Savannah nodded again.
This hurt. But in the way getting a shard of glass out of your foot did: pain, in order to heal. “Drinks?”
“Dinner.”
“And what was that like?”
Savannah sounded anxious. “Impressive. I mean, when I went out for dinner it was barbecue on paper plates and margaritas in plastic cups. He took me somewhere with white tablecloths and a valet.”
Eliot’s ability to disassociate was better than Liv imagined. Because how else could he enjoy dinner with a young woman while his wife and child were at home, oblivious?
“What was he like?” Liv asked. “Personality-wise.”
“He was… big.”
“Charming.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe a little manic. Scattered.”
“Yes.”
“And he made you feel like the most interesting person he’d ever laid eyes on.”
Savannah let out a soft breath. “Yes.”
Liv took it like a blow. “And so, dinner and then…”
“Liv.” Her name was a tiny sound, uttered toward the passenger window. Not even enough to fog the glass.
“Dinner and then…”
“I didn’t sleep with him after our first date, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“So after the second? Third?”
Savannah exhaled angrily. “Fifth, actually.”
Fifth. Well. “I slept with Eliot the first night we met.”
Savannah looked over. A small smile passed her lips. “Oh.”
“How many… I mean, how long did…” Liv braced herself. “How many times did you do it?”
“Five. And a half.”
Ugh. Eliot went to Kentucky ten times during his stint as a consultant for Savannah’s events company. Which probably meant they’d started dating the first or second trip. Liv tried to recall the sound of his voice when he’d call to speak with Ben—peppy? Relaxed? She couldn’t remember. She was too busy enjoying having the house to herself. Liv changed lanes. “So did he ever… mention me? Or Ben?”
“He said he had an ex-wife: that y’all were separated and getting a divorce.”
That prick. The pain of Eliot’s betrayal had lessened as time passed. But it still seemed so cruel. That he’d erase them so cavalierly from the picture of his life. In death, this was not possible. Liv had flown to Kentucky the day Eliot died. Middle seat, no movies, four tiny bottles of wine, a lot of dumbstruck staring. At the dinky, understaffed hospital, an orderly gave her E’s wallet, the money in his pocket, the wristwatch she’d given him for his fortieth birthday. She was the one who signed all the forms and called Eliot’s parents in Boston and flew his body back to New York. “It should’ve been me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He should’ve… Even if he was”—in lieu of saying sleeping, Liv flicked her wrist—“with you. He should’ve died with— It should’ve been me.”
“Yes,” Savannah said softly. “It should have.”
Liv’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “So why were you seeing him? Were you in love with him?”
There was a brief, noisy silence. Liv could hear Savannah breathing.
“No. I wasn’t in love with Eliot. I mean, maybe, if it had continued, and I did care about him. But no. Not when… when it ended.”
“When he died,” Liv said. “In the hotel room you screwed in.”
“Oh gosh, Liv! What do you want me to say? I didn’t love him! I was sleeping with your husband, and I didn’t even love him, that’s the truth. I’m twenty-three, I’m still figuring myself out!”
Savannah’s intensity stoked Liv’s own. “So what was it about? If you didn’t love him, what was it about?”
“I’m just trying!”
“To do what?”
“To fall in love!” Savannah cried. “But it wasn’t Eliot, and it was never going to be Eliot, but now I’m here and I’m with you, and maybe that’s how it was meant to end up.” She twisted to face Liv. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry Eliot lied to you, and I’m sorry Eliot lied to me. But I’m not sorry Eliot brought us together. That was the one good thing he did. The one thing.”
Liv kept her eyes on the road, breathing hard through her nostrils. After a minute or so, the hurricane inside her began to subside, and she was able to speak. “I believe you. I believe you didn’t know we weren’t separated.”
Savannah started to cry. Liv took a hand off the wheel and found herself awkwardly patting the girl’s arm. Her own eyes were watering, too.
