It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  The speaker pointed at the groom. “This guy has always been a prick.”

  The crowd laughed.

  The man continued, now indicating Liv. “I mean, who makes his best man follow that? A beautiful woman speaking heartfelt words?”

  The crowd laughed harder. Liv’s cheeks warmed, suddenly feeling the effects of the seventeen thousand glasses of wine she’d knocked back.

  Eliot continued, the microphone loose in his hand. “Everything you’re going to see from me is going to resemble a chimpanzee throwing his own feces. Which reminds me of the time we all got drunk at the zoo.”

  The college friends howled, thrilled. A tawdry tale was being exposed, but Liv didn’t hear a word of it. This guy, whoever he was, was cute.

  Later, Eliot had found Liv at the edge of the tent, taking a break from the dance floor. An unlit cigarette hung from his lips. “Got a light?”

  “Don’t tell me you smoke.”

  “I don’t.” He tossed it. “Anymore.”

  She almost smiled, but Liv was a pretty cool cat in those days. She informed Eliot that smoking was disgusting and bad for his health.

  Eliot lapped it up, leaning against the tent pole. “Then why do I keep doing it? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Are you self-destructive? Hedonistic, even if it risks your health?”

  Eliot clamped his hand over his heart. “It’s like you’ve known me all my life.”

  That did get a laugh out of her.

  Charmed, Eliot dropped the schtick. “You’re Olive, right? You helped plan this bacchanalia?” In front of them, everyone danced to “Brown Eyed Girl” played by a DJ wearing hammer pants.

  “I am and I did,” Liv replied.

  “Impressive. Your speech was terrific.”

  Liv side-eyed him. “Yours too.”

  “I like this.” Eliot handed her a glass of prosecco she didn’t even see him procure. “Let’s always believe in the best in each other. That’s how we’ll make it work.”

  Liv looked him properly in the face for the first time. Beneath the mischief, his eyes were warm. She decided to go to bed with him. “I’m in.”

  “Liv!”

  Darlene stood in front of her, arms crossed.

  “Sorry, what?” Liv struggled to get her bearings. She was beside a barn, not a tent, and the person in front of her was Darlene, looking at her with wary concern.

  “The Wi-Fi isn’t working.” The singer sounded like she was repeating this. “We need it for the playlist—there’s no cell reception.”

  “Right, yes.” Liv opened her binder. It was upside down. “Wasn’t the password on your—”

  “It’s not working,” Darlene repeated, almost testily.

  “The Wi-Fi?” Savannah popped up at her elbow, like a gopher in wedge sandals. “I just restarted the router. It’ll be back on in a minute.”

  Darlene nodded and strode back toward the stage.

  “Also, here are the NDAs.” Savannah handed them to Liv. “So exciting.”

  Liv frowned at the stack, wondering how she’d got them signed so quickly. “Don’t lose your head over Clay Russo.”

  “I won’t,” Savannah replied, as if the possibility was nonexistent. “Going to check on flowers.”

  Liv watched her point something out to Henry, who was twisting a hundred white peonies into the arbor that’d been set up under the apple trees.

  Was Savannah being professional, or was Clay Russo really not her type? Was Eliot her type? Did Eliot really lie to her, and if so, how did she feel about his betrayal? And why on earth did Eliot force his wife to meet—no, work with—the woman with whom he’d had an affair?

  Her walkie-talkie crackled. The chef wanted to see her.

  Amid the frantic ballet of the kitchen, Sam was sniffing the contents of a saucepan with the intensity of one solving a crime. Liv’s instinct was to appear cool and casual, as if she’d just bumped into him while engaging in a leisurely spot of gardening. “Oh, hello,” she said, stopping herself from adding, Aren’t the marigolds looking divine?

  “Liv. Just the person I need.” He spooned something into a teaspoon and handed it to her.

  It was the tomato-basil cream sauce, made with cashews instead of dairy. Velvety, salty-sweet ripeness, which promised so much. Spring. It was finally spring.

  “Heaven. But don’t add any more salt, it’s just on the edge.”

  His brown eyes crinkled when he grinned. “Knew I could trust you.”

