It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  * * *

  And they were off. The pace never slowed. The list of tasks was endless: design the wedding website, negotiate vendor contracts, connect with the officiant, coordinate the cake tasting. It was less “sophistication and tradition merging in surprising and delightful ways” and more… matter-of-fact. Budgets, dates, deadlines. Decisions were made quickly and often. Savannah assumed wedding planning would be about love and logistics. But it was so much more about anxiety and assurance. Kamile’s anxiety. Liv’s assurance. Was it okay to not do a receiving line, even though her parents expected her to? Of course it was: receiving lines were out of style in the era of a newer, more casual approach. Was this dress too short to wear to the rehearsal dinner? Of course not: great legs should be shown off! Anxiety, due to the fact that the first thing an engaged couple was expected to do was plan an enormous, expensive event that was part family reunion, part group holiday, for everyone who’d ever meant anything to them, that would also express their identity as a couple, without going broke or mad. Assurance that it could be done. Tradition and ritual were being reimagined, or revoked, every single day.

  A few weeks in, the two women sat working in the front office, still surrounded by dust and debris. Savannah was testing the new submission form on their website, wondering how many referrals they’d get from Kamile’s posts. Five? Ten? Fifty? Liv looked up from her ancient laptop. “Have you got a contract?”

  “For what?”

  “For Kamile. And all this”—Liv waved her 1:00 p.m. glass of white wine around—“exposure you think she’s going to get us. Me. Get me.”

  Savannah gave the older woman an indulgent smile. “Kamile is my friend.”

  Liv put her wine down with deliberate accuracy. “So, we’re working for free, for months, and if Kamile decides not to post about us, then legally we can do absolutely nothing. Correct?”

  “Liv! Kamile is a sorority sister. If she says she’ll do it, she’ll do it.”

  “If you’re not comfortable with sending her one, I’ll do it.”

  “A contract will make it seem like I don’t trust her! Like I’m expecting her to screw me over! It’s like a prenup. Why would you get one unless you were expecting a marriage to fail?”

  “Because so many do,” Liv said. “Even if you don’t expect it.”

  Alarm spiked in Savannah’s chest, making her angrier. “I don’t need a contract. Kamile will post for us, on the Sunday morning after her wedding, just like she promised.”

  “But what if she doesn’t? What if she forgets? What if she gets so used to having free wedding fairies at her disposal that she mistakes our hard work for her due in life and heads off on her honeymoon, totally oblivious?”

  “I can guarantee that won’t happen.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Liv, and Savannah wanted to scream. Liv didn’t get it at all. And she wasn’t much of a teacher, either.

  As Savannah put it to Honey, later that night, over a plate of crunchy fried chicken, “It’s like she’s keeping me at arm’s length, and I only learn things if I squint real hard and happen to catch her doing it.”

  Honey splashed more Pappy Van Winkle into Savannah’s glass. She’d heard the backstory of Liv and Eliot from Savannah’s regular appearances on a ’Shwick Chick barstool. “Be patient, darlin’,” said Honey. “You didn’t expect to be weaving friendship bracelets together from day one, did you?”

  “No. We’re very different people.” Savannah chewed her drumstick thoughtfully. “I think she’s still trying to work out if she trusts me.”

  “That takes time.” Honey folded her arms and cocked her head at Savannah.

  “What?” Savannah asked, worried. “Don’t you think I’m trustworthy?”

  Honey smiled, shaking her head like That’s not it, as she took a drinks order from another customer. With her tattoos and short hair, it was hard to picture her from small-town Alabama. Her lack of makeup had inspired Savannah to experiment with wearing less. Now, instead of primer, foundation, concealer, bronzer, blush, eyelid primer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, brow pencil, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, and a setting spray, she was only doing primer, foundation, blush, mascara, brow pencil, and lip gloss. It felt nice not to have on a full face. Liberating.

  “When did it start feeling like home for you?” Savannah asked when Honey returned. “New York, I mean.”

  Honey pulled beers for the couple next to Savannah, thinking. “That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  Savannah sipped her bourbon. Still the taste of tailgating and bluegrass and long summer evenings on someone’s porch, listening to the screech owls. “Do you miss the South?”