For months, she’d wanted to hate the person next to her. But she was just a girl, flattered by a charismatic older man’s attention. When he was his best self, Eliot could be as bright as the sun. Where Liv saw a society run by corrupt politicians and greedy corporations, Eliot saw a world full of wonder, full of shining examples of human achievement. He loved people, and coincidences, and acts of bravery or kindness. His optimism lightened her pessimism. Without it, the last six months had been a brutal, lonely place as she sat at home alone and darkly processed the entire world.
And yet, there were his mood swings. The depression. High highs. Low lows. Eliot hated doctors, and the medical system in general, which is why Liv kept her theories about his mental health to herself. ADD, ADHD, even bipolar: she always suspected he was right on the edge of a diagnosis. But because he was responsible enough to co-own a business, and take Ben to baseball games, and make her laugh harder than anyone else, she let it slide, and focused on the good side. Her untamed wanderer. Her unpredictable dreamer.
He’d come alive like that for Savannah. On top of feeling sad and angry, Liv felt jealous that it was Savannah, not her, who’d gotten to enjoy that Eliot in his final days.
“So why did he do it?” Liv bashed away a tear with a fisted hand. “Why did he change his will and leave half the business to you?”
Savannah took a long moment to answer. “I’ve thought about that so many times. And I always get to the exact same answer.”
“Which is?”
Over the horizon, New York appeared, glittering against the night sky. From here, it was silent and monolithic, belying nothing of the grit, the heat, the weight of each city street. Each corner its own kingdom. With its own closely held secrets. “I have absolutely no idea.”
18
“What do you mean you almost kissed the waitress?” Dave’s incredulous voice reverberated through Clay’s earbuds. The shopper next to him at the busy Whole Foods threw Clay a suspicious look.
Clay returned it with a sheepish grin and moved to the next aisle. “I mean just that.”
“What happened to Operation Monk?”
The answer was simple. Zia happened. Clay met plenty of good-looking women. These days, it was part of the job. But no one had gotten under his skin as fast and hard as Zia Last-Name-Unknown. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful and smelled good and was possibly the world’s best shirt buttoner. She treated him like an equal, and Clay Russo didn’t get a lot of that these days. Her breezy attitude made him feel a decade younger, back when he had to work for women’s attention… and he liked the time travel. Zia was authentic and honest in a way that wasn’t just attractive but also felt necessary. Whatever it was, it’d snapped him like a cheap chopstick. Clay ambled into the supplements aisle, tossing things into his basket at random.
“I don’t know, man. The operation was temporarily disabled.”
Dave sighed. “Help me help you, you know? At least she signed an NDA. And none of my sources are reporting any stories.”
Clay trusted Zia. But he’d also trusted Michelle, and look where that had gotten him. “And my wallet?”
“She has it. Phoned it in via the wedding planner. Do you really need it back? All the cards and stuff are canceled.”
“It was a gift from my mom.”
“Jesus, Clay. Okay, we’ll get the waitress to courier it to the shoot this afternoon.”
“Zia. Her name is Zia.” It reall
y was a beautiful name. And she really was a beautiful person. Clay paused, the sounds of the busy supermarket fading around him. “Unless…”
They met up in person. Checked out a museum, grabbed a drink. Or, maybe dinner. There was a great Italian spot in his neighborhood. The thought of seeing that smile again—big and radiant and genuine—filled his lungs with fresh air. The women he usually dated were industry people. Astute, ambitious women who knew just what a picture of him on their arm did for their careers. In his world, people traded each other like stocks, and his valuation was high. But he wouldn’t be surprised if Zia hadn’t even heard of him.
“Unless… You know…”
“Clay. Brother. I’m going to cut to the chase because, one, you’re my best friend, and two, I really have to get back to my brand-new wife.” Dave’s voice became direct and unflinching: the Listen to me, you idiot tone. “If you don’t want to appear in the tabloids, don’t give them anything to talk about. A date with a waitress you met at a wedding is a story.”
It was irritating that this was true. “People should be worried about clean water and climate change, not who I’m dating. I need the freedom to take a woman on a date.”
