Finley
Six in the morning, and I’m wide awake, making an egg-white omelet. Even after a Toby Rhinehart movie marathon with Elana kept me up late last night (okay, so maybe I am a fan of his). I figured the break in my usual morning yoga ritual yesterday had my body screaming for an early morning intervention. But it wasn’t yoga I craved. Those brand-new, ready-to-be-danced-in pointe shoes sat on my dresser, calling to me all night long. Break me in, Finley. Bet your fouettés suck.
I slide the omelet onto a plate and leave it sitting on the counter. I’m too excited to eat. It’s hard to even remember now how I could let ballet fade out of my life. Of course, I had my reasons. Pretty good ones, I think. But that adrenaline rush I got yesterday, simply pushing up on pointe…tough to top that feeling.
After lacing up the pointe shoes—they fit even better than yesterday—I move the couch back a few feet and roll up the rug on the living room floor. I face the TV and stand in fourth position, preparing for a pirouette, my pajama pants nearly hiding the ballet shoes. But it’s too quiet in here. The second I hear the clump of my pointe shoes hitting the floor, I’ll be distracted worrying about Summer waking up, though she sleeps like the dead. And Elana and her mom left this morning before six for a shoot in Pennsylvania.
I grab my iPod and strap it to my waist, then pop in my headphones, blasting the music. I warm up my feet like I’d done with Summer at the Prada shoot, and then, taking a deep breath, I attempt a simple, single pirouette on pointe.
The turn isn’t terrible, but not great either. The rush of adrenaline is, however, amazing. I practice turn after turn, quickly moving from singles to doubles. But when I attempt to add a fouetté after a double pirouette, I accidentally kick the TV and fall into the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. I’m about to move the couch back a few more feet, when I spot a pair of hairy legs through the glass door.
I let out a yelp that would have had French Mama running out here, spatula in hand—where the hell is she when I need her?—but instead, I’m left with the option of either waking Summer or moving the blinds a bit more to see if those legs are connected to anything. Oh God, they’d better be connected to something.
My hands tremble. I scramble to detach my phone from my waist, punch in 911, and let my finger hover over the call button. I reach up and check the lock on the door—it’s up and secure—before slowly peeling back the blinds. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and then open them, making sure to focus on the hairy pair of legs stretched out on a plastic patio chair Summer uses for her daily fifteen minutes of vitamin D (this is all her fault!). My gaze travels at snail pace, taking in the tan cargo shorts and hemline of a black T-shirt.
Come on, Fin, just do it.
I shift my focus higher and catch the steady rise and fall of a chest. My breath comes out in one long gust. Thank God. Not a dead body.
I’m on my feet quickly, much less freaked, although if I’m being logical, a dead body poses little threat to me, while a live body…
I shake the thought away and peel back the blinds enough to see the rest of Hairy Leg Guy. My eyes land on the familiar face, the wild curly black hair.
Eddie Wells.
What the hell is he doing—sound asleep—on a plastic chair on my balcony at six thirty in the morning?
I sink back on my heels, studying him. Maybe this is my fault for pointing out my balcony the other night. I unlock the door and slide it open just enough for me to slip outside. Then I creep as quietly as possible onto the balcony. He lifts a hand to his face and rolls onto his side. I freeze in place, watching, but he doesn’t wake, despite the sun landing right across his face.
For nearly two minutes, I stand there eyeing his backpack, unable to make a move. He was so careful to haul that thing everywhere he went the other night. Even in the heat of our clothing removal session, he stepped away for a moment to tuck it in the corner of my bedroom. And checked to make sure both zippers were secured. Twice.
So yeah, I’m dying to get a look inside while he’s out cold. I force away the guilt. Privacy hardly applies when someone is trespassing, right?
Kneeling on the ground, I unzip his backpack. It’s quieter to remove one item at a time than to rifle through it. A minute later, lined up on the concrete balcony, are the following items: deodorant, toothbrush, electric razor, expensive designer shorts, designer T-shirt, cologne (which I take a moment to sniff)…
No comb. Figures.
What is he, some kind of nomad? I thought he had an apartment worked out. Or maybe the airline lost his luggage and he’s only got his carry-on.
My fingers land on what feels like a leather billfold. I remove it and look it over. It’s Prada, probably costs three or four hundred dollars. I sit down on the ground and open it up. My gaze lands first on the driver’s license tucked behind the clear plastic cover. If it weren’t for the mess of dark curly hair in the photo, I would have thought Eddie was a pickpocket. Not only because it’s a New York State license and Eddie claimed to be from Chicago, but also because the name across the top is Edward James Wellington IV. Not Eddie Wells.
But seriously, Eddie is a fourth? There are four of him? As my dad would say per our PG household rules, holy shiitake!
Not only did Eddie lie about his name and state of residence, his address is right here in the city, not far away from this apartment. And yet he’s sleeping on my balcony in a hard plastic chair after complaining yesterday about the cost of agency apartments.
My brain is working on overdrive while I lean against the sliding door. He lied. Pretty much about everything. He made me think, yesterday after the shoot, that he’s struggling financially, that he really needed money. If he lives at this address, and not as the butler or butler’s kid, then Eddie—or Edward Wellington IV—has probably never worried about money a day in his life. What if this is some story our agency concocted? Make him look like he came from nothing, a human interest story. If the agency hadn’t pulled some similar shit last year, with my roommate Elana, I should add, I don’t think my mind would even go in that direction.
My thoughts drift back to Eddie pausing outside my door, not sure if he wanted to come in. But outside of his name and hometown, which he barely talked about, it had felt real. At least to me.
I glance at him again. Still sound asleep, he scratches at a red bump on his neck. A mosquito bite, most likely. And probably one of many. With a heavy sigh, I return the items I pulled from his wallet moments ago and begin tucking everything back into his bag. Whatever event or reason caused Eddie to lie about his name and history and live out of his backpack isn’t something simple. This has complicated and messed up written all over it. The question is, do I want to get involved or steer clear? And how can I steer clear of this guy if he keeps showing up at my jobs and on my balcony?
And I still can’t decide if I’m pissed off at him or not. I mean, I should be, right?