  “Nope.” Honey cleared Savannah’s empty plate and tossed the scraps in the trash. “I really don’t.” She didn’t meet Savannah’s eye when she said it.

  8

  Spring started as a timid, whiplashed affair. On the first day the mercury spiked over sixty, New Yorkers packed away their oppressive winter coats and flocked outside, only to unpack the coats the following week, scowling as the weather dipped back into the forties. Nevertheless, spring persisted. Day by day, buds emerged on the bare branches of the willow tree in the backyard. The farmers markets’ root vegetables and pickles were replaced with leafy greens and the daring hint of a tomato. Finally, the definitive sign that the seasons had changed: the city’s restaurants removed their cold-weather vestibules and set up outdoor seating. Spring had sprung.

  And while time passing was meant to be a good thing, sometimes Liv wanted it to slow down, or stop altogether.

  There was still a wedge of Eliot’s brie in the fridge. It stunk up the kitchen as it decomposed, day by day, but she couldn’t make herself toss it. To recycle the sports section stuffed next to the toilet. To empty the drawer of his mismatched socks. He called them misfit socks. That used to make her laugh.

  Mornings were the hardest. Waking alone; no tuneless singing in the shower, no smell of burning toast. Just Liv, silently lying in bed, tears leaking down her temples, thinking about everything she’d lost.

  But as Liv let herself be drawn into Dave and Kamile’s wedding planning, she discovered it was good to have a focus. It pulled her out of the muck of her own mind. She had to learn new parts of the process, the things Eliot usually did. The human side of negotiation, figuring out the rental toilets, exactly how much power a site needed. Sometimes an entire hour would pass and Liv was so involved in a task that Eliot didn’t enter her mind at all.

  But Savannah was always there. Asking questions. Making suggestions. Cleaning things. She replaced the cigarette-singed couch with a pale pink sofa (sourced on Craigslist; Liv couldn’t afford a new one) and put Eliot’s things in the fourth-floor attic. She brightened the front room with a fresh coat of paint and inspirational posters (Liv vetoed CREATE YOUR OWN SUNSHINE and ALL WOMEN ARE QUEENS!, begrudgingly accepting DON’T DREAM ABOUT SUCCESS: WORK FOR IT). “But it’s not as if she’s actually helpful with anything to do with planning,” Liv complained to Henry and Gorman, in the back room of Flower Power, Honey!

  “Because, you’re not actually letting her do any.” Henry added a few delicate white anemones to an airy table display. “Do you think Kamile would go for something like this? Very wabi-sabi, very chic.”

  “She’ll approve anything I tell her is ‘extremely Instagrammable,’ ” Liv replied. “Which is rather a neat trick.”

  Gorman looked up from his copy of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, which he was reading for his Monday-night playwriting class. “And who taught you that trick, darling?”

  Liv huffed. The smartphone obsession was highly irritating, all these kids carrying phones around like miniature oxygen tanks. But it was true Savannah understood that inane world. “She’s very good at appearances,” Liv said. “How things look. How she looks.”

  “But what’s going on on the inside?” Henry added another anemone to the display. “That’s what’s interesting.”

 
“Not much,” said Liv.

  “Then what’d E see in her?” Gorman closed his book. “He was always a flirt, but I didn’t think he was the type to cheat.”

  “And it wasn’t like we never had sex,” Liv said. “Every now and then I’d get drunk and relent.”

  “Hot,” said Gorman.

  “The current thinking on affairs is that it’s less about the relationship they’re leaving or even the new relationship they’re having,” Henry said. “It’s about the new relationship with the self. Eliot liked who he was when he was with Savannah.”

  Someone unencumbered by his identity as a husband and father. Someone vibrant and intelligent, all inspiration, no obligation. Liv could fathom this, even if she couldn’t understand his willingness to let his second life shatter hers. “But by that logic, Savannah could’ve been almost anyone. So why leave a business to her?”

  “That,” Henry said, “is what I’m still trying to figure out.”

