by Julie Cross
“I know that.” I lift my hands up, hoping the surrender will save me a black eye. “But I still had to come here. Say it to your face.”
RJ’s hands clutch into fists but he keeps them down at his sides. “You didn’t see her when she found out, man. She’s wrecked. What if she can’t snap out of this? What if she changes her mind just because of you? Is that what you want?”
I shake my head. “Of course not. But if I sign those papers, the real ones next month, that’s what I would be doing…changing my mind because of Caroline. Because it will make her feel worse if I don’t choose the same as she does.”
Several different emotions seem to cross his face. And then he looks down at the ground, strings half a dozen swearwords together, making the last one, “Fuuuck,” nice and clear.
I hold perfectly still, not sure what’s about to happen. Finally, RJ looks up at the sky in that God help me way and then says, “You want a drink or something?”
I force out a short laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
RJ charges up the steps, but I hesitate before following him inside. “Anybody home?”
He’s got three younger siblings plus his grandmother and parents crammed in a three-bedroom apartment. Before today, they knew me as the rich kid who got into Princeton, friend of RJ’s girlfriend, not the guy who got her pregnant, but I’m not sure if that’s changed, and if it has changed…
“Nah,” he says, and I follow him. “They went to my aunt and uncle’s anniversary party. If they come back early and ask, I’ve been studying organic chemistry all day.”
The scent of curry and clean laundry wafts through the hall and continues into RJ’s apartment. He opens the fridge and lists off the beverage options.
“Water,” I say before taking a stroll around the kitchen, glancing at the awards and photos of science projects pinned to the walls. I catch the bottle of water he tosses me.
He lifts the lid on a slow cooker sitting on the counter. I move closer and take a peek. Some kind of chicken in yellow curry sauce that smells amazing. “Want some?” RJ asks.
“Definitely.” I glance over at the eight pairs of shoes lined up near the front door. “Unless that’s supposed to be dinner? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
RJ rolls his eyes. “My mom made it all for me. Study fuel.”
“And you were here with your girlfriend instead,” I joke. “You asshole.”
He gives me a look that’s half guilty, half pissed off. They must have had some fun before she got the bad news.
He dishes out food for both of us, and when we’re sitting at the table, he dives in with all the logic I was worried about. “So where are you going to live?”
I shrug. “Not sure yet. Somewhere outside of New York.” I think of Finley’s warm comfortable home. “Maybe Connecticut.”
“Expensive as hell. Have you even started looking for a place?” he asks with his mouth full. When I don’t react, he sets his fork down and looks right at me. “What are you hiding, Eddie? It’s like you’re not worried about money at all. Your parents aren’t gonna do shit. They must have paid a fortune to keep all this quiet, plus the private agency? When they find out—”
“Swear you won’t tell anyone?” I ask, my stomach knotting at the thought of letting this secret out. “Probably not even Caroline.”
He thinks on this for a minute and then nods.
“My grandmother set up a trust for me. One I never in a million years thought I’d get access to. But I will. Because of…you know, the kid.”
RJ raises an eyebrow. “She left money for your kid, and you’re using it to take care of him?”
“It’s for me. If I ever become a father. I used to tell her all the time that I’d never have kids, mostly because I hated my parents so much.”
“Your dad’s financial people will find a way to get access to that money or at least keep you from it,” RJ says. He actually looks a little disappointed, like I should have thought of these things myself. And I have.
“My parents don’t even know about the trust, let alone the terms. They don’t have any access to it and haven’t ever, even before I turned eighteen. She made sure of that. And her lawyer confirmed it last month. The only person who could receive that money besides me is any potential child of mine, like if I died or went to prison.”
Now I’ve impressed him.
“How much are we talking about?” RJ asks, shoveling chicken and rice into his mouth.
I take a huge bite before I answer him—the food is delicious, and I’m starving. “A couple million, I think.”
He tries to look cool, but the shock is there on his face. “This isn’t why you’re not signing—”
“No!” I say right away. “Are you kidding me? If I wanted money, all I have to do is show up for my Princeton classes. Sometimes. Keep my dad happy and let him give me a company title. Plus my trust fund from my parents is way more than a couple million.”
“God,” RJ says, shaking his head. “You rich kids and your complicated as fuck lives. Jesus. Should I go this way and get two million, or this way and get twenty million? Oh no, I can’t decide. It’s so complicated.”
I launch my water bottle at him, but he catches it easily, but both of us are laughing now. “Let me put things into perspective for you.” I scarf down another bite, trying not to burn my tongue. “Neither of my parents have ever cooked a meal for me. I have no memory of being hugged by them. Ever. They’ve never taken me to the zoo or the park or came to ‘eat lunch with your kid at school’ day. Once every few months, I’ll get a call or a text actually from them. But almost always, they talk to me through their assistants or the—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he concedes. “But it’s hard to sympathize. I mean, the problems we could solve in my family with a little more money. But you will have that. Money.”
