It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  The general rubbed the space between his eyebrows. “I don’t think you want an ugly old badger like me up there.”

  “Actually, I do,” Vanessa said.

  He let out a tense breath. “My knee’s been playing up.”

  “It’s twenty feet!”

  The general snapped, “Look, I’m not going along with this dog and pony show, okay?”

  Vanessa froze.

  Lenny swore under his breath.

  Savannah couldn’t stop herself gasping. She hadn’t imagined he’d actually say no. It was Vanessa’s wedding day. That happens once.

  Liv took a deep breath and calmly dove in. “Well, let’s think this through. It is, of course, tradition for the father of the bride to walk his daughter down the aisle. And the terrific thing about traditions is they’re human, like us. They change as we change.”

  The man’s face remained eerily unmoved.

  “General Fitzpatrick.” Savannah took the reins. “It really is such an honor to be able to give your daughter away. Especially to a wonderful groom like Lenny. And as father of the bride, you—”

  The general interrupted. “Can we all stop saying that?”

  “Saying what?” asked Savannah. From the corner of her eye, she saw Liv flinch.

  “Father of the bride. I’m sorry, but whatever it is you’ve become, Adam: it’s not a bride.”

  It landed like a bomb. Hard heat shot into Savannah’s body, rippling every muscle.

  In a low voice, Vanessa said, “Please do not use that name, Dad.”

  “It’s your name. The name I gave you. The name I gave my son.” The general’s voice was close to breaking. “First I lose your mother. Then you go and do… this.”

  Lenny raked both hands hard through his hair. “I’m so sick of this.”

  Liv raised a hand. “Lenny, let’s try and stay—”

  “Do you realize how strong this woman is? How much she’s been through?” Lenny was on his feet. “And now all she wants is for you to walk her down the aisle. One day. One goddamn day.”

  The general’s face was blotchy with anger. He rose from the pale pink sofa and moved toward the door. “I’m not listening to this crap.”

  “Dad, please.” Vanessa got to her feet. “I’m only doing this once. I never ask you for anything. I know things between us are tough, but weddings bring people together. I think we’ll both regret it if you’re not an important part of my day.”

  “I don’t know who you are anymore.” The general met Vanessa’s eyes for the first time. “I don’t know what any of this is. How can I walk someone I don’t even know down the aisle?” He pressed one shaking hand to his face. For a moment, it seemed he might cry. Then the general drew in a thick breath and squared his shoulders. “I am sorry, Adam. But I just can’t.” He nodded curtly at Liv and left the room.

  “I’m sorry.” Lenny was red-faced and wiping his eyes. “Babe, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Vanessa whispered.

  But Savannah didn’t think it was.

  After the couple left, Liv leaned back in her chair, gulping some coffee. “I try to keep an open mind about everyone, but wow—he’s going to make it hard. Oh, well: if Vanessa wants him to walk her down the aisle, that’s what we want.”

  Savannah nodded. She felt the same way. Her instinct had been to hug Vanessa tearfully and promise they would absolutely have her father walking her down the aisle. But she was glad she hadn’t: she couldn’t guarantee that. Maybe Liv was rubbing off on her.

  Liv handed Savannah the mess of sticky notes she’d been scribbling on in the meeting.

  Savannah accepted them gingerly. “What should I do with these?”

  Liv flapped a hand about, reddening. “Put them all into that CMS plug-in thing you’ve been yammering on about. And then, I don’t know, show me how to use it.”

  A huge swell of warmth made Savannah smile. She’d always respected Liv. But now, she was actually starting to like her.

  “Good coffee,” Liv added, turning back to her computer. “Why don’t you make another pot?”

  30

  The sun rose blood-orange over the beautiful, smoggy sprawl of Tokyo. Clay slipped on his leather jacket and checked the time on the clock next to the hotel bed. “I should be back by seven. There’s a gym downstairs. And the concierge can probably recommend somewhere to get lunch.”

