“Of course you do. You’re a great dad with a cool job and who gets better looking with age, thank you patriarchy. You’ll probably end up marrying a twenty-year-old Pilates instructor who thinks Botox is a great investment and doesn’t know she’s supposed to come too.”
Sam cocked his head at her, a pleased smile on his lips. “You think I’m good-looking?”
And because he found the one positive thing in all her prickly words, something warm and wonderful rolled over her, sloughing off her bitterness like a layer of dead skin. I really like you Shit.
Now, standing on the brownstone front steps, late on a Friday night after the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding, Sam’s eyes met hers. “I, ah, got you something. It’s in the car.”
Liv’s heart hiccupped as he opened the passenger door. Maybe it was just cheap candy. She hoped it was just cheap candy. She definitely hoped it wasn’t diamond earrings or, God forbid, a set of house keys.
Loping back up the steps, Sam handed her a brown paper bag. Too big for jewelry or keys. She peeked in the top. Cherries. A memory of asking him about them at Whole Foods, weeks ago, resurfaced. They’re not quite at their peak yet. But I’ll keep an eye out. He’d remembered. She laughed. “You are too good, Sam Woods.”
“Just trying to impress you, Liv Goldenhorn.”
“It’s working.”
Their smiles faded into something more serious as they stood, gazing at each other on the brownstone steps. Oof, he was cute. She’d like to kiss Sam Woods. Yes. That’s exactly what she’d like to do.
Sam cleared his throat. “So, I’d quite like to kiss you right now, and I know I shouldn’t ask because that isn’t manly, but I guess I am asking because I don’t want you to—”
“Shut up,” she said, tugging his T-shirt so that their lips met.
It was not a perfect kiss. It was awkward and too quick and Liv was still holding the bag of cherries, which sort of smushed between them. But it was still electrifying. Liv hadn’t kissed anyone except her husband for more than twenty years. Kissing Eliot was like speaking English. Kissing Sam was like suddenly realizing she was fluent in French. It left them both shy and breathless and smiling self-consciously.
“That was…,” Sam began. “You know, I can do better at that.”
“Me too,” Liv said. “I’m actually very good at that.”
“Guess we’re just a bit out of practice.”
“Well, we can try again sometime,” Liv suggested.
“I’ll hold you to that.” He checked the time. “Shoot, I gotta go.” He ran down the steps, then ran back up them again. This time, he didn’t ask for permission as he kissed Liv confidently on the mouth. Such a different mouth from Eliot’s. Solid and warm. Ooh là là. Her hand touched his cheek as he pulled back.
“Better,” he said, certain.
Liv watched him drive away feeling like a swoony teenage girl. She selected a dark red cherry and popped it in her mouth. Summer exploded on her tongue.
52
The following Monday, Savannah arrived early to In Love in New York, using the key Liv had cut for her. The brownstone was silent—Liv would still be dropping Ben off at day camp. She opened the blinds, made a pot of coffee, and set about responding to the email inquiries that’d come in over the weekend. Yes, we’d be thrilled to help you throw a Star Wars–themed wedding on May the 4th. But it was all on autopilot. Savannah’s mind was back in Bushwick, on a certain brunette with a gap-toothed smile.
After they spoke at the restaurant, Honey shared her personal Instagram with Savannah. Savannah didn’t know what was more surprising—that Honey was gay, or she had a private account. This small corner of the social media universe revealed the real Honey Calhoun. The Honey who drank coffee out of Pride-themed mugs and binged RuPaul’s Drag Race and hung out at girl parties and gay bars. Savannah assumed hardworking Honey spent every waking hour at the restaurant. But no, every now and then, her Stories showed her doing shots with women with green hair and nose rings, Hayley Kiyoko pumping in the background. It looked cool. Sexy and slightly intimidating.
Not that Savannah had a lot of time to party herself. They were still in high season: In Love in New York worked every Friday and weekend as day-of coordinators, while meeting new clients readying to marry the following year. Savannah didn’t want Honey to think there was anything off between them after coming out to her, so she made an effort with texts and popping by ’Shwick Chick when she could.