  As far as Liv was concerned, Savannah was one of those women who chose cultivating a conformist personality as survival. Admittedly she wasn’t unimpressive, and she didn’t lack confidence: she’d arrived in New York City with the zeal of a conquering hero and she was, Liv had to admit, a fast learner. But Liv was sure Savannah would fall victim to the thing that took down most mainstream girls in America: the belief that being pretty enough and smart enough and kind enough was, in short, enough. Savannah Shipley would succeed as that version of a woman. She didn’t have true potential to be interesting.

  * * *

  On the night before Dave and Kamile’s wedding, Liv and Savannah pored over every last detail for the third time. Liv peered at the final run sheet through black-rimmed glasses. “The band is sound-checking—”

  “At two p.m. while they’re doing family photos,” Savannah recited. “When we’ll also test the mics and AV.”

  “Hair and makeup—”

  “Arriving at the bridesmaids’ rental house at seven a.m. sharp.”

  Kamile had hoped to trade all her vendors’ services for social media posts. Only a few took the deal: makeup was one of them.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to start an Instagram?” Savannah asked. “After Kamile posts about us, it’d be so good if she could tag us.”

  Post about us. Tag us. Savannah insisted on making out as if they were some kind of team. Liv removed her glasses. “Remind me of rules one, two, and three?”

  Savannah let out a scoff of annoyance.

  Liv raised an eyebrow.

  Savannah realized what she’d done and blushed. “I’m so sorry. I just…”

  “Had an emotion other than peppy? Don’t apologize for that.” Liv zipped up the emergency kit, a bag filled with everything from bobby pins to bandages, plus a backup copy of the couples’ vows and list of must-play songs. They had plans, and contingency plans, and contingency plans of the contingency plans. In Love in New York was ready. Or, as ready as they’d ever be. Liv felt an unfamiliar wobble of nerves. It had been so long since she’d had a wedding go off without a hitch. A self-destructive part of her almost wanted tomorrow to implode. It might be preferable than doing all this again with Savannah Shipley. “It’s late. Go home and get some rest.”

  Savannah rose obediently. “Liv—”

  “Let’s not,” Liv cut her off. “You’re so grateful for this opportunity, and you can’t wait to celebrate the wondrous thing that is true love and blah blah blah.”

  “I was going to say we should bring antiperspirant deodorant. Dave sweats a lot.”

  “Oh,” said Liv. “Yes, of course. Well, see you tomorrow.”

  She watched the girl stride up the darkening street toward the subway. Prospect Heights to Bushwick: that was a long commute. Complicated, too. The 3 to the L? The B to the M? But Little Miss Hush Puppy had never said a word about it or (apart from the test meal with Sam) been late to a meeting, not once in the two months they’d been working together. A pinprick of respect glowed quietly in the soft plum twilight.

  Ugh! Liv slapped it away like a mosquito and yanked the front door shut.

  9

  “So there I am, in the middle of the jungle in Southeast Asia: no cell phone, no map, totally lost… and it’s starting to get dark.” The next morning, in Queens, Zia Ruiz was relishing the adorable sight of her spellbound niece and nephew, mouths open in wonder.

  “What did you do, Auntie Zia?” lisped Lucy.

  “Were there monsters?” shouted her older brother, Mateo, limping in a circle around her. His right leg was in a cast from a playground fall.

  “Cambodia is known for being home to lots of different animals.” Zia made her voice spooky. “Like snakes. And spiders. And big, man-eating tigers!”

  The kids screamed as she leaped forward and tickled them, an explosion of shrieking giggles.

  “Hey, hey, hey: inside voices, please,” Layla called from the cramped kitchen. “Or I’ll set those tigers on you.”

  Zia and Layla shared a family resemblance, inheriting their father’s olive skin and their mother’s loose curls. But Layla looked much older than her thirty-five years, closer to forty. She was a single mom of two, and it showed in the indigo circles under her eyes. Zia looked a pinch younger than twenty-seven, with a full, carefree smile and startling green eyes that inspired painters and bad pickup lines.

  “What happened?” Lucy asked her aunt.

  “I stayed up all night and found my way out the next morning,” Zia replied, kissing Lucy’s forehead. “Got eaten alive by mosquitoes. But the jungle at dawn… man, it was unforgettable. A symphony of life.”

