It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  “Sounds very sensible.” Her roommate sipped her tea, looking doubtful. “But I also think Zee-Bot is pretty great. He adores you, and he’s so open about it.” Zia narrowed her eyes. “Is that really all that’s going on?”

  Darlene pressed her lips together and nodded. The only thing worse than feeling like Zach Livingstone could crack her like an egg would be anyone knowing it. “How’s everything going with your boyfriend?”

  Zia sighed. “Good. But we have our issues, too.”

  Darlene made room for two young women dressed in matching leopard-print Lululemon, scooting closer to Zia. “Like what?”

  “I know Clay cares about me. I’m his girlfriend, it’s all official. But we haven’t made any progress on going public.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s always some reason why now isn’t the right time. And being someone’s secret is really, really hard.” Zia ticked off her fingers. “No public dates, no public affection—we don’t even leave the apartment at the same time. I can’t go to any of his events or visit him on set. Haven’t met any of his friends, apart from his manager. I haven’t even told my sister about him. Not that that’s going to be easy. Actually, not having to tell her is the one silver lining of still being a secret.”

  “Why?”

  “My sister is broke. Broker than usual, and I have no idea why. I have a feeling she’ll be jealous. And mad I haven’t told her sooner.” Zia slouched further in the sofa, picking at her cuticles. “It’s like we’re having an affair. Like what we’re doing is wrong.”

  Darlene liked Clay. But as Zia’s words sank in, she realized she liked the idea of Clay, an idea that was muddied by her own feelings about fame and talent and success. “How much time does he need?”

  “Unclear. He’s leaving for a six-week shoot in Brazil in a couple of weeks. So probably not before then.”

  “Six weeks? That blows.”

  “I’ll miss him. But I really believe in this film.” Zia pulled herself upright. “The script is so smart, so intense. He could win an Oscar for this, I swear.”

  Zia explained the film was adapted from a recent bestselling memoir of the same name, The Jungle of Us. Two coworkers at an environmental nonprofit get lost in the Amazon for four months, with no food, no map, no survival skills, nothing. The coworkers, both male, also used to date. In the end they both survive and end up back together. At once, it was an action-packed survival story, a gripping psychological drama, and an inspirational love story. It even wove in environmental themes about deforestation, illegal wildlife trade, and—Clay’s passion—climate change. Zia read the script before Clay, and it reminded her of the time she got lost in the jungle in Southeast Asia, albeit only for one night. She pushed for him to accept the part. After he committed, Matt Damon attached to play the other lead, and the budget doubled. There was already a ton of buzz.

  “Wow.” Darlene was stunned. “Have you met Matt Damon?”

  Zia chuckled wearily. “No. I haven’t met anyone.” She shifted closer and lowered her voice. “I’m starting to feel… not triggered. But not not triggered. You remember my asshole ex, right?”

  Darlene nodded. Zia’d told her about Logan last year.

  “He cut me off from my friends and family, too. And while this is different, it’s also not. I’m really starting to see that a relationship can’t survive in a vacuum. You need the support of your tribe to help it grow. To support it. Validate it.”

  “I’m sure Clay would understand that. Maybe you need to give him a deadline.”

  “Maybe.” Zia looked unsure. “Ugh, this is so tough. Can we go home?”

  “Absolutely.” Darlene gathered up their cups. “I’ll buy us a pizza. Then maybe you can listen to my new songs and give me some brutally honest feedback.”

  “Perfect,” said Zia. “But spoiler alert: I’m probably going to love every single one of them.”

  They shouldered their yoga bags and stepped out into the overcast, humid evening, heading for the subway.

  55

  Unlike Gorman, Henry Chu had a practical approach to problem-solving. Noisy neighbors? Go talk to them. Pothole in the street in front of the shop? Take it up with city council. So when his partner of seven years started spending all his time with a younger man in the apparent name of art, the solution seemed simple.

  Gorman stared at Henry, aghast. “What do you mean, you’ve invited Gilbert over for dinner?”

  Henry wiped his hands on his apron. “I mean just that. He’ll be here at seven.”

  Affairs, Henry was aware, thrived in darkness. In secret. If Liv had overseen Eliot and Savannah’s affair, things might’ve turned out a lot differently. In meeting Gilbert, Henry intended for everything to get out in the open. Henry could clarify his needs, and if it came to it, they’d establish the boundaries for Gorman and Gilbert’s sexual relationship. Possibly—hopefully—the excitement Gilbert stoked in Gorman’s mind would disappear, just as the fear of the boogeyman vanishes when the dark becomes light.

  The doorbell rang at 7:22 p.m. Gorman was on his second martini, clearly nervous.

  Henry was expecting someone cute—Gorman had good taste. But even Henry had to admit, the young man standing on the doorstep was exceptionally good-looking. Buff and sandy-blond with a cute, chipper grin.

  Gilbert stepped inside. “Sorry, just realized I didn’t bring anything. So rude!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Gorman at the same time Henry said, “No, no, it’s fine.”

  Gilbert unzipped a windbreaker to reveal a T-shirt that read Supergay! in rainbow letters, taking in the apartment with wide eyes. “Omigod, I love your place. It’s massive!”