I nod. He’s right. “Not for a few months. And I don’t want to use it, not all of it. Just enough to live on modestly. Decent neighborhood, two-bedroom apartment, cheap car, public school…” I look up to make sure he’s still with me. “And I haven’t touched a penny from my parents all summer. Haven’t swiped the family credit card in weeks. I’ve been living on practically nothing, out of my backpack. I’ve got some money saved now from working—”
“Really? What are you doing for work?”
“Um…” I glance at the microwave behind him and scratch the back of my head. “Modeling.”
RJ chokes on the sip of water he just took, spraying it everywhere. “No shit? Like what?”
“Mark Jacobs, American Eagle, Levis, Hollister, Alexander Wang,” I rattle off.
He’s laughing too hard to hear all of it. “Never in a million years would I have believed that if I didn’t hear it coming from you. Does it pay decent?”
“Depends,” I say. “The Alexander Wang job paid really big. Several thousand.”
“To do what?” he demands. “Stand around in clothes and get your picture taken?”
I debate explaining hair and makeup, outfit changes, and castings, and then decide it’s not worth it. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Don’t ever tell my family that you gave up Princeton for that.” He shakes his head. “But it’s cool that you’re working. Caroline will hate that you’re doing anything to prove responsibility.” He looks conflicted all over again, like I’m asking him to choose a side—I’m not. “This sucks.”
I put my fork down. “I’m not trying to take her away from you, you know that, right? I don’t want to be with her like that. I never have. And neither has she—”
“Yeah, I know.” He looks away from me. “But we had it all figured out. And now she might change her mind, which is fine. I mean, fuck, I couldn’t—I’d understand if she did. Want to keep it. And as much as I want to be with her, I’m not the right person if she’s going to—” He shifts his gaze
to me again. “I’m gonna be a doctor. I’ve got a long road ahead.”
“Basically, your love life is fucked up, and you’re not allowed to complain about it, because her decision holds more weight than your feelings,” I say.
A grin spreads across his face. “That’s a fucking brilliant summary. Did you think that up on your way over?”
“Nope,” I admit. “Completely created. On the spot.” But still true.
“You’re not an idiot,” RJ says, which is his form of a compliment. “We both know you’re not smart enough to get into Princeton without Dad’s name, but you’re not a dumbass. And you’re a kick-ass piano player. Ever think about doing something with that?”
I look at him like he’s nuts. RJ plays three instruments, all at an advanced level.
“Caroline’s always talking about it. Plus, I’ve heard you play a couple times. Your execution isn’t perfect, but you’re instinctive or intuitive or whatever the hell it is,” he explains. “It’s different from guys like me, learning so we have more to add to our applications, more awards…” He waves a hand at the walls in the kitchen. “Remember when you jumped onstage and played at the jazz club? That one dude who’s super famous let you jam with him.”
“Pretty sure I was high that night,” I say dryly.
No better way to make a comfortable situation turn awkward than dropping this kind of shit into the mix.
“Right,” he says, probably remembering me hitting rock bottom later that night and needing his help to get home. It wasn’t the only time that happened.
RJ picks at the chipped paint on the table. “I’ve known all along that you both would need to be there, to see it…before you could really decide. I haven’t said that to Caroline, because I don’t like to think about it, but I knew. If it were me, I couldn’t decide until after.”
I let that sink in for several seconds before saying, “I take it you don’t want me to mention that to your girlfriend?”
“Um, no.” RJ releases a breath and laughs. “But if you need something…you can, you know, ask me.”
“Thanks.”
I hang out at his place a little longer, and then I take off before his family comes home. I’m still shaken up from all the drama, from finally facing the reality of my choices out loud. I can’t pick a place to go or to be, so I end up walking miles. Riding too many subways. Sitting at half a dozen parks, watching people with kids and trying to figure out what they’re doing and why. I even debate sneaking into Caroline’s room to try and fix things with her. But eventually, I figure out exactly who I need to talk to. Finley.
My heart speeds, remembering the way I left things.
God knows what she’s thinking.
CHAPTER 34
Finley
Elana’s mom dumps more food onto my and Eve’s plates, despite the fact that we haven’t made a dent in the first serving. Elana has barely touched her food. She’s picking at something stuck to the table—probably left from my brothers’ visit—not willing to make eye contact with anyone. Especially Eve and Alex, who are eating on the couch, because this apartment table only has three chairs.
I knew it was weird between them, but I didn’t realize Elana held this big of a grudge. So yeah, we’ve definitely reached a whole new level of awkward this evening.
Eve is conversing easily in French with Elana’s mom, but she keeps glancing at Elana, hoping to get her to chime in. She and Alex tried to leave the second Elana and her mom returned, because it was obvious Elana was uncomfortable. But French Mama pulled out her frying pan—which makes no sense, considering all the prepared meals she stowed in the fridge—and everyone was sentenced to a country tour of French cuisine.
Normally, I would put more effort into keeping the peace—my dinner guest skills are excellent—but tonight, my mind is elsewhere.
I space out for a few minutes, my fork making circles through the buttery pasta on its own, and when I refocus on my surroundings, Eve is showing French Mama pictures on her laptop. I glance over at the couch. Alex’s face is all scrunched up, like thinking really hard will make him suddenly understand French.
Eve has a moment of panic and flips past a photo in her database. A glimpse of that picture is enough to get Elana looking up from the table.
