14
Cocktail hour became dinner. Speeches were made. Glasses were topped up for one, two, five toasts. Kamile danced with her father in her Chantilly lace dress, weeping in his arms. After the song ended, Dave and Kamile embraced, and everyone spilled onto the dance floor around them. From outside the tent, Savannah’s eyes welled. “They’re so beautiful. Love is just so beautiful.”
Liv stubbed her cigarette out on a tent pole and put the butt in her fanny pack. “I give it ten years.”
Savannah fixed her with a disapproving look. “How can you say that? Look at them. They’re besotted.”
“Of course they are,” Liv said. “They’re young and gorgeous and in perfect health. They found a best friend and a lover and a confidant and a co-parent and an adventure buddy and a muse. They found their soul mate, and they’re so lucky because not everyone does. But after the literal and metaphorical honeymoon is over, they’ll find that being an amazing lover and best friend and parent and every other little thing on their list is a pretty tall order. And after a while, or maybe all of a sudden, the way she’s so outspoken doesn’t make her strong, it makes her a bitch. And the fact he opens bottles of expensive wine every night doesn’t make him classy, it makes him an alcoholic.” Liv didn’t sound angry. She sounded resigned. “She’ll get crow’s-feet, he’ll get a potbelly, and they’ll start investing a lot of time and money in not aging. Bickering becomes woven into the fabric of their relationship until it carpets the entire house. There’s nothing new to talk about, nothing left to discover. Even sex is a drag, and it’s no longer spontaneous and passionate, it’s planned and it’s boring. And one day, they’ll wake up and realize they haven’t just gotten sick of each other: they can’t stand the person they married. That the person lying next to them in bed is just doing a comically bad impression of the man they used to love.”
Behind the decks, Zach was playing “Brown Eyed Girl” and everyone was up and dancing, singing along: “ ‘Sha la la la la la la la la, la te da, la te da.’ ”
Savannah picked her words with care. “That doesn’t happen to everyone, Liv.”
“No. Not everyone.” Liv’s eyes didn’t leave the couple, laughing as their friends and family danced around them, sloshing glasses of organic wine. “But half the weddings I’ve planned in the last twenty years ended in divorce. And they all looked exactly like this.”
When Savannah met Liv’s eyes, she expected to see bitter smugness or cold satisfaction: game, set, match. But what she actually saw surprised her. In Liv’s usually hawklike eyes, the eyes that didn’t miss a trick, was soft and billowing sadness.
“Come on,” Liv said, turning away. “Let’s start on the pack-up list.”
15
The formerly busy kitchen was quiet. Zia emptied the leftovers of what had to be her hundredth plate into the garbage. She didn’t mind being on cleanup, but it was depressing that almost a billion people lived on less than two dollars a day, and here she was throwing away landfills of locally grown salad and green-pea risotto. She filled three takeout containers for her sister, closing the lids with a satisfied snap.
“Hello?”
It was Clay Russo. The actor had a slightly embarrassed look on his face and a giant red-wine stain on his shirt. His mouth lifted in a pleased smile. “Hello again.”
“Hey.” Zia smiled back. “Interesting after-party look.”
“Dance-floor mishap. One of those drunk bridesmaids you were warning me about.”
“Dangerous. Let me see if I can find some club soda.” Her heart picked up, pattering. “I thought you were leaving after dinner.”
“You were right: the DJ’s great. Haven’t danced that much in ages.” Clay looked flushed and a little tipsy—not drunk, just less careful than earlier. His eyes were bright, fixed on her in a way that was comforting, and strangely thrilling. “I didn’t see you during the dinner service.”
“I wasn’t working the floor. Just cleanup. How was it?”
“Excellent. The risotto was fantastic. Basically licked my plate clean.”
At least she wasn’t throwing away Clay’s leftovers. She held up a can of club soda. “This’ll get that stain out.” She looked at him expectedly.
Clay’s eyebrows flickered down. “Should I just…”
Zia gestured around the kitchen. “Everyone’s on cake duty. There’s no one else here.”