“Sorry, but you don’t have that anymore. You gave it up when you booked Adam Atlantis. I did warn you about this.”
Clay bristled. “Having a public career doesn’t mean my life belongs to the public. I deserve privacy, just like everyone else.”
“Look man, I can’t get into the whole should-celebrities-expect-privacy thing with you now. Suffice to say, if the gatekeepers think your name will sell Michelle’s book, it makes it a lot harder for us to kill it. And that book’ll really get people talking, for the reason we’ve discussed. If you want to fly under the radar, like you keep telling me you do, be thankful the waitress didn’t sell the story, and leave it at that.”
“But—”
“Let’s stay focused on your career. We’re in a good place, but transitioning you from action to drama is delicate. The next move is crucial: we need a script with Oscar potential. Something weighty and topical. Maybe even edgy. Flings with waitresses, flings with anyone, is not the game plan. We need full control over how you’re being perceived.”
Irritation surged into anger. Clay was raised for loyalty, one of six in a close-knit family, which meant his current search for autonomy as an actor was akin to a rebellion. And now his manager was telling him who he could and couldn’t date. “It’s not like I’m Oprah Winfrey! I’m not that well-known.”
“Well, I just got a Google alert that you’re buying a colon cleanse at Whole Foods.”
Clay stared at the supplements in his basket in horror. He swung around. Curious gazes bounced away, like small animals scattering. His skin bloomed hot. It wasn’t just embarrassing. It was an invasion. “I’ll call you later.”
“I’m actually on my honeymoon, so—”
“I hate the internet.”
Clay abandoned his basket and pulled a baseball cap low. As he exited the store, three shoppers unashamedly filmed him. Like he wasn’t even a person. Like he was a thing.
Someone like Zia wouldn’t want any part of his messed-up life. A life where everything from his groceries to his kinks were reported as breaking news. He felt hunted, and it was exhausting. Clay loved his work, but he also wanted to spend an afternoon wandering around the Met with a cute girl, flirting in front of the artwork without worrying that it’d end up in People. But today just proved that he didn’t have nor could he expect any privacy. And privacy was what you needed to let a relationship grow.
Around him, New York City pulsed relentlessly. The streets swallowed him up until, thankfully, he was just another face in the crowd.
19
Greenpoint had traditionally been a Polish neighborhood, but in recent years, the busy end had been claimed by hipsters, and the industrial end by film and television productions. Nondescript warehouses were filled with secret, fleeting worlds—a bloody crime scene, a sunny high school cafeteria, a 1950s street corner. And it was one such warehouse that Zia approached a few hours later.
She’d been sent an address to courier Clay’s wallet, and instructions on how to recoup the charge. But when she called to book it, they’d quoted her a hundred dollars for a same-day delivery. One hundred dollars, and it was only a short bike ride away!
She wasn’t going to see Clay. A very cool project had just come up through Global Care. A six-month volunteer coordinator position at a women’s resource center in Quelimane, Mozambique. The pay was modest but livable. Per the job description, the center helped empower local women to do everything from start their own business to leave abusive relationships. Which resonated. If she got the job—and could work up the courage to tell Layla she was leaving New York again—she’d be off on another mission. With a few clicks, she’d emailed her résumé and expression of interest to the team leader. Done. And right now, she’d drop off the wallet, then ride home along the waterfront.
Easy.
In a scrappy front-office-type area, people milled about, some on their phones, some lounging. It appeared casual, but there was a buzz in the air. Something that mattered to these people was happening. The charge got under her skin, and Zia stood a little taller. She got out the warm, worn leather wallet, and looked around for an assistant.
And that’s when she locked eyes with Clay.
Well, not actually Clay, but his headshot, taped to a wall with C Russo Team and an arrow scrawled underneath it.
His eyes. That mouth. She wondered what he saw when he looked in the mirror.
A young woman in a headset burst into the space, looking around with open desperation. To Zia’s alarm, she beelined right for her. “Are you hair and makeup?”
