“The thing is,” he began, licking his lips.
“Yes?” His mother sipped her wine.
“The thing is,” he repeated. “The thing… is—”
“Hello, Livingstones.” Darlene stood at the table, smiling politely. Under her cropped denim jacket, she was wearing what she usually wore to jazz gigs: a floor-length, high-necked ivory silk dress, plus a glossy black bob wig. Sexy, yes, but also modest. Classy.
Zach was on his feet. “The thing is, I have something to tell you. We have something to tell you.”
“We do?” Darlene asked.
“Yes, we do. We weren’t ready to do this because it’s so new—very, very new—but given the, uh, circumstance.” Zach put his arm around Darlene’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Darlene and I… Well, we’re… in love.”
Darlene stared at Zach in total disbelief. “We’re in what?”
21
At first, Gorman found the concept of adult education vaguely embarrassing. Wasn’t there something sad about a roomful of adults well past the flush of youth sitting around a poky little classroom? Like wearing overalls or doing shots, it did not seem suitable for those over fifty. But Eliot’s death, and Savannah Shipley’s arrival in New York, had reminded Gorman that life was short. The week after E died, Gorman signed up for a playwriting class at a local community college. He’d spent his actual collegiate years wrestling with his sexuality by having closeted sex with wrestlers. But now, Gorman was an adult-education convert. His Monday-night playwriting class was one of the best parts of his week. He enjoyed meeting with “the over-forties Breakfast Club” for high-minded discussions about how form serves content or the sonic effect of alliteration. Each student spent the year working on a full-length play of their own, and the whole venture felt like a salon or a secret society. He was comfortable with this routine—Gorman always sought comfort wherever he was—but as he entered the classroom on Monday night, his cozy tradition had unexpectedly transformed.
“We have a new student,” announced Jon, a rotund, bearded young man who’d had two productions staged at downtown theaters. “Gilbert.”
Gorman twisted in his seat. He expected to see a former bus driver seeking the sublime or a supermarket employee who fancied himself a philosopher (they already had one each of those). Gilbert was neither.
“Hello.” Gilbert gave a little wave.
“Hello.” Everyone chorused. Everyone except Gorman.
Gilbert was adorable. Sandy-blond hair, round glasses, and a cute, friendly smile that revealed bleached white teeth. Easily a decade younger than the next youngest person in the room. Gilbert couldn’t yet be thirty.
“I sent Gilbert all of your works in progress to catch up on.” Jon smiled at the new student. “Hope we didn’t overwhelm you.”
“Not at all,” said Gilbert. “I’m loving them. Especially Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail. I can’t put it down, my roommates are like, ‘Enough with the snail!’ ”
Gorman’s cheeks burned. He felt slightly dazed.
“Well done, Gorman,” Jon said. “Always nice to get some positive reinforcement. Okay, gang, let’s pick up where we left off. Act Two of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and we’re keeping an eye out for the social and historical context.”
The class thumbed through their books. Gorman swiveled around again. Gilbert smiled back eagerly, pointing to a dog-eared printout of Gorman’s play and mouthing, Love it!
Gorman dipped his head in thanks and returned to his copy of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, having completely forgotten where he should be directing his attention.
* * *
Afterward, most of the class decamped to a nearby Irish bar known for its generous pours. Gilbert didn’t join them, which was both disappointing and oddly relieving. Gorman had just gotten comfortable with a glass of fruity merlot and was preparing to discuss the second act of Woolf with the sublime-seeking bus driver when a cheerful voice sounded behind him. “Is this seat free?”
The class made room for Gilbert to sit next to Gorman. Gorman’s heart picked up, like someone realizing they were, in fact, standing next to a celebrity.
“Sorry I’m late.” Gilbert unzipped his jacket, revealing a T-shirt that read No Bad Days! “There’s a credit card minimum; had to find an ATM machine that does ten-dollar bills.”
Good grief, that really did take him back to college. “It’s just ATM, you know,” Gorman said. “ATM machine is redundant. Automatic teller machine machine.”
Gilbert widened his eyes, like a baby owl. “You’re right. That’s hilarious. You’re obviously brilliant. Really glad I signed up for this class.”