He unbuttoned the top button. “As long as I’m not sexually harassing you by stripping down.”
She laughed. “I’m basically ordering you to.”
“Not mad about it.” In one fluid motion, Clay slipped off his shirt, revealing his bare torso.
Zia almost did a double take. Clay’s body was the brutal, beautiful wedge of a Greek warrior. Smooth, bronzed skin. A quilt of stomach muscles. His arms were the right sort of big, both biceps bulging and thick. She was vaguely aware Clay was in action movies, and yes, this was the body of a man destined to save the day, and look damn good doing it.
“Wow. You have a beautiful body.” She took the shirt off him, matter-of-fact. “You must get that all the time.”
He chuckled, and was he actually blushing? “Not to my face.”
Zia tipped the soda water over the stain. “Life’s too short not to say what’s on your mind.”
He stood next to her at the sink, looking a little uneasy at being semi-naked in her presence, which was, Zia thought, pretty cute. “Unfortunately I don’t get to do a lot of that.”
“Well, what are you thinking right now?”
“Right now?”
She tingled. She was flirting but pretended she wasn’t. “Yeah.”
“I’d say… that… you have a beautiful body too, Zia.”
Blood rushed her cheeks. She focused on the shirt. “I’m pretty active. Biking, rock climbing, surfing.”
“Surfing, nice. Never tried it.”
She wrung out the material, squeezing hard. Her skin felt tender. “It’s amazing. Total feeling of freedom. Nothing like it in the world.”
“Nothing?”
His eyes were the color of a jungle cat. His lips were parted, which made Zia conscious of her own mouth. This man was attracted to her. She was always the last person to figure it out, but right now, she was certain. The idea of kissing him flashed in her mind. A sticky wave of heat pulsed through her body. She swayed an inch closer to him. He did the same.
Holy libido: get a grip. Zia backed up a step and exhaled. “Let’s get this dry.”
Clay snapped back to reality. He looked as confused as she was. “Yeah, I need to get going.”
In the white-tiled bathroom, the dull roar of the hand dryer made conversation impossible.
She snuck a glance at him and caught him watching her. His gaze bounced away. She could not kiss Clay. He was basically a stranger, and she was working. Plus she’d signed some sort of contract about this guy, and not mauling him with her mouth was probably in the fine print.
As soon as the shirt was wearable, she all but thrust at it him and busied herself with washing her hands while he buttoned it up. But when she turned around, a light laugh escaped her lips. His shirt was askew. “You missed a button.”
He followed her gaze and let out a soft, amused breath.
Without thinking, she moved toward him to rebutton it. Being so near to him was like seeing a statue come to life: startling, beautiful. She was so close he could take her in his arms. So close she could tilt her head up and feel his mouth touch hers. His presence pounded through her like a storm. Zia had always assumed the ability to be wildly, uncontrollably attracted to someone was just a rare human quirk, like having two different-colored eyes. But it was happening to her, and she didn’t know what to do. She could barely ease the black button through the stiff buttonhole. She was undressing him. As if for bed. As if for sex. His body on top of hers, moving together in a hot, hungry rhythm.
Her fingers found his bare chest, touching the smooth, hard muscles. Clay inhaled. His che
st rose beneath her fingertips. His musky, masculine smell made her mouth water. Her body was one hot surging mess of driving need. Desperate for contact. Desperate for this man.
She dared to look up at him. His eyes were glazed and hooded. Drilling into her. His voice was low and almost strained. “Zia…”
She yanked his shirt toward her.
“The thing about straight weddings—”
Before their lips had a chance to meet, Henry’s voice crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. They sprang apart like guilty teenagers as Henry and Gorman entered the bathroom.
“—is no one knows how to dance…” Henry trailed off as both he and Gorman stared at Clay. Then at Zia. Then back at Clay, a tennis match of surprise. Zia’s face was burning. Clay’s shirt was half unbuttoned.
Gorman cleared his throat, his fingers resting lightly on his chest. “That’s because straight people feel so guilty about sex. Don’t you agree, Zia?”
