You Before Anyone Else

  She steps back, assessing me. I can’t read anything from her expression.

  “Oh, hey…” I glance around like an idiot, squinting at the sun. “I was just—”

  “Sleeping on my balcony?” she prompts, one eyebrow lifted.

  “The guys in my place needed a little alone time last night.” I point a finger at the floor above us. “I was gonna crash at Dima’s and then…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering the awkward minutes I spent in Dima’s apartment before sneaking outside on the balcony and climbing down the fire escape.

  Finley and I both notice her lack of bra at the exact same time. Her cheeks turn a nice shade of pink, and she folds her arms across her chest. I avert my gaze upward.

  “Then what?” Finley asks in a tone that clearly indicates my answer will determine how pissed off or weirded out she is from finding me out here.

  “Then I didn’t really care for their choice of evening activities.”

  “Like what? Was it boy-on-boy related, because I heard that Dima likes to play games where—”

  That would have been awkward but different, much different. “More like the tossing drugs onto a table for everyone to share kind of game.”

  The exact thing I’d been so afraid of the previous night. The scene had been too familiar. But luckily, I had my head on straight enough to get the hell out of there.

  “Oh.” The smile fades. “Right.”

  “Right.”

  “Not really your scene, huh?” she presses, her voice a little softer, less judgmental.

  “No, not really.” I lean over and reach for my bag, then stand and toss it onto my shoulder. “Sorry for crashing here without asking. Won’t happen again.”

  Finley blocks my path to the fire escape. “I looked in your wallet,” she blurts out.

  My stomach knots. I know where this is headed. Guess I had that coming, considering where I left my wallet. I take a deep breath. “Look, it’s not as bad as it seems. I just—”

  “Needed a rags-to-riches story for PR purposes?” she suggests, the judgment returning.

  “No, nothing like that.” In fact, I don’t want any story. Seriously. I want the opposite of a PR story. Is that a thing?

  “You just didn’t want anyone to know where you’re from?” She leans against the metal railing surrounding the balcony, and I’m surprised by the lack of judgment on her face. “Yeah,” I admit, because that’s technically true. Maybe there are other truths I can give Finley without telling her everything. I can’t risk telling her everything. I can’t even risk letting myself think everything. “My parents think I’m at Princeton right now. For the summer program.”

  Finley’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re going to Princeton?”

  “Obviously not.” I don’t mean to snap at her, but it’s a sore subject. Four generations of Wellingtons have attended Princeton. It may sound ridiculous to other people, but the Princeton weight has been pressing down on me my entire life.

  “All right,” Finley says, her voice softening. “So you got into Princeton, but you’re not going. What are your plans? To make your own money and let yourself get cut off by your parents?”

  Man, that really sounds cliché. But still, I nod. “Basically.”

  “So is anything you’ve told me thus far actually true?”

  I think for a minute, swallow back nerves. “I really am bad at beer pong.”

  For several long seconds, we stare at each other. “No knitting hats for orphaned dogs?” Finley says finally.

  I shake my head and wait.

  Another long pause, and then she opens the door and gestures for me to come inside. “No one’s here except Summer, and she’s sound asleep.”

  My gaze drifts downward, and I notice her feet for the first time. “Nice shoes. Did you sleep in those?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No.”

  The ballet shoes are quickly removed and tossed onto the couch.

  I scratch at a patch of bug bites on the side of my neck while taking in the new living room arrangement. “Huh. I don’t remember the couch being there the other day.”

  “People are always moving stuff around.” Finley waves a hand and walks over to the fridge, opening it and staring inside without a specific purpose.

  “I wonder why anyone would want the couch practically smashed against the wall and then all that room in middle. All that empty floor space.” I spin slowly like I’m really thinking this through.

  “Fine,” she snaps. “I was practicing. You caught me. Laugh all you want.”