  “I feel like I can trust you too,” said Liv, before hearing the unchecked sincerity and blushing. God, how desperate did she sound? Gorman radioed her to come approve the bouquets. She made herself brusque. “I trust you’ll be right on time for five p.m. cocktail hour.”

  “You got it, boss.” Sam dropped the teaspoon in the sink. “Hey, Liv,” he called after her. He tossed an apple in the air and caught it. “This is fun, isn’t it?”

  He was smiling at her, as if he was genuinely having a good time.

  She used to enjoy herself at weddings. She used to enjoy herself.

  Liv made herself smile back at Sam, but she knew it was wonky and cheap, a knockoff. “Better get back to work.”

  12

  Clay Russo was not enjoying himself. Slumped on the end of the plush hotel bed, he couldn’t take his eyes off the magazine. The latest People, the one with him and Michelle on the front cover, both looking angry, above the bright yellow coverline that was giving him nightmares: CLAY DUMPS MICHELLE! And under it, in neon pink: WHAT TORE THEM APART AND WHAT’S NEXT FOR MICHELLE.

  “Knock, knock.” Dave came in, balancing two shot glasses of whiskey, shutting the door behind him. He spotted the magazine in Clay’s hands. “Dude. C’mon.”

  “I know.” Clay sighed, tossing it away. “I’m ignoring it. I am.”

  “We knew it was coming.”

  “Doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’re here to tell me more bad news.”

  Dave handed him a shot. “It can wait.”

  “No.” Clay got to his feet. “Lay it on me. I want to hear it before any of the two hundred people at your wedding.”

  Dave faced him. “Michelle’s writing a book. A friend at Simon and Schuster slipped me an early draft. There’s a few chapters on you that suggest you like being”—Dave drew a breath, keeping his eye contact steady—“bossed around in bed.”

  “What?” Clay slammed the shot glass onto the hotel desk. Hearing his kink voiced by his manager and best friend had his voice vibrating with angry embarrassment. “That’s private!”

  “You could own it,” Dave suggested. “It’d be a surprise, but everyone’s into authenticity these days.”

  “No way. That’s the whole problem.”

  His ex-girlfriend had always dissolved the boundaries between public and private life. She claimed it was for “authenticity,” but Clay suspected it was to sate a hungry ego with the addictive feedback loop of social media. And now she was threatening to expose his private life in a way that was even more intimate and revealing.

  “I can’t believe it.” Clay found Michelle’s eyes on the magazine cover and felt a hot thrust of pain under his ribs. “I trusted her.”

  “I know. It’s bullshit. But that book will never come out. We’ve got an army of ruthless lawyers on it. It’ll be a bloodbath, with billable hours.” Dave blew out a sigh. “Look, thanks again for coming. I know you’d rather be… anywhere but here.”

  Clay looked over in surprise. “Hey, this is the only place I want to be. You’re getting married, dude. You’re one of my best friends. I love you, man.”

  Dave smiled, stretching the tiny scar on his upper lip from a layup Clay missed, back when they had nothing better to do than play basketball and sink cheap beers. “You’re one of the good ones, Clay Russo. To friendship.”

  “To friendship. And to love.” The whiskey surged through Clay’s bloodstream, unlocking some of the tension in his shoulders. This would be fine. He’d stay for dinner, then sl
ip out after the DJ started. Hopefully none of the guests would ask for a selfie.

  Dave checked his hair in the large oval mirror by the door. He’d put Clay in the second-nicest room, after his own. “Fair warning: I think Kamile’s put you at the singles’ table.”

  “That’ll be a disappointment for the singles. I’m officially a monk.”

  “Begin Operation Monk. Understood.” Dave clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. Let’s get me married.”

  “Behind you.”

  Clay picked up the magazine, tempted to throw it in the toilet and flush. But then the toilet would clog and some poor maid would have to come up and fix it. So into the trash it went. He met his own eyes in the mirror. The breakup had taken a toll physically, but it was likely only he could see it: the deepening lines in his forehead, the shadows under his eyes. He knew he was handsome: good genes and a good haircut, really. But no one at this wedding would be seeing the real Clay.