“Why did you sign up for this class?” Gorman asked, and Gilbert began a monologue about dropping out of college to become an actor in LA but finding it too sunny and thinking maybe he’d move to the mountains to write a novel but then his sister telling him that was a dumb idea because he’d never written anything longer than an email… It was not uninteresting, but it certainly wasn’t interesting. Confidence, Gorman realized. That was a defining quality of youth. Confidence that what you had to say was worth listening to. And people did listen to you, when you were as pleasing to look at as Gilbert.
They fell into an easy if not especially stimulating conversation about the class and living in New York and the downtown theater scene. Gilbert’s worldview was so much more expansive and permissive than Gorman’s had been in his midtwenties. Back then, a same-sex kiss on TV would set everyone’s hair on fire and send advertisers fleeing. Gay marriage was a wildly radical fantasy. How much had changed for the younger generation. Their confidence made them expect equality.
While Gilbert was certainly fond of his own voice, he was also fond of Gorman, who he’d apparently decided was someone worth listening to. I hope he doesn’t ask me to be a mentor, Gorman thought, as he bought the pair their third round of drinks. He didn’t really see himself as the mentor type.
But that wasn’t what Gilbert had in mind. “Have you heard of HERE Arts Center, Gorman?”
Gorman nodded, handing Gilbert his rum and Coke. “Off-off theater in SoHo?” By the corner of Spring and Sixth, near a now-closed piano bar he used to frequent in the nineties.
Gilbert nodded. “My aunt owns it. And I think this”—he brandished Gorman’s play—“would be perfect for it. I love the absurd humor, feels contemporary and totally classic at the same time. And I love that Egor actually turns into a snail at the end—very Ionesco.”
Heat seeped under Gorman’s collar. Gilbert was more fluent in theater than he expected. “That’s exactly what I was going for.” When he was young, life was full of magic and opportunity. These days, surprises were few. This, he felt, was a true plot twist.
“I’d love to show it to my aunt and talk about a run,” Gilbert continued, “if I got to play Egor.”
Egor Snail was the lead. A clever, slightly vain aesthete who was struggling to accept his sexuality and largely defined by his relationship to his mother, an emotional terrorist. As suggested by the rest of the class, a thinly veiled version of Gorman as a younger man. At Gilbert’s age.
Was it a fit? Gilbert certainly wasn’t a physical match—in his youth, Gorman had the kind of face one couldn’t decide was fantastically handsome or frightfully ugly. Gilbert held no such paradox. And Gorman had no idea if he could act or not. But perhaps that didn’t matter. Possibility edged over the horizon, changing the black night sky to a subtler but distinctly lighter gray.
Gorman pushed his wineglass aside and leaned forward on his elbows. “You’d be absolutely perfect.”
22
Darlene gaped at her bandmate. Why the hell had he just told his family they were in love?
“It’s true, isn’t it, darling?” Zach gave her shoulder another tight squeeze. “Beautiful, really. All this time playing together and what I was really looking for was right in front of me.”
This was absurd. No: humiliating. Half the restaurant was staring
, unsure if this was a grand romantic gesture or a joke. Their gazes closed around her like a trap. Darlene tried to wriggle away. “But—”
“I know we said we’d keep it a secret while we figured out our feelings, but I’m sorry, I want the world to know.” Zach’s voice rose in declaration. “I’m in love with Darlene Mitchell!”
For the second time that evening, they were the center of everyone’s attention. Mark and Catherine looked speechless. Their blindingly white alarm at her presence beside their son exploded inside Darlene as fury and, embarrassingly, shame.
“Zach.” She kept her voice firm. “I have no idea why—”
“We work as a couple, yes, I know, it surprised me too. I’m me and you’re”—Zach glanced at her; Darlene glared back—“well, you’re you, aren’t you, darling? So sensible. Responsible. And it’s really rubbing off on me.” He addressed a passing man in a suit. “Put this dinner on my tab, will you?”
Catherine’s gaze lingered on Darlene, even as she addressed Zach. “That wasn’t a waiter, and you don’t have a tab here.”
“How long has this been going on?” asked Zach’s father. Mark had always been polite enough to Darlene, but now he was frowning, his entire body tense.
“Yes, tell us your love story.” Imogene made her voice swoony—she obviously believed this as much as Darlene did. “You’re just like Harry and Meghan.”