  Zia finished lacing up her boots. “I’m going to get the train to Shibuya, find somewhere for a traditional breakfast, and explore for a few hours. Then I’ll head to Harajuku for lunch—gyozas, definitely. Do the Meiji Shrine, walk along Omotesando Avenue, people-watch for a bit, then end up on the observation deck of the Mori Tower for sunset and a sake. But I’d love to meet you for dinner.”

  Clay looked, frankly, amazed.

  Tokyo exceeded Zia’s expectations. The person she became when far from home was her template for living: open and good-humored, confident and curious. She loved who she was when the only agenda was learning, experiencing, and stepping outside the day-to-day. Her senses felt sharper, treated to the smell of salty miso, the taste of chewy ramen, the sight of so much color and life.

  Spending time with Clay was effortless, a new language she somehow spoke fluidly. When he slipped his fingers into hers as they explored the crowded Shinjuku Chuo Park market, browsing vintage kimonos and 1950s toys, it didn’t even register it was the first time they were holding hands. It just felt normal. She loved watching him interact with the locals, gracious and genuinely interested. Over late-night dinners in quiet, elegant restaurants, she grilled him on Radical Water, the clean-water initiative he’d started. He was so engaged and enthusiastic about the cause: how far Ugandan girls and women walked to get water that just made them sick, how much of a difference one well could make to an entire village. How clean water was linked to climate change. Being a performer had become a means to an end for Clay. “I don’t want to belong to a world where someone like me gets all this privilege with no obligation to the millions of people who live on less than two dollars a day.”

  Polite servers whisked their empty plates away. Clay wasn’t famous tonight. He was just an American, on a date with a woman he couldn’t take his eyes off. Under the table, she rubbed his calf with her foot. “I love how passionate you are. You really care about people.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course. But my impression is people in your position can just donate a bit of money and leave it at that.”

  “But the planet is dying. It’s an emergency.”

  Zia’s heart swelled, her crush finding more justification with every passing minute. “I totally agree.”

  Clay kept his word about separate beds, booking Zia her own room. On the second night, she joined him in his bed, and they made love. It was as exhilarating as discovering the new country she was in. Their mutual desire, impassioned and primal, felt like delicious delirium. She came first. And then, again. Afterward, as they lay together in a newly vulnerable space, Clay shared that he liked to be dominated.

  “Dominated?” Zia repeated, stunned. “Like, S and M?”

  He shrugged, tracing his fingers up and down her arms. “I call it power play, but you could call it that.”

  Zia had been dominated in bed, but not in a “power play” way. In a sex-with-an-asshole way. “I’ve never really done anything like that.”

  Clay explained that kink was about communication and boundaries. If she wasn’t into it, no problem. If it didn’t feel good, they’d stop. They’d have a safe word. He was direct and unembarrassed, but he wasn’t trying to talk her into it. If she was curious, they could try it. Baby steps. “Maybe, when we’re back in New York,” he offered.

  Zia pictured handcuffing Clay to the bed. Telling him what he could and couldn’t do. The idea felt like a piece of heavy furniture being moved out of her way. “Maybe.”

  The more Zia thought about calling the shots in the bedroom, dictating when he came, when she came, the more s
he liked it. Intriguing, tantalizing, but also safe. On their last night in Tokyo, she sashayed into his room, wearing just the hotel dressing robe. He grinned and went to tug it open.

  “Uh-uh,” she admonished, her heart beating fast. “No touching.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay.”

  “Lie back on the bed. Hands above your head. And don’t move.”

  Clay obeyed.

  For hours.

  As they climbed back aboard the private jet to return stateside, Clay was light and relaxed, joking with their pilot and flight attendant. His manager, Dave, pulled Zia aside. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I’ve never seen that bastard so happy.”

  * * *

  As summer spread itself sunscreen-thick over New York, Zia Ruiz and Clay Russo started seeing each other. In secret. As Clay explained, as soon as the press knew they were dating, they’d be hounded and Zia’s personal life would no longer be personal. Trolls would come out of the woodwork. Her online footprint would be mined for information. “They’d be obsessed with getting a photo of us,” he said, unable to hide his annoyance. Privacy gave the relationship space to breathe, and grow, he said. And they’d have lots of time together, since the job in Mozambique unexpectedly fell through. The project lost funding. Zia expected to feel disappointed. Instead, she felt relieved. Excited. There’d be other jobs, and her feelings for Clay were growing.

