It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  Honey left to clear a table, returning a minute later to ask, “But haven’t you got a contract or something?”

  Savannah closed her eyes in defeat. “No.” Why had she pushed back so vehemently on sending Kamile a contract? Liv had been right. One hundred percent, absolutely, fundamentally right. The reputation of the business Savannah co-owned was still in the toilet, and the past few months of full-time work had amounted to absolutely zilch. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, you’re an optimist.” Honey squeezed her hand. “Savannah, what you’re doing isn’t easy. You threw yourself into a new job in a new city with a woman who has every right to hate you. You brought in the first client and pulled off an awesome wedding against a lot of odds. We’re always our own harshest critic, but as your biggest fan on the sidelines, I’m telling you, you’re killing it.”

  Savannah closed her eyes, trying to let the kind words into her heart. Why was it so easy to see the best in others, but not in yourself?

  Her phone pinged. A text. From her father. Hey Pookie! I know it’s late, but are you free for a chat? Nothing urgent, we love you!

  She flipped her phone over, feeling an unfamiliar snap of annoyance. She was fairly certain she was the only Gen Z transplant in Bushwick who talked to their parents multiple times a week.

  Honey flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and invited Savannah to hang out while the staff cleaned up and balanced the books. Savannah felt like she’d just been invited backstage. A new level of intimacy, unlocked. She watched her friend expertly wipe down the bar. “What’s your plan, Honey? Think you’ll stay here for a while?”

  “This is the best restaurant job I’ve ever had. But I’m just crazy enough to open my own spot, one day. I hear it’s real easy.”

  Savannah perked up. “Really? That’s so cool.”

  “Honey’s Fried Chicken. It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?” She leaned across the bar, her brown eyes sparking. “I’ve worked every front-of-house job, so I know how to staff up. I’m only an amateur cook, so I’d hire someone to run the kitchen. Maybe somewhere in Greenpoint, or Bed-Stuy.”

  Savannah nodded eagerly. “You could start with a dinner series. Like, a pop-up. Fifty bucks for all-you-can-eat fried chicken and beer. Build a mailing list, get a logo designed, maybe start a YouTube channel. The Brooklyn food scene is so popular right now, and having a niche is smart.”

  “You’re smart,” Honey said. “They’re all really good ideas.” As Honey cleaned, they riffed on the concept. The honey-fried chicken was one of the most popular items on ’Shwick Chick’s menu, and the only dish that wasn’t created by the head chef. It made Honey feel confident she knew enough about food to hire the right cook. Honey was only twenty-five but the food scene was a good place for the young and ambitious; the owners of ’Shwick Chick were two guys in their early thirties. And Honey’s ex was a designer. “You know—for the logo and stuff.”

  Honey had never mentioned anything about her private life. Savannah didn’t know if this was a mistake or an invitation. “That’s handy.” And then, because she really was curious about how relationships in New York started: “How did you meet?”

  “Online. It’s one of those on-again-off-again-I’m-losing-my-mind-again things.”

  It wasn’t a mistake. They were definitely in the waters of a deeper friendship. “Maybe I should give that another go. Online dating, I mean, not getting back with my ex.” He died. Savannah saw his dead body, something she tried not to think about but would come back to her in disturbing flashes. Poor Eliot’s death was obviously why the idea of dating guys in New York still left her so cold. “Think you’ll get back with your guy?”

  Honey inhaled a breath and wrinkled her brow. “It’s a long story. For another time. Sit tight and I’ll get some leftover pie to wash down that whiskey. Then if you’re up for it, come get a drink with us.” She indicated the rest of the staff. “There’s a dive around the corner we usually hit up.”

  Savannah was surprised she’d been deemed cool enough to be invited along. “I’d love that.” She leaned across the bar to give Honey a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Hon. It’s really good to have someone to confide in.”

  “You’re welcome. And don’t worry about Kamile. You’ll figure it out.” Honey topped up her drink. “Go the extra mile. Roll up your sleeves and just get it done.”

  Go the extra mile. Just get it done.