“You’re right,” said Catherine. “Especially how Meghan is so…”
Darlene braced herself, preparing for the worst.
“American.”
Zach slapped his hand to his forehead.
Darlene pushed herself from Zach’s grip. “I actually have to get going.”
Zach spluttered, “No, darling. Sit down, stay for a drink.”
“I have an early start,” Darlene replied, her voice edged. “Good night, everyone. Goodbye, Zach.” She moved swiftly back through the dining room, being sure to keep her head high.
Zach was on her heels. “Darlene, baby, wait!”
He followed her out of Babbo, onto Waverly Place, chasing her to the other side of the street.
“What the hell, Zach?” She spun on him, confusion solidifying into anger. “Did you lose a bet or something?”
“Darlene, I’m sorry. My parents threatened to withhold my trust unless I ‘got my act together’ and was in a ‘solid relationship.’ If they think you and I are together…”
Oh. Of course. “You get paid.”
“Exactly. On my twenty-seventh birthday, which is only a teeny-tiny five months away.”
“Five months?” She moved past him, raising her hand to hail a yellow taxi. “No way.”
“Please?”
The taxi pulled up. “You’re insane.”
“I’ll pay you!” He was back in front of her. “Ten thousand dollars.”
Ten thousand dollars? That would pay for half the recording costs of an EP. “Twenty-five.”
“Ha!” Zach saw she was serious. “Twenty.”
The cab honked at her.
Darlene barely heard it. “Twenty-five.”
“Okay, fine. Twenty-five thousand dollars for five months of dating. Done.”
The number billowed in front of her. It took her a few moments to catch up to it, and what had just happened. Twenty-five thousand. Dollars. It’d be the most amount of money she’d ever make in one go. Her tongue ran over her bottom lip, a nervous habit. “You better not be playing.”
Zach’s gaze was on her mouth. He caught himself staring and refocused. “I’m not.”
The taxi drove off. Darlene backed up. “No. No. I’m not some thing to be paraded around in front of your— Sorry, Zach, but it’s obvious what your family thinks about people like me.”
“They think you’re amazing. As do I.”
Zach was always the first person to tell bookers, clients, his friends how brilliant she was. A few weeks ago, someone had mistaken him for the singer and her for backup, and he’d gotten so outraged on her behalf the tops of his ears went red.
Still, she gave him a look. “And why would I want to help you?”
“Because I’m Zach! Your musical better half. And the trust will help me play music, with you, without getting a real job.”
Annoyingly, there was some truth to that. Other musicians had to plan around day jobs. Zach was always available. “Music is my real job.”
“Of course it is! And this will help me help you do that job. Please?” he begged. “I know it’s not the best plan.”
“It’s not a ‘plan’ at all! Who would believe you and I are a couple?”
“C’mon, Mitchell. We’ve got a thing going. Onstage,” he clarified. “That’s why we work so well together.” He took a step toward her, his eyebrows raised. “You know what I mean.”
Blood heated her cheeks. “Chemistry,” she allowed. “But that’s just a performance.”
“So is this! Think of it as the easiest, best-paid gig ever.”
That could very well be true. Her next question was one she’d wondered about. “Have you ever even dated a Black woman?”
“As a matter of fact I have. Safiyah.” His eyes went a little starry. “She was a premed student from Nigeria. We dated for six months after uni.”
“Oh.” Darlene didn’t expect this. Six months was a significant amount of time. Zach would’ve walked down the street with Safiyah. Heard any comments people made. He would’ve watched her get ready for bed.
“Safi was awesome.” Zach smiled at a mental picture in his head. “Smart and talented and sexy.” His gaze landed back on Darlene. “Like you.”
Weirdly, Darlene almost felt jealous of this smart, cool med student who put such a smile on Zach’s face.
Twenty-five thousand dollars would pay for an entire EP without bootstrapping it: quality recording, great production, marketing budget, a DIY tour, everything. And a well-produced album was the first step to becoming an artist. Her own songs. Her way.
She made her voice cool. “What would I have to do?”
“Nothing you’re not comfortable with. I’m not Harvey Weinstein, Mitchell: I’m not one of those guys. This’ll only work if you’re happy faking it. Strictly first base.”