But something had changed between them. Their usual ease had sharpened. When their hands bumped as they reached for the hot sauce, electric heat scissored through Savannah. Their eye contact wasn’t casual. Everything felt… loaded.
Because of what Honey had said: I only liked it because everyone else did. She wasn’t talking about Alabama football; Honey had questioned Savannah’s sexuality. At first, this made Savannah angry. Wasn’t questioning your sexuality something you did yourself? What right did Honey have to make assumptions about her? She didn’t know her! She was not gay, or queer, or bi, or whatever—she just wasn’t!
But after the sting wore off, Savannah realized being mad was easy. Being self-reflective was harder.
Eliot wasn’t a typical alpha male—he looked nothing like the man in the center of her New York vision board. Maybe there was something queer, in both senses of the word, about her attraction to him. A departure from what girls like her were supposed to seek out. Yes, she’d thought about kissing girls, who hadn’t? That was just ordinary sexual curiosity. Maybe she wasn’t 100 percent straight: no one in Brooklyn seemed to be, so being 90 percent straight—85 percent straight—made her pretty much normal. Maybe she could kiss a girl: big deal. She was young; it was the twenty-first century; she was living in New York City for crying out loud!
But she couldn’t imagine having sex with a girl. It was hard enough accepting her own vagina. The idea of doing the things one did during sex with another vagina seemed a bit… icky. So she couldn’t imagine having a girlfriend. Or a wife. Definitely not a wife; it just sounded weird thinking about it. She was going to be a wife: she would not have a wife. That’d be like living upside down or eating breakfast for dinner.
There was nothing wrong with being gay… for other people. Try as she might, Savannah couldn’t shake the idea that being a little bit gay was like being a little bit terminally ill. Her parents were sympathetic for gayness in the way people were sympathetic for cancer. Brooklyn Savannah was open to the idea that, hey, maybe her sexuality wasn’t so black-and-white. Southern Savannah was terrified of the shades of gray she was starting to sense in herself.
She had so many questions. How did two women even be in a relationship together? She knew it wasn’t about “one being the man”—or maybe it was?—but didn’t men and women sort of balance each other out?
Or did the right partner balance you out? Maybe gender had nothing to do with it at all.
She needed more intel. As she heard Liv opening the front door, Savannah tapped open her to-do list and made a note. Look into L stuff: books/bars etc?
“Morning!” Liv sailed in, offering her a cherry from a paper bag.
“Yum.” Savannah plucked a couple. “Love cherries.”
“Me too.”
“You’re in a good mood.”
“Am I?” Liv said, curiously coquettish.
They fell into their Monday routine, catching up on each other’s weekends and that day’s meetings and bigger items in the week ahead, while sifting through the mail and munching more cherries. Liv opened a card that had arrived hand-delivered. “It’s from Vanessa.” She read aloud. “ ‘Dear Liv and Savannah, Thank you so much for planning our dream wedding: it truly was the best day of our lives. A special thank-you for all your help with my father. I’m thrilled to say Lenny, my dad, and I are planning to spend this Christmas together for the first time.’ ”
Savannah’s heart ballooned. Vanessa’s happiness reflected back on her, and she basked in it like sunlight.
> “ ‘A wise woman once said,’ ” Liv continued, “ ‘The quality of our lives is defined by the quality of our relationships. You have helped make my life richer and more meaningful. I am forever grateful.’ ”
The two women Eliot Goldenhorn had posthumously brought together were both damp-eyed. Savannah squeezed Liv’s arm, holding it for a long moment. It didn’t feel weird. It felt warm. Entirely natural.
Nothing made Savannah Shipley feel as good as helping other people feel accepted and loved. It sounded cheesy, but love didn’t have a sexuality or gender. Or an agenda.
It was just love, wasn’t it?
PART THREE IN LOVE IN THE HAMPTONS
53
Summer stayed long and slow in New York, the dog days of August giving way to a luxurious September. Leaves the color of pumpkin soup scattered across the sidewalks. Seasonal menus switched heirloom salads for hearty terrines. Plaid appeared in every shopfront window, and it began getting dark at a reasonable hour. Fall, that season of crisp air and apple crisp, was on its way.