  I’m not laughing. It’s cute and a little sexy that she was dancing—braless—around the living room in pointe shoes. I bend over to examine the very tasty-looking omelet resting on the counter that divides the kitchen and living room.

  Finley snatches the plate right out from under my nose and dumps the omelet into the garbage. “You can’t eat that.”

  I didn’t expect her to turn over her breakfast to me. That would be rude. Even though I’m completely famished. She goes back to the fridge and begins tossing items onto the counter. “It’s been sitting out. I’ll make you a fresh one.”

  Now I feel bad. “You don’t have to—”

  “Sit,” she orders, pointing at a chair pulled up to the counter. “You slept on my balcony without permission, so now I’m forcing you to eat my cooking.”

  “Talk about hardships.” I sit as commanded and watch Finley move around the kitchen in pajama pants. “The view is really nice here.”

  She glances over her shoulder and sees that I’m looking at her backside, not the balcony. She cracks an egg into a bowl one-handed. “No more of that. We’re done with that.”

  I grin. “Are you convincing me or yourself? I couldn’t tell.”

  “I’m serious, Eddie.” She sets the bowl down and crosses her arms. “I need to succeed at the one-night stand, which means you and I are just having a friendly, coworker-type chat. Got it?”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “Got it.”

  She gives a satisfied nod and spins around again. I lean on one elbow and continue enjoying the view. In a little while, I’ll have to go back to my hellhole apartment with way too many dudes in it, so this is nice. Accidentally getting caught.

  My cell, with its one percent battery remaining, buzzes. I glance quickly at the newest calendar event: Manhattan Trust, meeting with lawyer, one hour. My stomach flips at the reminder, and I must look nervous or something, because Finley stops what she’s doing.

  “What?” she asks.

  The knot in my stomach double-ties itself. But I shake my head and force a grin. “Nothing. Just a thing I have to go to in a little while.”

  “A thing?” Finley asks. “That explains so much.”

  She’s just set a freshly made omelet in front of me, so I busy myself shoving a big bite into my mouth. The cheese is so hot, it burns my tongue. “This is really good.”

  I’ve distracted her with compliments, and we discuss anything but my “thing” while I finish eating and then convince Finley to let me wash all the dishes—it’s the least I can do.

  A little while later, I glance at the microwave, checking the time, and immediately snatch my bag up and toss it over my shoulder. “I better head downstairs and get a shower before my…meeting.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Finley says while shoving a clean bowl up into a tall cabinet. “Wait…” She stops and turns to face me. “Downstairs? Does that mean your agency apartment is…”

  Uh…yeah. I give her a grim smile. “I didn’t mention that earlier? I could have sworn that I did.”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head slowly. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

  “We might not run into each other much,” I offer. I don’t know what else to say. She offers up a halfhearted nod and good-bye when my hand ends up on the doorknob seconds
later. I guess that’s to be expected.

  But would it be that terrible if we did hang out?

  CHAPTER 13

  Finley

  “Would it be that awful if we did hang out?” I ask Summer. “I mean, like, every once in a while, not all the time. He seemed like he needed a friend.”

  It’s probably lonely lying to everyone you know.

  “Only you could turn a one-night stand into a charity event.” Summer snatches the bag of mini rice cakes from my hand and closes them. “I said you could have one, not one hundred.”

  “Don’t worry,” Elana says to me from her spot at the end of Summer’s bed. “My mom will be back from the store any minute, and I’m sure she’s got something planned for dinner.”

  I groan internally, and Summer groans out loud. “How many sticks of butter do you think she’ll use tonight?” Summer snaps. “Three? Maybe four?”

  “Probably olive oil too,” Elana adds. “Last night, she wouldn’t let me leave the table until I cleaned my plate. She said that’s what American children do.”

  It’s amazing how quickly Elana’s accent is fading. I mean, I’ve heard that happens, especially with younger people, but by the end of the summer, no one will even know she’s from France.