  He arranged his face into that of his public persona, his heart hidden behind a stone wall constructed from neutral, pleasant-looking bricks, and followed Dave out of the room.

  13

  Cocktail hour was crowded, and Zia knew negotiating it was an exercise in anticipation: of unexpected hugs and dashing children and wild gesticulation. She had just started her fourth circuit, rounding a clump of increasingly tipsy bridesmaids, when she saw him.

  Even though she had no idea what he looked like, she knew, without a doubt, that this was the celebrity guest. Because this man was radiant. Like the other groomsmen, he was wearing a tuxedo. It made him look like an ad for cologne or very expensive watches. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white shirt. And his face… Plenty of guys were good-looking. But Clay Russo was beautiful. Dark stubble shaded a jaw so square, it’d make mathematicians weep. He was tanned, or more accurately golden, a hint of the Mediterranean in the thick eyebrows that gave his face such a sturdy, masculine authority. He was an exquisite human being.

  Zia let out a quick breath, regaining control. He was just a guy, no more special than anyone else. He was probably a womanizer. Or worse, boring.

  Clay was standing in a small group. No one had any food, and they were exactly in her circuit. She straightened her shoulders and approached.

  “Loved you in Adam Atlantis. That chase scene around Rome? So epic.” One of the guests, a finance bro type, held up his phone. “Can I get a selfie?”

  “Sriracha tempeh slider?” Zia offered the tray.

  The group shook their heads, but Clay said, “Yes, please,” and suddenly everyone wanted sriracha tempeh sliders.

  “Like I was saying,” the guest continued to Clay, holding a mini burger he clearly did not intend to eat, “a selfie—”

  “What are these?” Clay looked at Zia. His eyes were light hazel, almost gold. To her surprise, her skin prickled.

  “Sriracha tempeh sliders,” Zia replied with a smile.

  The corners of Clay’s mouth curved upward. His lips were dark pink and soft-looking. “Sriracha…”

  “Tempeh sliders,” she finished, a laugh in her voice. It sounded funny when you kept saying it. Clay smiled back broadly. There was nothing snobby or sleazy in his eyes. In fact, she just saw warmth.

  The finance bro clicked his fingers. “Just want to get that selfie, dude—”

  Zia gave the bro a big shit-eating grin. “I can take a picture for you.”

  A whisper of irritation crossed Clay’s face. Zia caught his eye. A look of understanding was exchanged.

  She put her empty tray down and took the phone, tapping the icon to flip the screen. “Oh yeah, this is nice.” As she made a show of snapping the group together, the only thing she was actually photographing was her nostrils. Zia turned the phone off before handing it back. “There you go. And, Mr. Russo, the wedding planner asked me to pass on that you have an urgent call.”

  He looked surprised for only a second before catching on. “Right. Yes, I’m expecting a call from…”

  “Your dry cleaner,” Zia improvised.

  Clay’s face turned serious. “I’m very close with my dry cleaner. We speak daily. Excuse me.”

  He followed Zia, who was heading for the kitchen to restock her tray, skirting the mingling guests. Zia was laughing. “I love the idea you check in every day with your dry cleaner.”

  “Absolutely I do.” He fell in step with her. “I must have updates: solvents, what’s new in eco-friendly practices.”

  “Folding,” Zia offered.

  “Folding is our favorite topic!” Clay exclaimed. “Don’t get us started on the correct way to fold a fitted sheet.” He chuckled theatrically. “We can talk for hours.”

  Zia giggled. She didn’t think of herself as funny, but she loved funny people. Maybe Clay was a bit of a goofball.

  Clay’s smile oscillated between pleased and embarrassed. “Sorry. I make a lot of dumb jokes.”

  They paused on a slight rise overlooking the party. “Lucky for you, I love dumb jokes.”

  His smile settled into pleased. “Good.”

  She tucked the tray under her arm and scooped up a champagne flute from the grass. When she turned around, Clay was gazing out at the two hundred guests, all chatting and laughing and downing the specialty cocktail. The late-afternoon sun poured over the trees and shrubs and turned the nearby pond into a sheet of gold. On the small stage, Darlene was singing “London Boy” while Zach accompanied her on guitar. “ ‘You know I love a London boy, I enjoy walking Camden Market in the afternoon.’ ” It was lovely. Romantic and happy. If only life could always be like this.