“What was that?” Elana asks.
Eve tosses me an apologetic look. “Just some photos we took this morning for a school project. I took advantage of my Cosmo resources and Finley.”
“And Eddie,” I add, glancing at Eve, sending a silent message that I’m not bothered by the mention of the pictures. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m upset. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. Mostly, it’s just confusion.
French Mama says something to Eve, gesturing a hand at me. Eve translates. “She wants to know how long you’ve been dancing.”
“My whole life,” I say, leaving out my nearly three-year vacation. “My mom was a dancer and a dance teacher.”
Eve translates this, and then Elana chimes in, adding to it. I think Elana must have said something about my mom not being alive, because French Mama gives me that look of sympathy I’m all too familiar with. I grip my cell phone—it’s been in my hand for a few minutes now. Maybe I should text him?
Elana slides her chair over to get a closer look. “Wow, this is—” She stops, seeming to remember she’d made a vow of silence, due to present company. Then she looks right at me. “You’re so cool in these pictures.”
I manage a laugh. “As opposed to real life?”
“Not what I meant,” Elana explains. “It’s the whole hair down, all black clothes concept—you look edgy.”
Edgy. Huh. Who knew all I had to do was put on ballet shoes to achieve this look?
All three of them laugh at the next picture, so of course, I get up to look. It’s one where Eddie is sitting down and I’m standing over him, pressing a pointe shoe to his chest, forcing him back.
“Definitely edgy here,” Eve says.
The more they flip through photos from this morning, the more I want to grab those shoes and put them on again, move the furniture, and dance that Don Quixote solo over and over again. It’s so full of feeling and aggression—exactly what I need to release right now.
French Mama is the only relaxed one here. She doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that Elana hasn’t exactly been on good terms with Eve and Alex. I’m guessing it’s that logical thing again. She shouldn’t be angry with them—they helped her. Even though Elana might not think she needed the parental supervision, obviously, her mom did. But to Elana, if not Alex and Eve, who is left to point the blame at? If she tells her mom, then her mom’s going to tell her she’s wrong.
Eve closes the file for this morning’s shoot and opens another one, explaining something in French. Elana sinks back in her chair, unsure how to react when a picture of her pops up.
Eve has some amazing photos of Elana from last year. Her mom is just eating it all up, and even Elana seems impressed. Especially a series of shots of her hands while she was doing homework on set. After Eve promises to send the photos to her, French Mama steps away to clean up the dishes. Eve continues to show images to Elana. Alex watches them for a couple minutes, then steps away, and we both exchange a look. This is definitely progress for them.
Outside, dark clouds rush toward the building. I walk over to the window and look out at the sky. It’s gonna storm soon.
“Doing okay?” Alex asks.
I pull my gaze from the window and shrug. “I guess.”
“What do you think he was supposed to sign but didn’t?” Alex asks.
We’ve danced around the topic for hours now. Guess it’s time to discuss it. I shake my head. “I don’t know…paternity papers? Child support agreement? What else could it be?”
“That’s what I was thinking too.” Alex looks down at his hands. “Or maybe
he’s stalling on even claiming rights. Like he’s waiting for a test to confirm or something.”
“This is so Jerry Springer,” I joke. “But maybe…”
Except that theory doesn’t match up with what I know about Eddie. Unless he’s told everyone he’d own up to his fatherhood, and instead, he wants to run away. But he told me he was doing a good thing, not running away.
God, I don’t know.
I catch Elana’s eye, and she mouths, Are you okay? I nod. She doesn’t need to worry about me. But later, I do need to tell her about meeting Toby Rhinehart. She’s going to flip out. We should have gotten a picture.
We should have enjoyed the lack of drama last night a little bit more. I would have if I had known this was coming.
Outside, the rain comes down in sheets, hitting the pavement. People shift to stand under awnings and pull out umbrellas. Some just speed up their walk.
“I didn’t know about the dancing stuff,” Alex says. “You doing anything with that?”
“A little training on my own, whenever an aerobics room is free at the gym.” I don’t want to get into business plans and all that. Plus, it’s obvious he’s just trying to keep me occupied and talk about something other than Eddie Wells.
“There’s a studio three blocks from here,” Alex explains. “Iris’s Toes. Kind of a funky place. My roommate’s girlfriend teaches there. She would definitely get you into a couple of Iris’s adult classes for free. She’s offered me the same thing several times. Eve too. Something about models helping the business…”
I hadn’t thought about taking a class myself. Might be fun. Might be tangible proof how out of shape I am and how much my technique has suffered during the time off. My mom was a technique Nazi, so I’ve had the “bad technique will get you nowhere” mentality in my head practically since birth.
There’s a knock on the door that seems to startle everyone—including me.
“Summer probably forgot her key again,” Elana says.
I walk over and look through the peephole. My stomach flips at the sight of Eddie’s dark hair. I turn the dead bolt and open the door. He’s soaking wet, his jeans clinging to him, his T-shirt now semitransparent. I exhale and finally let my gaze travel to his face. The lines on his forehead indicate stress or nerves. He turns those blue eyes on me before breathing out the word, “Hey.”