  Yes.

  Savannah swirled the whiskey, mind whirring. A plan started to form.

  26

  Zia picked up extra shifts, working parties and events, in an effort to save for Mozambique. Global Care would pay for her flight and accommodation, but the weekly stipend was tiny, and she’d spent all her savings on helping her sister. It didn’t make sense to text Clay. But while her brain made a perfectly rational case, her subconscious had other plans. Clay Russo filled her dreams. Every night. The feeling of his mouth on hers, bold and sensual. Frankly, she was stunned at the way she was responding to this man. The crush was interesting, but learning something about her own body was fascinating. Come Saturday night, her resolve broke.

  Zia, 8:35 p.m.: Hey, it’s Zia/your favorite makeup artist. I’m going out dancing tonight. Bembe in BK. Wanna come?

  Clay, 8:41 p.m.: Hello! Nice to hear from you. Dancing sounds fun, but crowds can be tricky. A drink at my place? No funny business, would just like to talk.

  Zia, 9:06 p.m.: I hope your funny business rule doesn’t extend to Bill Murray, I love him . I need to move tonight, so Bembe’s my jam.

  Clay, 9:18 p.m.: Totally get it. Can we make a plan for next week? Dinner + a Bill Murray movie?

  Clay, 10:15 p.m.: Are you still going tonight?

  By day, Bembe didn’t exist. It was just a faded black door, messy with graffiti, notable only for its location tucked under the giant steel beams of the Williamsburg Bridge. But by night, long lines braved muggy heat or bitter cold to get into the city’s best global music dance club. Bembe was a place people came to dance. Feel-the-music-in-every-cell-and-let-it-move-your-hips dance. Salsa and dancehall and Afrobeats, all with live percussion. Zia squeezed her way onto the crowded dance floor and let the beat start to dictate her movements. Feeling lithe and supple, all thoughts of Clay left her head.

  An hour or so later, a man in aviator sunglasses and a baseball cap grooved up next to her. When she turned away, he was back in front of her. Take a hint, bro! The man took off his glasses, and winked.

  Clay. He showed up. Despite the worry about crowds.

  He must really like her.

  Giddy, she lost the beat, bumping into the people around her.

  “Two left feet?” he teased, showing off his own skills with a fluid hip swivel. The man knew how to move.

  Zia refocused. She may not have experience flirting with mysterious movie stars who showed up at tiny Brooklyn clubs. But she could dance. She leaned in close to his ear, one hand on his bicep. Still as warm and hard as she left it. “¡Vamos, chacho!”

  Once again, Zia was back inside the music, snaking her hips and shaking her shoulders. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

  * * *

  It was well into the witching hour when they decided to call it a night. “Can I give you a ride home?” Clay asked.

  Zia wiped off her forehead, sweaty and spent. Almost postcoital. “I’m staying with a friend ten minutes away. You can walk with me, if you want.”

  Clay nodded, pursing his lips. “Let me talk to my security.”

  He conferred with a serious, swarthy man, both of them huddled in the shadows. A glimpse of Clay’s larger world, the one that required him to have a bodyguard, edged into Zia’s consciousness. It was like glimpsing the ocean for the first time: something vast and thrilling with an undercurrent of danger.

  Clay reappeared, smiling as he shrugged on a leather jacket. But when she moved toward the front entrance, Clay turned her around. “Cameras just arrived.” Then, off her look of confusio
n: “Paparazzi.”

  Clay’s security guard, Angus, led the pair into a back office. Clay handed Angus his hat and sunglasses. Angus was the same height and build as Clay, and was wearing the same outfit. He would be the decoy, and the paparazzi would follow him back to Clay’s apartment in SoHo, allowing them to leave via the service entrance at the back of the club.