  “Just another day in the globe-trotting life of Zia Ruiz.” Layla dried her hands with a dish towel. Her smile was wry.

  Zia wrapped her arms around her big sister, feeling the same way she always did when talking about her work overseas: unbearably guilty. “One of these days, you have to come with me. You’d love it.”

  “Okay.” Layla shrugged, addressing her kids. “You guys are old enough to stay home by yourself for a few months, right?”

  The kids chorused, “Yes, totally!”

  The sisters exchanged a smile.

  “Yeah, I bet. Okay, if we’re out the door for day care in five, you can watch Paw Patrol tonight,” Layla bribed. “Again.”

  That sent Lucy scampering and Mateo after her, his cast banging against the floor.

  Layla slipped on her CVS vest. She’d been working for the pharmacy ever since she kicked the kids’ deadbeat dad out of their one-bedroom years ago. “I missed you so much, sis. You were gone forever.”

  “Four months,” Zia corrected. Four amazing months helping build a school in rural Cambodia. Zia worked as a paid volunteer coordinator for Global Care, an international NGO devoted to humanitarian and environmental causes. She’d joined a team in its local field office and would stay as long as they needed her. Sometimes a disaster would mean an influx of interest that needed managing; sometimes she was just covering someone’s maternity leave or overseeing a construction project. Between jobs she wanted to take, Zia picked up cater-waiter work in New York and spent time with her sister.

  Working for Global Care didn’t feel like work. It was a promise she’d made to herself, the ability to pack up and leave on a day’s notice. It was a freedom she was still getting used to having again. For reasons she didn’t like to think about.

  Layla pulled her hair into a ponytail. “Just promise you’re not ditching out on us again anytime soon.”

  Zia’s throat tightened. She was already looking for another overseas assignment. “I didn’t ditch you. I’m just, y’know, living my life.”

  “I know.” Layla sighed. “I’m just jealous. I wish we could trade places for, like, forever.” She massaged the joints in her hands, wincing. Zia’s older sister had rheumatoid arthritis, and even with medication, it still gave her pain. “Are you sure you can’t babysit? Day care’s so expensive.”

  “Sorry. I’m working a wedding upstate for
Liv Goldenhorn.”

  “Didn’t her husband bite it?”

  “Layla! He didn’t ‘bite it.’ He died.” Zia had worked on and off for Liv since she was seventeen. Eliot’s death made her more determined to live life on her own terms. “I gotta go. Darlene’s driving, and she hates when I’m late.”

  “Before you run off again…” Layla handed her a medium-size box.

  Zia read the front. “It’s an air mattress.”

  “Yup. Unless you wanna keep sleeping in the bed with me.” Layla tossed her a grin. “Just like when you were a kid.”

  Zia put down the box, a sense of claustrophobia closing in. “Thanks, but I might crash at Darlene’s tonight.”

  Layla paused. “It’s a really good mattress.”

  “Babe, I’ve been here every day since I got back,” Zia said lightly. “And Darlene has a sofa bed.”

  “The doc wants a million follow-ups for Mateo’s leg.” Layla piled dishes into the already full sink. “No idea where I’m getting the money for that. And I really need a dishwasher. Swear to God, I spend my nonexistent free time up to my neck in dirty dishwater. It’d be great if I had an unburdened little sister who could finish up here before she disappears. Again.”

  “I can’t. I’ll be late.” Zia stuffed her sleep shirt and toothbrush into her backpack, trying to mute the impulse to flee.

  “Okay.” Layla blasted water over the dishes. “Have fun.”

  “It’s not fun, it’s work.”

  Layla opened her mouth. Reconsidered. Shut it. She pulled her sister in for a hug. “Love you.” It sounded like a reminder.

  “Love you too.” Zia backed toward the front door. “And you can have all my tips from tonight. But I really gotta go.” Then to the kids, “Bye, monkeys! Have fun at day care!”

  On the street outside, she inhaled a breath of fresh air, letting the tension of the morning melt away. It was a beautiful day in Astoria. Things with her sister would work out. Even if she was envious, Layla wanted the best for her. She’d never really stand in her way.