Savannah Shipley no longer felt like a bumbling newbie. She’d become accustomed to calming bridal anxiety and anticipating month-out meltdowns. Panicky 2:00 a.m. emails such as Looks like rain and I am FREAKING OUT and Need to change the seating plan again (!!!) could be handled with increasing ease. She’d borne witness to couples in love and couples in a fight and couples who really just wanted the whole damn thing over with. Weddings were the first real test a couple would endure: a trial by fire. At one stage, one partner (and yes, usually a bride) would come to an emotional realization that this wedding “just wasn’t me.” It was too big or too small. A church should be a field. A Carolina Herrera gown should be a BHLDN dress. A jam-packed three-day weekend should be a simple evening affair. At first, Savannah tried to make the changes the bride requested. But after getting off the phone with a woman convinced that her Italian destination wedding should be in her parents’ backyard in Michigan, Liv explained it as such: everyone learns about planning their wedding while planning their wedding. If they could do it all again, of course they’d do it differently, but that wasn’t possible. Additionally, what most brides didn’t realize was, while their wedding was culturally sanctioned as their day—it wasn’t. It was the couple’s day. A wedding could never be one person’s vision. And that was more difficult than wives-to-be anticipated.
And Liv Goldenhorn had seen it all. The more worked up the bride got, the calmer Liv became. She could play therapist or bad cop or soothing maternal figure. Her approach oscillated between ritual and making it up as she went along, and the result made the process feel energized, even when things got messy. Planning a wedding was widely believed to be exciting, romantic, and fun, when in reality most couples found it complicated, tiring, and incredibly stressful. Overall, Savannah was astounded just how far planning was from the glossy perfection she’d grown up salivating over in bridal blogs and Martha Stewart Weddings. Those pictures were to planning a wedding what porn was to sex. At best, in the same ballpark; at worst, a highly unrealistic simulacrum that created unrealistic, damaging expectations.
Yes, Savannah Shipley was learning the ropes of wedding planning. But the arrival of Imogene Livingstone and Mina Choi for one of their last in-person meetings before their late September wedding knocked her right off her perch.
Because the two brides-to-be were just so… gorgeous.
The family resemblance between Imogene and her brother, Zach, was clear: the wide, charming smile and huge blue eyes that sparkled beneath thick brown bangs. Mina was just as stunning, tall and poised, with a sheet of glossy black hair and a self-possessed disposition. The couple held hands loosely. While Liv went over the final run of show and setup needs, Savannah couldn’t take her eyes off the way Imogene’s thumb moved up and down slowly over Mina’s knuckle. Up and down. Up, and down…
“Savannah.”
Liv was gesturing at her, one eye on her phone, telling the brides they’d be right back. Out in the hallway, Liv explained that Ben had a tummy bug: she had to pick him up from school. “Back in a jiff. You got this, right?”
Liv had never left Savannah in charge of a meeting before. “Of course!” Two hands, interlocked. Soft hands. Long, delicate fingers. “Just, um, remind me where we were up to?”
But Liv had already hurried out the front door.
Back in the home office, Savannah gave the two women a bright smile. “Liv’s had to step out.” The spreadsheet was still open on Liv’s laptop. She closed it and opened a notebook. “So: where did you two meet?”
Mina’s eyebrows pincered. “We already went over all this—”
“At law school.” Imogene was as natural a raconteur as her brother. “In a study group. Which I quickly downgraded to a study duo. That only met late at night.”
“And was it fireworks right away, or were you friends first?”
Mina said, “I want to make sure we get the order of the speeches settled—”
“Fireworks for me.” Imogene leaned back in her chair with the ease of a talk show guest. “Nothing for Little Miss Cool over here. I swear, I was spinning plates and tap-dancing for two years to get her attention!”
“It was one year.” Mina’s smile was dry but amused. “And it wasn’t as if I didn’t notice you. I just had a… complication.”
“Boyfriend,” Imogene supplied. “I invited her over for an L Word marathon—the reboot hadn’t come out yet, so we’re talking vintage L Word—and after a lot of tequila—”
“I have to be back in court in half an hour.” Mina’s voice was efficient. “Can we stay on track, please?”