  If they were out late and Clay’s security gave the all clear, occasionally Clay would stay over at Darlene’s. Darlene had sworn to take-it-to-the-grave secrecy, as had Zach, who’d popped by one night and ended up bonding with the actor over a shared love of nineties British rock bands. (“That guy seriously has the world’s best body,” Zach told the two women. “I can say that because I’m comfortable in my manhood.”) But usually, it was safer, and more convenient, to stay at Clay’s penthouse apartment. Zia had complicated feelings about the wraparound terrace and California king bed. Her ex had soured the taste of unearned luxuries. The only luxury she needed was time with Clay. Truthfully, Zia was happy to be discreet about her relationship. Minimizing it would help if things didn’t work out, and more important, it avoided having to tell her sister. It was easier to enjoy getting to know an interesting new person, and push the past away.

  “What’s with you?” Layla demanded. “Are you getting laid?”

  Around them, Lucy and Mateo pinwheeled, cabin-fevered and crazed. A summer storm had canceled Sunday afternoon at the park, so they were stuck inside. It felt like a hundred children were bolting around the one-bedroom apartment. Seated on the sofa, Zia lifted her legs to let a squealing Lucy scamper underneath. “I’m happy.”

  “I’m happy? What does that mean?” In another life, her sister could’ve been a detective. She pointed at Zia’s neck. “Is that legit?”

  Zia fingered her new necklace. : the Japanese symbol for light, on a delicate chain. Clay had surprised her with it on their last night in Tokyo. She was pretty sure it was real gold. “I got it in Chinatown for five bucks.”

  Her sister’s eyes stayed on her, waiting.

  Zia slipped the necklace under her T-shirt. “Fine, I’m seeing someone.”

  “Another finance guy?” Layla’s question was sharp. It really meant, Another asshole like Logan?

  Zia shook her head. “No. He’s a… gardener. His name is Tom.”

  “Tom,” Layla repeated the name, testing for the truth.

  “He’s a good guy. Nothing like… Tom’s sweet.”

  “Good.” Layla swigged wine from a Winnie the Pooh juice cup.

  Zia frowned. It wasn’t even 4:00 p.m.

  “Self-medicating,” Layla muttered, massaging her knees. Pain flickered over her face.

  “Are you taking your arthritis medication? Can I help?”

  Layla scowled and rolled her eyes. She welcomed help around the house and with the kids, but her health always seemed off-limits. “So, what, is Tom really ripped?”

  “He’s good-looking. But it’s not just that. He’s really kind. And smart. And funny.” Zia smiled, thinking about their silly inside jokes and running gags. “But he’s also really sensitive…”

  “Okay, okay.” Layla snorted a laugh. “I get it: you’re gonna marry Tom.”

  “No, I’m not!” Zia couldn’t imagine telling anyone about Clay, let alone marrying him. As much as she focused on Clay as a person, who he was to everyone else was undeniable. Clay Russo had millions of followers on Instagram. They could order takeout from any restaurant in the city and never worry about what it cost. Last night he was texting with Steven Spielberg. Marrying him was as likely as moving to the moon. “I’m really not.”

  “Yes, you are. It’ll be dope. You’ll live in Brooklyn and make babies and become a mom with me. Hashtag mom life. Get ready to drink a lot.” Layla refilled the juice cup and raised it in a toast. “You got pictures?” Zia’s phone was in Layla’s hand.

  “No!” Zia snatched her phone back.

  “Whoa, chill out. Delete your nudes and show me your future hubby.”

  The funny thing was, even if she told her sister the truth about her relationship, Zia had absolutely no evidence. Clay never took random selfies of them, so Zia didn’t, either. The only proof was the necklace, which could’ve come from anywhere, and their texts, which could be from anyone. The truest proof was her memory. Love was abstract: it was a concept, a shared agreement. Maybe that was what made love so magical, so delicate. In this three-dimensional world, we crave the ethereal. The certainty of something that barely exists.

  “Layla, I’m not going to marry Tom.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lives in LA.”