Usually Zia enjoyed the florist’s dry humor, but at that moment, she couldn’t even look at him. Or Henry. Or the man she’d just been about to kiss. Her heart was striking a steady beat of What? The? Hell?
“I’ll, um…” Clay’s attempt at speech was a failure. He gave Zia a parting look of mute bewilderment, and left the bathroom.
Henry looked rattled. “Did we just walk in on a Me Too moment, Zia?”
“No!” Zia shook her head. “No, that was… I don’t know what that was. But I liked it.”
“I’ll bet you did,” murmured Gorman.
Zia’s gaze fell to the floor. Something square, made of dark brown leather, was at her feet. A wallet. Even before she flipped it open, she knew who it belonged to.
“Good,” said Henry. “And, bonus: now you know who Clay Russo is.”
16
Henry packed the table arrangements back into boxes, extracting the dainty flowers from a battleground of soiled napkins, spilled booze, and discarded menus. Dave and Kamile didn’t want to keep the arrangements, so whatever the other guests hadn’t taken, they’d donate to a local assisted-living facility. It was an excuse to stay till the end, really: he and Gor wanted to keep an eye on Liv, especially given the free-flowing alcohol. But the wedding had turned out pretty much perfectly. Possibly the part where the bride mentioned the hashtag in her vows was a little odd. But otherwise, gorgeous.
Henry finished one box and started another.
Clay and Zia. Huh. If they got married, maybe Henry would get to make a speech. Zia and Clay are a passionate couple. I walked in on them about to share their first kiss… in a public bathroom! Henry had made a dozen speeches at weddings over the years. People said he was good at them. He just always imagined the sort of speech he’d want to hear at his own wedding.
In the weeks following his birthday and the infamous stand mixer, Henry had begun to feel increasingly insecure. Maybe he’d been too subtle about wanting to get married, maybe not. Either way, it was obvious Gorman didn’t want to marry him. But instead of addressing the issue as he typically would, his lack of confidence made him fold back on himself. Maybe he should just let the idea go. Gay marriage as fiction, as performed normativity—could he make it his truth, if he had to?
It seemed impossible. Painful. Dangerous. Why?
Because if he followed the impulse all the way to its logical root, he wanted a baby.
Henry’s hand stilled in midair. He’d never let the desire form so perfectly, so unapologetically. Instead, Henry buried his paternal urges under layers of practicality and, somewhat shamefully, fear. Even in progressive Brooklyn, he and Gorman were far from a typical family: an interracial gay couple, a generation apart in age. But how much longer could Henry deny the precious and delicate truth that he wanted to be a father? He’d never just wanted a proposal—he wanted shelter for a family. An indication Gorman wanted one too. Marriage was a need for a love that was strong and reciprocal enough to create the future he was terrified to imagine.
“Can I have a flower?” Behind him stood a little girl, her small face pink and puffy with sleep.
Henry’s heart just about fainted. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”
He selected a white frizzle tulip. The child accepted it gravely, just as her mom came up behind her. They looked so alike: same close-set eyes, same narrow chin.
“What do you say to the nice man?” Mom prompted, and the girl responded with the requisite “Thank you,” cut short by a big yawn.
They left. Henry felt his smile fade.
For straight couples, the news they might not be able to conceive a child was devastating, a turn of events they’d spend thousands of dollars and years of effort to overcome. Because what greater achievement could there be in making a person with the person you love? The literal expression of your union, there in a child that has Mom’s pretty eyes and Dad’s sense of humor. Straight people expected shared DNA would form their family and anything less was subpar. But subpar was where gay couples started and no one ever said anything about it. The tragedy that Henry could not make a baby with Gorman, or even bring up the notion of children in the first place, was a sadness he alone had to carry.
He hefted the crate of arrangements and headed for the car.
17
Liv had just finished stacking the last of the take-home items in her Subaru’s trunk when someone appeared in her peripheral vision. Sam.