“Yes.” Savannah made a mental note to watch The L Word as soon as humanly possible. “Of course.”
But while Savannah was asking how long they wanted the welcome drinks to go for, what she really wanted to know was how long Mina had a boyfriend for. If Imogene had ever had a boyfriend. How they identified. What their parents had said. She really wanted to know that, but they’d probably think she was implying gayness was a parental disappointment. She was in the middle of a meeting; she couldn’t ask them anything. Stop thinking about asking them something!
Especially the question that kept popping into her head: How did they know?
Eventually Mina announced she had to get back to work. Minutes later, Mina and Imogene were outside the brownstone, waiting for a Lyft. Savannah lingered by the three-corner bay window, watching the way Imogene’s hand grazed the small of Mina’s back. The way Mina turned to her, giving her a soft, private smile. The way their lips met, loving and passionate, mouths open and—
Savannah realized she was spying. Creepy! She backed away from the window so fast she tripped. She was pretty certain spying on couples making out was not part of the In Love in New York offerings. And yet… she wanted to see.
She was back at the window.
Savannah had seen two women kiss before. But not two women like Imogene and Mina. Not in a way that made her feel like what she was seeing was possible, maybe, for her too. Their hands on each other, their long hair brushing the other’s cheek. For one brief, resplendent moment, Savannah stopped feeling afraid and uncertain and so completely confused. Their kiss was a bell, ringing loud and clear, echoing for miles around.
The Lyft pulled up. The brides hopped in. Savannah sank back onto the pink sofa, fanning herself, the heat of the entire summer simmering under her skin.
54
Some people treated yoga like a religion, but for Darlene, it was just a workout. An efficient and effective way to stay toned and give her anxious brain some well-deserved downtime. Except lately it wasn’t an hour of sweaty asanas followed by a mini nap with a bunch of barely dressed strangers. It was just time, more time, to think about Zach. Correction: to feel a vast array of powerful emotions solely inspired by Zachary Livingstone. Crow pose had nothing on this.
Kissing Zach at the Harvard Club triggered a tsunami of obsessive thoughts and wild affection. For the
first time in her life, Darlene Mitchell was horrified to find herself lovesick. And yes, it was a sickness. It was crippling. Against her will, Zach had taken control of her mind.
She replayed every sweet and sexy moment over and over again: kissing him outside Babbo, on her sofa, by his parents’ pool. Doing gigs, writing a song, playing canasta, singing along to Salt-N-Pepa, running her fingers through his hair, feeling his heartbeat match hers. What she could not handle was the idea of anyone else doing those sorts of things with Zach. The thought of Zach kissing another woman was nightmarish. It actually hurt.
And Darlene could not physically or emotionally handle the reality that in giving herself to Zach, she was giving him the chance to destroy her when—and it was a when, not if—he kissed someone else.
If that was love, she didn’t want it. Couldn’t take it.
It needed to stop.
She needed to stop it. To get back in control of her brain and her heart and her life. To be the smart, rational person who focused on getting someone to listen to the half dozen new songs she’d been working on, in the rare moments she could concentrate.
And so, after yoga, when Zia asked her how things were going with the Brit in question, she answered honestly. “Fine. But I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
They were sipping cups of mint tea on one of the communal sofas in the yoga studio’s foyer, still in their workout clothes. Next to them, other yogis chatted and checked their phones.
“I thought you really liked Zach,” Zia said.
“I do,” Darlene replied carefully. “And because I do, and because I’m not actually his girlfriend, I think we need some more boundaries.”
“More boundaries?” Zia teased. “I didn’t think you had any.”
Fair point. “Obviously we’re going a bit method on all this.”
“Yeah, you’re crazy into him, and he’s crazy into you.”
“But that might not last.” Darlene drew breath, aiming for even and objective. “Zach is… distractible. If we focus on seeing the contract through and only being a couple when we absolutely have to, then I get to make my EP, and Zach gets his trust, and we haven’t made a lot of false promises to each other.”
It Had to Be You Page 24