  Clay nudged Zia’s shoulder with his. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there. I’m Clay.”

  “You’re welcome, Clay.” His face was so perfect, it was almost uninteresting. What made Clay attractive was the way his thoughts and feelings surfaced and then submerged, quickly, like moving water. It made him seem intelligent. Zia wondered what he was really thinking. “I’m Zia.”

  “Zia. That’s a really beautiful name.”

  Zia smiled, not so much at the compliment but the sincerity with which it was delivered. “It means ‘light’ in Arabic.”

  “It suits you.” Clay blinked, as if consciously pulling himself out of a too-intimate moment. He moved back half a step and turned to the party. His voice became deeper and more formal. “So who should I talk to? I don’t really know anyone that well except the groom.”

  Zia scanned the crowd. “Avoid the bridesmaids. They’re all wasted and would eat you alive.”

  “Ha. No, definitely not up for that.”

  It seemed this guy was no Zach Livingstone. At least, not today. “Best to avoid the sad aunts and uncles,” she continued. “They’re all talking about their knee surgeries and what’s wrong with the younger generation.”

  “Buzzkill,” he agreed.

  “The high school friends are all taking a lot of photos, which you don’t seem that into.”

  Clay’s gaze dropped to his shoes. “I’m, ah, pretty private.” He said it like it was a minor flaw. “By the way, did you flip the screen back there?”

  “You know it.” They high-fived.

  “This is good.” Clay indicated the party. “You’re good, keep going.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. Stylish older ladies, eleven o’clock.” She indicated a group of brightly dressed women in their sixties, all laughing and toasting with white wine. “They’re all in the art scene somehow. Smart and fun, and they’re not going to throw themselves on you. Probably.”

  “Perfect.” Clay crooked his neck to smile at her.

  The openness she saw earlier was back.

  “Although I’m a little sad I can’t stay here talking to you,” he added.

  Was it possible Clay was flirting with her? “What would we talk about?”

  He shrugged and angled his body toward her. But he didn’t try to brush her arm or lower back. He respected her physical boundaries. “You.”

  “What about me?”
/>
  “I know your name and that you’re clever and that you’re the purveyor of delicious sriracha tempeh sliders. What else?”

  The memory that came to mind was one she hadn’t thought about in years. “When I was about seven, I started a club that rocked PS Eighty-Four. POCTA.”

  “POCTA?”

  “Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

  Clay repressed a laugh.

  Zia did not. “I know, not the most catchy acronym. We raised thirty-five dollars in a bake sale and donated it to the local animal shelter. But then one of the guys in our class started calling us Perverted Old Cows Together Again, and the whole thing fell apart.”

  “Still, you made an impact.”

  “Yeah, I’m kind of into that. Being a good person. Or, trying to,” she added.

  “I’m kind of into that too,” Clay said. “But I’ve got nothing on POCTA.”

  “Zia!” Liv strode toward her, a determined look on her face. As her eyes moved to Clay, her expression changed, lightening from disapproval into wonder.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zia said to Liv. “I was just about to—”

  Liv waved it off. “Welcome back, honey. It’s good to see you.”

  Zia found herself being hugged. She certainly considered Liv a friend, she’d worked for her on and off for ten years, but Zia had been closer to the more playful Eliot. Liv’s warmth was because of Clay, somehow.

  He introduced himself, and he and her boss exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Liv tactfully informed her there was another tray of sriracha tempeh sliders with her name on it, and headed off.

  “Duty calls.” Zia squeezed Clay’s upper arm. The sensation of her touch flickered lightly over his face. “Have fun on the dance floor—the DJ’s great.”

  “Oh, I’m leaving right after dinner.” Clay offered his hand. “But very nice to meet you, Zia.”

  “You too, Clay,” she said, shaking it. He let it linger. Just for a microsecond. But enough for the feeling to race up her spine, sparking across her back. She could feel him watching her when she left, happy to be wrong about the very charming celebrity guest. Or if he’d been acting, at least she’d never know. She’d likely never talk to Clay Russo again.