“Oh, hi.” Her stomach flipped. She ignored it. “What are you still doing here?”
“Tying up some loose ends. My first time on the job, wanted to make sure I got it all perfect.” He smiled at her, and his eyes did the crinkly thing she liked.
“You did a great job. Everyone was raving about the food, and perfect execution, timewise. That’s usually the hardest part.”
“Thanks.”
Liv shut the trunk. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Why’d you take this job? Given the horror stories you read about me online?”
He chuckled. “You don’t seem like a—what’d that review say?—demogorgon bitchface.”
Liv winced. “Oy vey.”
“Also, getting divorced is expensive. And it made me realize everyone deserves a second chance.”
He smiled at her again, and this time, she smiled back, not at all worried that she probably smelled like leftovers and cleaning spray. Something very small and tender emerged between them. A few Januarys ago, she and Eliot had rented a house in Maine for a week. One evening, they came across a deer in a clearing. For a couple of lifelong city dwellers, it felt akin to glimpsing a winged fairy. She couldn’t move, even breathe, for fear of frightening it away. Then Eliot’s phone rang, blasting his latest novelty ringtone: “Love Shack.” The deer leaped off through the forest.
Savannah appeared around the corner, arms laden with Dave and Kamile’s boxed gifts.
Sam’s eyes flickered from hers. “Better hit the road. Night, Liv.”
“Night, Sam.”
He fumbled the keys slightly as he unlocked his car.
What had just transpired? And did she want it to happen again?
She and Savannah settled back in the Subaru.
“Not too bad.” Liv shuffled through the loose CDs, selecting one by the Pixies, a band that formed over a decade before Savannah was an embryo. “Considering we only had two months. How are you feeling?”
“Starving.” Savannah sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for some honey-fried chicken.”
“There’s some food for you in the back seat.”
“For me?”
“Sure. I always ask the caterers to make up a plate for the people who don’t get to eat: the couple and us.”
“Wow. Thank you, Liv.” Savannah peeled back the aluminum foil. “Still warm!”
The car filled with the delicious smell of green-pea risotto. The other night, Ben asked if Sam could come over and cook it for them again. Liv said no, explaining Sam had already gotten the job.
By the time Sav
annah finished eating, they were on the highway home. The Pixies ended. For a few moments, they drove in silence.
Savannah turned to Liv. “Why are you a wedding planner?”
“Too old to intern, too young for social security.”
“No, really. If you’re so cynical about love, and such a feminist”—Savannah pointed at the pink pussyhat on the back seat—“how’d you end up a planner?”
Liv shrugged. “Everyone else does it so badly.”
Savannah didn’t say anything. She just waited.
“I guess I just never quit. Which is how a lot of people end up in their careers. And I might have cynical moments, but I’m not a cynic. Most of my weddings, even if they don’t last, are… beautiful. Life-affirming. And being a feminist wedding planner isn’t an oxymoron. Our whole thing was about bringing men into it, so it wasn’t just ‘women’s business.’ When Eliot was…”
Alive.
Out of the corner of her eye, Savannah nodded.
They drove in silence. The wedding’s success made Liv feel capable, but it also muted her emotions, leaving her cool and clear-eyed. If she didn’t do this now, it might never happen. “How did you meet?”
Savannah blinked, half asleep. “Who? Honey?”
“Is that what you called him?”
“Him?” As it landed, she straightened and looked at Liv, as if to say, Are we doing this?
They were.
“At work,” Savannah replied, nervous. “I gave Eliot a tour of our office.”
“The events company. Where you were an intern.”
Savannah nodded.
Liv swallowed. “What was he like? When you first met.”
Savannah directed her answer at her hands. “He seemed very… sophisticated, I guess. Being old… er. Older. From New York. And smart. He knew a lot of weird facts about Kentucky.”
“He always was a font of useless information.” Liv recalled the two of them in bed together, her with a novel by Margaret Atwood or Velma Wolff, him with a copy of The Best Bar Trivia. “And I guess he asked you out?”
It Had to Be You Page 8