  They snuck into the empty, quiet alleyway, walking quickly up to the street, turning onto Wythe Avenue. Clay was alert, but there was no one around except tipsy locals. Above them, a subway train rattled over the Williamsburg Bridge. It felt like they’d just robbed a bank. She couldn’t parse out her feelings about it. Or him. Who was this person walking her home? She’d been in sync with Clay on the dance floor, but it was clear they were from completely different worlds. The sight of his perfectly proportioned face, a face that belonged on magazine covers and fifty-foot billboards, both relaxed her and made her more tense.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She almost laughed. “I’m just… I mean, this is a little bit…”

  “Look, ask me anything, Zia. Seriously, I’m an open book.”

  Zia wrapped her arms around herself. “Okay. What’s it like being Clay Russo?”

  He mulled it over for a moment. “Mostly, it’s good, and sometimes it’s complicated. What’s it like being Zia…?”

  “Ruiz,” she supplied, and he repeated it, like he was rolling a sweet around in his mouth. She considered his question. “I guess, ditto.”

  “See,” he said. “We’re not so different.”

  They talked all the way back to Darlene’s apartment, an easy back-and-forth that moved fluidly between banter and scattered bits of biography. She told him about the time she’d spent abroad—Haiti, Cambodia, Bangladesh. He shared his work as cofounder of Radical Water, a clean-water initiative that’d taken him to Uganda three times in the past two years. When he wasn’t on location for a film, he divided his time between New York and LA. Zia had met wealthy people in her travels—many of the donors who funded Global Care projects were part of the 1 percent. But celebrity wealth was different, tied to the value of one specific person. Her sister always said, “The only people who say money doesn’t matter are people who have a lot of it.” Zia put this out of her mind. Money didn’t define a person: it was usually the least interesting thing about them. Their heart was what mattered.

  She stopped outside Darlene’s building. “Well. This is me.”

  “Okay. This is you.” Clay smiled at her, almost shyly, his hands in his pockets.

  He hadn’t touched her since they left the club. He didn’t assume she was his.

  She said, “There’s a roof deck…?”

  * * *

  Zia handed Clay a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale as they took in the sprawling mess of Brooklyn, the restless East River, and behind it, the most unmistakable skyline in the world. Manhattan. There was something about being up here, part of the cityscape and far from the ordinary reality of the street below, that seemed permissive. Intimate.

  “So, when you say your life is complicated,” she said, “what does that mean?”

  He eyed her. “You promise you’re not, like, a journalist or anything? I spill my guts, it ends up on the internet?”

  “No! God, no! No, I was just… totally prying, and you definitely do not have to answer.” She held his gaze. “But you can trust me. I promise.”

  He tapped his foot against the concrete balcony that separated them from the drop to the street below. “Well, first, let’s be clear: I’m lucky. I’m not the best actor in the world; every single critic will tell you that. But through a series of coincidences and persistence and dumb luck, I ended up in this pretty incredible job that gives me the kind of life I honestly never even dreamed of.” Clay shook his head. “People talk a lot about privilege these days, and man, I got privilege coming out the wazoo. I got my health. I can help good people do good things. I got a lot, Zia, more than I deserve, for sure.”

  “But?” Zia asked.

  He took a sip of beer. Stalling. “But everything comes with strings attached.”

  “Like?”

  Clay let out an uneasy laugh. “I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful, because I’m not.”

  “Clay,” Zia protested. “I asked.”

  Clay sighed. “In a nutshell… everyone feels like I owe them more than I’m giving. More than I’m able to give.”

  Zia didn’t say anything, giving Clay room to continue.

  “I got a big family and I’m from a small town. And so when I was starting out in LA, nobody really gave a crap about me when I went home for Christmas. And that was fine; we all just ate turkey and watched the game and tried to stop Uncle Enzo drinking too much grappa.”

  Zia chuckled.