  “LA? So what, you’re gonna start spending all your time there now?” Layla looked testy. “Also, he’s a gardener and he lives in LA? Why is he out here?”

  Zia tried not to flounder. “He’s more like a landscaper. He, um, designs gardens for famous people.”

  Layla’s face lit like a match. “Famous people like who?”

  “No one.”

  “Famous people like who?”

  “No one.”

  “Like who?”

  “No one! I don’t know!”

  Layla laughed. “Calm down! I don’t actually care.” She sipped her wine, amused. “Look at you. Getting all riled up.”

  Zia took their lunch plates to the kitchen.

  Layla trailed her, wiping the nose of a whiny Mateo, whose leg cast was covered in wonky Sharpie scrawls. “Omigod, what if he knows, like, Beyoncé. We can pretend to be his assistants.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We can swipe a coaster or something. You know how much people will pay for celebrity shit online?”

  “Layla!” Zia popped the trash can lid. “You can’t joke like that.”

  “I ain’t joking.” Her sister’s eyes glinted. “I think this is dope. You want my advice? Keep Tom happy. The closer you are to insane wealth, the better chance we have to catch some crumbs.” She leaned against the doorframe that separated the living room from the kitchen. “You still have the looks.”

  But Zia was only half hearing the words. On top of the trash was a scrunched-up bill: Layla’s credit card. Fifteen thousand four hundred and twenty-two dollars. Zia stood frozen with her foot on the pedal of the trash can, staring at the ungodly amount.

  She was used to her sister having problems. But this was a different kind of problem.

  “Zia?”

  Zia jumped. Panicked, she slid the scraps into the trash. “What?”

  “When are we gonna meet Tom?”

  Layla had insurance. The bill was probably for the emergency room visit for Mateo’s broken leg, and she just hadn’t been paid back yet. Because her sister didn’t have a spare fifteen dollars, let alone fifteen thousand. “It’s way too soon.”

  For the first time, Zia didn’t just feel apprehensive about her sister finding out about Clay. As she started on the dishes, the kids clambering over her like a jungle gym
, Layla making more bad jokes about stealing Tom’s clients’ stuff, Zia actually felt afraid.

  31

  Sam wanted to call Liv and ask her out to dinner, so he procrastinated by cooking. Mole sauce, from scratch.

  Each step a small, fragrant piece of the puzzle. Dry roasting the chilis and tortillas. Blackening tomatoes and tomatillos. Blending both with chicken broth. Onion, garlic, peanuts, raisins, thyme, cinnamon, cloves, and spices sautéed, then blended. Mixing everything together with hunks of dark chocolate, more salt, more broth. He’d learned the recipe from his host family when he was living in Oaxaca in his twenties. The trick, his abuela insisted, was timing. You couldn’t rush a single step. Todo tiene su tiempo. Everything has its time.

  Finally, the rich, red-brown sauce was finished and simmering, making his newly rented garden-floor apartment smell rich and deeply delicious.

  Pick up your damn phone and call!

  He paced the kitchen as her cell rang. It’d been so long since a woman had made him feel this way: anxious, elated, slightly obsessive, slightly scared. He was almost hoping it’d go to voice mail when she picked up. “Hello?”

  “Sam!” he said, a little too loudly. “Is me, and I’m calling you, Liv.” He leaned against the counter, eyes squeezed shut, wincing. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she replied, sounding a bit surprised. “How are you?”

  “Grunderful.” Oh, for Pete’s sake. “Great. Wonderful. You?”

  “Busy. Which is also grunderful.” Then: “Savannah, don’t mix up those name cards, they’re for two different weddings.” Back to him. “Sorry. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if”—you’d like to have dinner with me. You’d like to grab a drink. You like Mexican?—“you got the menu I sent you. For the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding.” Coward!

  “Yes, I sent my notes back. Didn’t you get them? Savannah set up a new email, and she probably didn’t—”

  “Oh, no, sorry—here it is. Went into my spam for some reason.” It hadn’t. “Good call on the lobster. Perfect time of year. And green-pea risotto for the vegetarians, nice.”