“No, I’m Zia Ruiz. I’m just dropping off—”
“We’re running so late.” The young woman scanned the foyer. “The only person getting in to see Clay is hair and makeup.”
And then Zia did something that caught her, and the assistant, entirely by surprise. “Oh, hair and makeup? For the Clay Russo shoot?” Zia attempted to look professional. “That’s me.”
In a daze, Zia followed the harried assistant down a series of twisting hallways. Why had she done that? Zia was not a liar. A risk-taker, yes. Impulsive, for sure. But a liar, no. Something just… came over her. What if it freaked Clay out? Would he call security? She didn’t even have a makeup kit; she barely wore makeup herself. Maybe Clay would be with another girl. This was a mistake. A monumental mistake. They’d asked her to courier the wallet, not stalk the owner.
“Excuse me,” Zia squeaked to the assistant. “Actually I, um—”
The assistant opened a door and disappeared inside.
Zia looked left, then right. She had no idea how to get back out of the enormous building. “One more for the memoir,” she muttered, following the assistant.
A mirror dominated one wall, lined by soft yellow globes. A few people sat on a long couch, working on laptops while a couple of others were huddled into a corner in conversation. Sitting at the far end of the room, with a sheaf of paper in one hand and his phone in the other, was Clay.
“Mr. Russo, hair and makeup’s here,” the assistant announced.
Clay looked up. His eyes pulsed in surprise.
Zia inhaled, her heart hammering.
A slow smile spread across Clay’s features, like sunshine warming the corners of a dark room. All of Zia’s concerns evaporated. She smiled back and stepped forward. “Hi, Mr. Russo,” she said, channeling the easy warmth she’d seen the hair and makeup artists offer at weddings. “So nice to meet you.”
Clay was on his feet. “Hi.” The papers he was reading slid to the floor. “Hello. Hi.”
The assistant narrowed her eyes, sensing disturbance. She eyed the purse slung over Zia’s shoulder. “Wait, where’s your kit?”
Zia looked at Clay. “Clay, um…”
“I decided on a very minimal look for this shoot,” Clay said.
Zia scrabbled through her purse. She didn’t have a makeup bag, but she did have a small emergency bag, containing things like a tampon, whistle, copy of her passport. She held it up. By makeup-artist standards, it was microscopic. “I have a very down-to-earth approach.”
The assistant still looked skeptical. But after checking the time, she informed Zia she had twenty minutes, and left. No one else in the room was paying any attention to them.
“I hope this isn’t weird,” she whispered. “I just wanted to see you.”
“I’m so glad you did.” He was alert. Entirely focused on her. “Really. I wanted to see you again too.”
“What if the real makeup artist shows up?”
“She just texted. Family emergency.”
“But I don’t know how to…”
Clay waved it off. “Honestly, it’s not rocket science. And if I don’t say anything, no one else will.”
“Okay.” Surreptitiously, Zia slid Clay’s wallet back to him. When he took it, their fingertips touched. Not by accident.
Clay pocketed the wallet. “I guess you know all my secrets.”
“I didn’t look through it. I promise.”
“I believe you.”
It wasn’t just that he was beautiful, with those gold eyes and thick brows and six-pack hidden beneath his shirt. He was staring at her, rapt. And she could feel it, everywhere. The simmering heat between them threatened a rolling boil. Which it couldn’t, and shouldn’t: they were in public, and Clay had to work. They both blinked, swaying back, as if waking up to their reality at the same time.
“All right, Mr. Russo. Let’s get you ready.” She stood up behind him, determined to keep it together. The long mirror reflected a striking, perfectly passable couple. Not bad. She rested her hands on his shoulders. The hard heat of his muscles radiated through a thin cotton T-shirt. “Shall we start with hair?”
Clay’s eyes were dancing. “Absolutely, let’s start with hair.”
Zia ran her hands through his hair, relishing the chance to dig her fingers into the dark strands. Clay’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, that feels… so good.” He groaned. A low, sexy grunt. The idea of giving Clay pleasure made her insides squeeze deliciously.
It Had to Be You Page 9