“First base?” Hand holding. Kissing. Maybe some touching. That seemed feasible.
“Yes.” Zach placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and took a step closer. Closer than they’d ever stood before. Closer than friends. “Like this.” His blue eyes were soft and serious. No mischievous spark in them. “Do we have a deal?”
She could smell him: a hint of red wine on his breath, and something that was uniquely, undeniably Zach. It all smelled… yummy. She spoke before she could second-guess herself. “Okay. But so we’re clear, I’m doing this for me, so I can cut an album. And if you screw me over, I will destroy you.”
“Understood.” The warm pad of his thumbs brushed her collarbones, moving in a slow circle. “Don’t look now, but my family are currently spying on us from the front of the restaurant. I said don’t look!” he said, as Darlene went to swivel around. “We’ve been having an argument about me deciding to come clean about our relationship. And about the fact that I only just broke up with Lauren. Who didn’t mean anything to me,” he added quickly as she pulled back an inch. “I promise.” Tentatively, he skimmed his fingers down her arm. Like a boyfriend would. Affectionate. Loving. “Now, you’ve forgiven me, and I think we should kiss.”
“Now? Here?”
“Well, we are in love, right? Just a little makeup kiss. Are you okay with that?”
Zach’s proximity was having the oddest effect. She was trying to stay alert and rational, but her bones felt like butter left in the sun. Focus! This is just acting. This is not real. “Fine.”
“Bang on.” His smile was surprised and just a little bit wicked. There was still a foot of air between them. “Come closer.”
She moved a half step forward.
“Closer.”
She couldn’t ma
ke her feet move. This was Zach: the bane of her existence, the most annoying person in the world. But he was, objectively, attractive. And she was pretty sure he felt the same way about her. She inched toward him, until they were almost touching.
“Put your arms around me.”
She put her hands on his hips, middle-school-dance style.
He tried not to laugh. “C’mon, Mitchell. Pretend I’m someone you actually like.”
After a long moment of hesitation, Darlene circled her arms around his neck. Their bodies pressed against each other. Zach’s hands dropped to her lower back, sliding against the slinky material of her dress. A bright wave of heat shimmied up and down her entire body. None of this was permitted. None of this should be happening. And that excited her.
“Ready?” His voice was husky.
Darlene tilted her face up to him. Her heart was beating so ferociously there was a good chance it’d burst out of her chest. “Yes.”
Slowly, inch by inch, Zach lowered his mouth onto hers. At first, Darlene kept her lips shut, unable to relax and stop thinking: Zach is kissing me, Zach, Zach Livingstone, right now, in the middle of the street! But Zach persisted. His mouth moved over hers, kissing her top lip, her bottom lip, her top lip again, his lips warm and confident against hers.
She couldn’t fight it anymore.
A barrier inside her broke. She opened her mouth and started kissing Zach back. Really kissing him back.
And that’s when things got kind of nuts.
Her fingers dug into his hair, his stupid flop of perfect hair. It was just as soft and thick as she always thought it’d be, which made her feel angry and turned on in equal measure. She fisted the strands and tugged, wanting him to feel it. He let out a groan of pleasure, pulling back to flash her a look of surprise. Not kissing was way worse than kissing. Annoyed, she dropped her hands to his shirt collar and yanked him to her, kissing him hard. He kissed her back deeply. His hands were on her back, pulling her body onto his. The feeling of the power in his hands, those hands that could pick up any instrument and make it sing, made her blood run white-hot. She pressed her teeth onto his bottom lip, sucking and biting down. Zach mumbled something like, “Jesus,” and she said something like, “Shut up,” opening her mouth wider. Zach groaned low in his throat, squeezing her ass. The feeling of his hands on her butt and the moan in his voice unlocked something even wilder in her. She backed them up against a brick wall. Their kiss turned desperate. His hands cupped her jaw, her hips, the back of her head, hot muscle pushing against her rhythmically. She couldn’t get enough, would never get enough. She needed more, more of his mouth, his body, his hair, his hands, which were everywhere, sending waves of pleasure everywhere, all crashing cymbals and crazed piano held together by the throb throb throb of a low, insistent bass, that was getting louder, and faster, reaching a peak—
It Had to Be You Page 11