  Clay smiled too. “Anyway, so after I did my first big movie, people who I hadn’t heard from in years started coming out of the woodwork, inviting me over, asking me to invest in their business, wanting me to be their kid’s godfather.” He rubbed his eyes. “I am so many people’s godfather, it’s crazy. And when I started to say no, because I said yes way too many times, people got pissed. Like, really pissed. And it’s not just family shit.” He ticked off his fingers. “Directors want more time. Press want more interviews. Fans want more of me. Even my friends want more. Next week I have to fly to Tokyo to do some kind of energy drink sponsorship, which I’m only doing because… I don’t even know why. I hate energy drinks!” He ran his hand through his hair, looking slightly bewildered. “Sometimes, I don’t even feel like a person. I feel like a gateway to something else: money, influence, power. I owe a million emails and phone calls and tweets and favors and introductions. I constantly feel like I’m letting everyone down because there’s not enough of me to go around. I’m just one guy. One guy whose ex-girlfriend wrote a book full of way too much personal information, who has no privacy, no downtime, but can never complain about it because…”

  “You’re so lucky,” Zia finished.

  “And, I am,” he said with a shrug. “So, that’s my life. It’s good. But complicated.”

  Zia let all this sink in. The few celebrities she’d encountered on projects abroad treated their experience like a fun, rustic adventure or a fix for a PR problem. She’d assumed people like Clay existed in a world of excess and gratification. She’d never really thought about a balance: that for every benefit received, something was expected in return.

  “Say something.” Clay sounded nervous. “You think I’m a jerk?”

  “Of course I don’t think you’re a jerk. I’m just taking it all in. It makes me feel… sad. I feel for you.” She peeled the edge of her beer bottle label, thinking. “What do you have that’s just yours?”

  “Tonight. I bailed on a dinner, said I was sick. No one knows I’m up here with you. So maybe… you.” His gold eyes drilled into her. “You’re just for me.”

  Zia shivered with something darker. She had to look away, at the distant city skyline.

  “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  “I know you’re saying that to be romantic. And it is. But if we’re being honest…”

  “Please.”

  “I have mixed feelings about being someone’s everything.”

  Clay tilted his head. Open to whatever she was going to say next.

  Zia had never told the story to someone she’d only just met. And she wasn’t about to lay it on Clay now. But interestingly, she felt that if she did, he would listen. “I have family commitments. Expectations of my time, my focus. So I can relate to feeling bad about freedom.” She could tell Clay knew it wasn’t the full story. But the serious stuff was making her feel closed and she wanted to feel open. She finished her beer and held it up. “Another? I’m still so thirsty.”

  “Hey, what a coincidence. Me too.”

  They found some plastic folding chairs and spent another two hours on the roof, talking, joking, flirting. Clay was different from what she’d imagined, in some way
s more confident, in some ways less. Sensitive and a little shy, but also funny, also charming. He was a person, not a billboard. “You’re easy to talk to,” she said, after they’d finished their third beer.

  “You too,” he said, nudging her foot with his.

  She held his gaze, letting the moment fill with something more loaded than friendly banter.

  He gazed back, drinking her in. He was attracted to her. The reality of this ran its fingers all over her entire body, heating her skin.

  Zia put down her beer. “Look, I should tell you: I’m leaving New York soon. For a job in Mozambique.”

  “Africa? For how long?”

  “It’s a six-month position.”

  She watched the way it landed, invoking surprise, disappointment, and finally, a question.

  Now what?

  She got to her feet, tugging him up. Suddenly, they were standing only inches apart.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Zia stuck her hands in her back pockets. His remained hooked in his jeans. An adult game of chicken: Who’d break first? She could see each little hair shading his jaw. Smell the musky mix of clean and dirty: soap and dance-floor sweat. The air between them thickened. “I think,” she said, “I have a crush on you.”

  “Oh, I definitely have a crush on you.”

  She laughed. Edged closer. His breath ghosted over her lips. “You’re kinda cute,” she said.

  A smile flitted across his face. His eyes were on her mouth. “Zia,” he said, “you’re insanely hot.”

  Zia grabbed the front of Clay’s T-shirt, and then his mouth was on hers and they were kissing. His stubble was rough against her skin, his mouth hot and eager. She let out a moan, her desire overwhelming her. Clay pulled her closer, one hand in her hair, the other sliding down her back. Time, space, place, who he was, who she was, it all disappeared. It was just them, and this kiss, this glorious, intense, insanely hot kiss.