of familiar hands reach out and steady both me and the box. My gaze travels up until it lands on my preppy, polo shirt–wearing ex. My stomach knots, and I'm stuck staring at him and working through too many non-Summer-approved lines in my head until I finally settle on, “Hey…”

Eddie

The preppy crew-cut guy smiles at Finley in that I've-seen-you-naked way, and my eyebrows shoot up.

“That could have been very bad,” Finley finally says.

Preppy dude grins. “Where do you want this?”

“Oh…” She looks around like she hasn't planned it all out already—she recited all the table purposes to me last night when we set up. “Uh, over here, I think.”

She leads him across the yard to the designated cake table, and I turn to Sam. He leaves me hanging for several seconds, enjoying the power. “Since you and my daughter are just friends, I guess it's not a secret.”

“What's not a secret?”

He nods toward the dude in the pink polo. “That's Jason. Finley's high school boyfriend. He lives next door.”

“I thought Grandma lived next door?”

Sam points to the house on the right. “Other next door.”

“Huh.” I step closer to the pool and tug my shirt off. I already promised the quiet twin I'd swim with them. “Convenient.”

“Yeah, until they break up and Fin spends nearly a year hoping it'll work out again.” Sam sighs. “I think he might be dating someone and hasn't broken the news to her.”

I squint in the sunlight and glance out at Finley, who does in fact resemble a girl wanting the attention of this particular guy. A mix of jealousy and sympathy washes over me. “How long did they date?” I ask Sam.

“Four years.”

Four years? Jesus. Wait, I don't have any right to be jealous…right?
Just friends. Definitely not naked
friends.

“Eddie!” Braden shouts. “Do a cannonball!”

I prepare to run and jump in the pool, but Finley breaks eye contact with pretty boy and lifts a hand to stop me. “Be careful where you jump. It's not a wide pool.”

I point a finger at her. “Nice job. You used my technique, didn't you?”

While I'm in the pool with the boys, people start showing up. Lots of people. Some are kids, some are high school friends of Finley's, and many are entire families. I can't help looking around and guessing who knew Finley's family when it was still whole, still complete with a mom and a dad who could walk. Maybe everyone knew them back then. Maybe I'm the only one here who had to put the pieces together himself by looking at family photos on the wall. And despite our casual relationship, part of me wants to know more, like what happened when Fin found out about the accident, who was driving, how bad were Sam's injuries? Obviously, he was left in a wheelchair, but he gets around so well and has such a great attitude. But I can tell Finley is past all this; she's had years to digest and accept. It's not fair for me to come in here and drill her for details, just because I'm a little curious. I had a hard enough time asking her the few questions I have asked.

Soon, the pool is packed, and I'm making my way out, grabbing the towel Finley gave me last night. The scent of grilled hot dogs and baked beans is heavy in the air as Sam and Grandma spread food out onto every empty table. I'm about to dry off, grab a plate, and head for the biggest food table. But then a blond in a bright-pink bikini strolls right past me. And not just any blond but the girl I spent the night with less than two weeks ago. My heart picks up speed. I'm so caught off guard by this barely clothed Finley—when did she change?—that I don't notice the tall brunette in platforms heading toward Jason until Sam bumps me from behind and nods in their direction. Worry drifts over his face.

We can't hear what's being said across the yard, but we don't need to hear. Jason introduces the brunette to Fin, whose smile is about as believable as sardine-flavored ice cream at McDonald's. I don't exactly have a solid plan, but I drop my plate onto the table and head across the yard as backup. That mix of jealousy and sympathy returns, only this time, the sympathy is dominant. My hand slides into Finley's, and I give it a squeeze. She snaps around to look at me.

“Hey.” I lean in like I'm kissing her cheek and whisper, “Need some help?”

She swallows, her eyes already glossy, but gives me a small nod.

I stick a hand out to Jason. “Eddie Wells.”

“Jason…” he says, his gaze darting between me and Fin. He gives the brunette a quick look too. “And this is Zoe. We, uh, go to school together. In Texas.”

He brought a girl back from Texas? Definitely a bad sign.

Zoe introduces herself, the southern accent thick and syrupy. I release Finley's hand and slide my fingers across her bare back. She jumps when my hand reaches her hip but covers her surprise by pretending to swat a fly on her stomach.

I lean down—so there are some selfish motives to this rescue mission—and plant a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Your dad is looking for you. Something about needing more ketchup.”

“Right.” Finley nods, her cheeks bright pink. “Ketchup. I should go take care of that.”

Jason's forehead wrinkles. He's still looking at me. “Oh…are you guys—”

“Yes,” Finley and I both say together, then she turns around to leave, calling, “Nice meeting you, Chloe.”

I follow her inside through the laundry room. “Her name is Zoe, not Chloe.”

“I know that.” Finley shuts the laundry room door and leans against it, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

I hang back and give her a moment to process, watching her eyes turn glossy all over again. “Fun party, huh?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, and when a couple tears leak out, she swipes them away quickly. “God, I'm an idiot.”

“Hey…” I rest my hands on her shoulders. “Don't cry, okay?” I half expect her to fall apart even more—this has happened to me on several occasions when I've said those words to girls at school—but she nods.

“You're right. I need to be okay.” She shakes her head. “Or at least give the appearance of okay.”

She pushes the door open again and pulls me by the hand outside, lacing our fingers together. I open my mouth to question the deliberate touching—you know, 'cause we aren't naked friends anymore—but Finley turns to me and says, “Good thing I brought a hot model as my date for the party, right?”

I stop, holding both of us in place. “Wait, I'm not—I mean—”

“Not what? A model? Yes, you are. We did Marc Jacobs together.” Finley lifts an eyebrow, challenging me. “What else are you, Eddie Wells? A college student? A guy who sleeps on people's balconies?”

“That was only one time,” I point out. But her question sinks in further than I expect it to. She's right. I'm not at Princeton for the summer intensive, and I don't want to be there in the fall. I sure as hell don't want to be a model for very long. I don't even really want to be one right now. I hadn't even planned on telling anyone about it, that's for damn sure. I've been so focused on the immediate, on fixing the shit storm I created months ago and not becoming my father that I haven't really let myself figure out what I do want to become.

“Relax,” Fin says, breaking me out of my own head. “I'm not going to say anything you don't want me to.”

I force a grin and let my gaze wander slowly over her. “Good thing I brought a hot model as my date…”

“Cute.” Finley rolls her eyes, but she smiles, which is much better than the tears in the laundry room. “Obviously, we know so much about each other.”

Jason is watching us from across the backyard. I lean close to Finley and whisper, “I know plenty about you. I know you have a mole right here”—I brush my thumb over her hip and slip it under the material of her swimsuit—“and that you're ticklish here…” I slide my fingers down her spine to the lowest part of her back. Her eyes meet mine, and she holds my gaze, distracted from our previous conversation.

I'm about to share a few more details I acquired from our one night together, but two little kids with squirt guns run between us. She narrows her eyes at me, pointing an accusatory finger. “No more of that Mr. Smooth Guy stuff.”

I snort back a laugh. Mr. Smooth Guy? That is so not me. But I guess Finley wouldn't know that. She only knows Eddie Wells, model, mysterious guy with secret reasons for escaping the hold of his wealthy family.

Okay, so I sound like a douche. Great.