  “Enough calorie talk,” Summer says. “Finley needs an intervention. We gotta talk her out of adopting the freeloader guy from the party.”

  “No, we need to go back to our Vampire Diaries episode,” I try. “Toby Rhinehart guest-starred this week.”

  “Toby Rhinehart is an overrated, overpaid, photoshopped pretty boy with way too many fucking kids,” Summer rattles off.

  “Don’t even…” I fake gasp, wishing for this debate instead of the Eddie intervention. I shouldn’t have brought him up.

  “Eddie,” Elana inserts. No help at all. Thanks. “His name is Eddie.”

  Summer waves a hand to stop her. “Don’t give him a name. For Finley, that’s like the starving kids in those commercials begging to be sponsored for pennies a day.”

  Okay, so I left out the part about Eddie being Edward James Wellington IV when I filled my roommates in on the balcony incident. Eddie seemed so committed to his new identity that I kind of feel committed to it as well. Which is really weird. He’s the one taking advantage of me—well, of my balcony and my omelet-making skills.

  “I caught him. He’s not sleeping on your vitamin D chair anymore. It’s a big building. I probably won’t see him ever again,” I say, using my most convincing tone.

  Summer rolls her eyes. “That’s what everyone says after they feed a stray cat.”

  “He’s lucky my mom didn’t catch him,” Elana adds.

  The three of us sit in silence for several moments. No one can disagree with that. French Mama is scary.

  “How was the sex?” Summer blurts out.

  “Why?” My face heats up. I glance at Elana, whose dark eyes are wide with interest. “Maybe now isn’t the time—”

  “Give me a break. Jesus, the girl is hardly innocent.” She gives Elana a one-second glance.

  Elana’s expression stiffens, but she says nothing. Smart girl. She’s figured out Summer’s need to get that big reaction out of people.

  Summer stands and brushes the crumbs off her designer loungewear. Yep, she and Eddie have nothing in common. She turns her attention from Elana to me. “I wasn’t asking for a play-by-play, just a one-word answer.”

  My cheeks warm even more. “Good.”

  “Good?” she repeats. This seems to stump her. The front door opens, and Summer perks up. “I’m gonna stop her before any fish is cooked. What the hell is wrong with chicken?”

  Elana and I are left alone in Summer’s room. I look Elana over carefully. She’s had a rough year—one deserving of its own story—and Summer dug up that dirt, tossed it right on the floor in front of us. That can’t be easy for Elana. “Hey…you okay?”

  She picks at a loose thread on the comforter. “Yeah, it’s just weird. Being back here. Especially with Alex and Eve…”

  A big part of Elana’s drama last year involved a fake relationship with Alex that landed them a big CK gig. I did that Calvin Klein shoot too, and Eve was the photographer’s assistant. When all that drama went down, Alex and Eve got worried about Elana and decided to get French Mama involved—Elana had been in America under the supervision of our modeling agency. Which basically means no supervision. Something Alex and Eve deemed problematic, to put it politely. So basically, it’s their fault Elana is being tortured by her mother.

  “They’re in Europe right now,” I point out. “For a couple weeks, I think.”

  Elana nods. “I know.”

  Elana’s mom calls her into the kitchen. She jumps up immediately. After she’s gone, I return to my room and stare at my phone for several seconds before pulling up Jason’s number on my phone. I haven’t spent the last ten months thinking about my ex who dumped me before going to college, I swear I haven’t. But scrolling through Facebook and Instagram the past couple weeks, knowing my high school friends are all home for the summer, it makes me wish for that life again. Movie dates with my nice boyfriend, weekend trips to the mall with friends, hanging out in my backyard pool with kids from school, with my dad and brothers. I miss the safe familiarity of it.

  I stare at Jason’s number in my phone. On impulse, I hit call. My heart picks up speed. Not out of love exactly, but more like from the guilt that comes with failing to stay away. I’m about to hang up and text him a “sorry, I butt-dialed you” excuse, but he answers on the first ring.

  “Hey, Fin, I was just gonna call you.”

  I sink back against my headboard. All the new unfamiliar that came with my hookup with Eddie is erased by this voice that I know so well. It wraps around me like a favorite sweatshirt.

  “Really? What for?”

  “Your brothers’ birthday party next weekend. I got invited,” he says. “What were you calling about?”

  I clear my throat. “Oh…um, the party. Of course. Gotta make sure we have enough goodie bags.”

  God, I’m lame.

  “Well, I’m willing to sacrifice mine for the greater good if needed.”

  “I figured. Hero complex and all that.” I take a breath, trying to be the cool New York City girl most of my friends assume I’ve become. “So…does that mean you’re coming?”

  He’s my fucking neighbor. Of course he’s coming.

  “Uh-huh. I’ll stop by for a little—”

  Summer pops her head in my room, a big grin plastered on her face. “We’re having chicken tonight!”

  I gesture to the phone so she’ll shut up, but that only gets her riled up more. “So, I’ll see you next weekend then, Jason?”

  “Jason? Oh no. No way.” Summer bounds toward me and snatches the phone from my hand before I can stop her. “Hi, Jason. It’s Summer.”

  She moves quickly toward the door. I dive at her, grabbing her around the waist. We both end up tangled together, half in my room, half in the hallway.

  “Finley’s going through a program,” Summer says to Jason. “She’s not supposed to have contact with people from her past for a while.”

  “Give me the fucking phone,” I hiss at her. I reach for it but end up banging my elbow on the doorframe.

  “And she’s way too busy having good sex with models to have time for you.”

  Oh my God, I’m gonna kill her.

  Summer hangs up on Jason but flips over on her stomach, still scrolling through my phone. “You need to delete him from your contacts.”

  “Give me the damn phone!” I get my fingers on it this time, but her grip is too tight. In a moment of desperation, my other hand stretches toward my desk, feeling around for a pair of scissors. I hook my index finger through the handle and then hold them above Summer’s head.

  “Think Prada wou
ld mind if you showed up tomorrow with a bald patch?”

  Summer looks over her shoulder at me, wide-eyed. “You bitch.”

  “Phone?” I hold out my hand, and she drops it into my palm. I’m about to let her up when both of us notice Elana and her mom standing in the hallway, staring at us.

  Elana’s mom shakes her head and says something in French. Elana looks us over as if to say and I’m the one who needs supervision?

  I push off the floor and get to my feet again. Summer does the same. She straightens her clothes, puts every hair back in place. “Someday, you’ll appreciate everything I’ve done for you.”

  I glare at her. “Next time, I’m leaving you alone to break an ankle in pointe shoes!”

  “Next time, I’m calling animal control,” Summer taunts from down the hallway.

  Still pissed and experiencing a mega adrenaline rush, mostly panic-related, I slam my bedroom door right in Summer and Elana’s faces. I stare at Jason’s name still up on my phone. What the hell do I say to him now? I can’t think of anything, so instead, I message Eve on Facebook so I can vent. I hit send before I remember that she’s probably enjoying crepes in France right now.

  ME: I think I’ve figured out which girl Summer was in high school.

  EVE: You mean Regina George?

  I laugh despite the anger still floating above my head like a dark cloud.

  ME: Exactly. Want to help me bury her alive? Or drop her off in Jersey. That’s probably just as bad. U can have her room.

  EVE: Actually…Alex and I are thinking about getting an apartment together.

  ME: That’s serious.

  EVE: I know, right?

  I can’t help being a gossip addict. I switch to messaging Alex.

  ME: An apartment together? What’s next? Marriage proposal?

  ALEX: Not until tomorrow. Duh. Who proposes on a Monday?

  EVE: He’s not proposing. Don’t listen to him. It’s a convenience thing, that’s all.

  Those two are way too cute.