  “Crostini?” Henry extended a tray at the same time Gorman said, “What would you like to drink?”

  They made it through appetizers, then sat down to dinner. Gilbert praised the food, and the flower arrangement, and Henry’s haircut. By the time they moved on to dessert, Henry’s nerves had settled. He could see Gilbert’s allure—beyond his physical appeal, the young man gave the impression of being slightly in awe of everything around him, while simultaneously exuding unaffected confidence. Gilbert wanted to know all about Henry’s life, from growing up in Flushing to opening a flower shop in gentrified Brooklyn. Gorman was atypically quiet as Henry answered Gilbert’s many questions, even as Henry tried to draw him into the conversation. Poor Gor was probably used to being the sole object of Gilbert’s flattering fascination.

  They retired to the living room. Henry put on a Patsy Cline record and splashed brandy into three glasses. Gilbert curled up on the carpet going through the record collection. Gorman and Henry sat on the couch, watching him.

  “Ooh, Sam Smith.” Gilbert flipped the sleeve over. “Love them.”

  Henry felt pleased. That was his. “You have good taste.”

  “Obviously,” Gilbert joked. “I’m doing your husband’s play.”

  “Oh,” said Henry, “we’re not actually…”

  “Married,” Gorman finished. “Or, um, monogamous.”

  Henry gave Gorman an unimpressed look. Not the most elegant way to bring it up.

  Gorman returned it with a tiny shrug.

  “What about you?” Henry turned back to Gilbert, whose attention was a little too deliberately on the records. “Boyfriend?”

  Gilbert shook his head. “I basically just got here, you know? So I’m just, like, having fun. This is really good brandy, by the way,” he added, finishing his glass.

  “Let me top you up.” Henry took his glass, heading into the kitchen. Alone for a moment, he placed both hands on the counter, regretting drinking so much during dinner. His head was swimming, and he was half expecting to return to the sight of a shirtless Gilbert poured into the lap of his partner. Which felt one part exciting, two parts bewildering, and ten parts awful.

  I’ll say this for monogamy. The rules are much simpler.

  A noise behind him.

  Gilbert, coming at him fast an
d hard like a gay Terminator. Gilbert’s mouth was on his, kissing him.

  “Oh—ugh!” Henry stumbled back against the corner.

  Gilbert looked horrified. “Sorry. Omigod. I thought—”

  “Sorry.” Henry touched his mouth, the kiss lingering on his lips. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Sorry.” Gorman appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “I thought,” Henry managed, “we thought you were interested in…”

  “Me,” Gorman finished, mortified.

  “Oh gosh, no,” Gilbert said in a rush. “No offense, but you kind of remind me of my dad.”

  Gorman’s cheeks turned hot pink.

  “But if you guys are open,” Gilbert continued, “Henry…?”

  “Me?” Henry felt like the underdog nominee whose name had just been read onstage.

  “Think about it.” Gilbert started hurriedly backing toward the door, only pausing to slip on his windbreaker. “Thanks for dinner, it was yum. See you at rehearsals next week, Gor.” The front door banged shut behind him.

  Gorman’s shoulders slumped. He removed his kerchief and wiped his forehead. The rejection had clearly stripped him of confidence, leaving him looking less vintage, more secondhand. “Well, that was humiliating. What are you laughing at?”

  “I don’t know.” Henry wiped a tear from his eye, unsure if it was from hilarity or grief. “I think I’m in shock.”

  “Obviously, you’re not going to do it,” Gorman said. “Him, I mean.”

  “Why not?”

  Gorman blinked. “Because… Well, because…”

  Henry picked up his brandy glass. One more nightcap before bed? Why not. “Like Gilbert suggested: I’ll think about it.”

  56

  There were many differences between dating in your midtwenties versus your (very) late forties. For one, transparency. When Liv and Eliot started hanging out, spontaneity was king and caring was deeply uncool. Both parties outdid each other in portraying who cared less about whether the relationship would “be anything” as the twin forces of lust and anxiety writhed around each other like battling serpents. But Liv and Sam had to make plans weeks in advance, negotiating the demanding schedules of their kids and work and therapy sessions and grocery runs. The mystery was muted. At first Liv wondered if this would make it less exciting. But her bandwidth for exciting was limited, and really, exciting was just another word for “tense.” Transparency was calming. Liv needed calm.

  Another difference was pace. They had not yet had sex. When Eliot died, Liv honestly believed she’d never have sex again. Whenever she wanted to feel bad—and that want came often last winter—she’d remind herself of the painful prophecy and dig the knife a little deeper: You are alone. You will always be alone.

  Now, her body was starting to thaw. She liked kissing Sam. Very much. He was bigger than Eliot but gentler, less urgent. If Eliot was a lithe and wily cheetah, Sam was a solid, self-assured lion. As the late-summer air took on the texture of fur, tenderness gave way to passion and a primal, driving need that left them panting and hungry and unfulfilled.

  “Do you think we’re…” Liv did the top buttons of her shirt up, another fumbly make-out session cut short by Ben calling from his bedroom after a bad dream. “… um… ready—”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “A thousand percent.”

  Liv laughed at his certainty. “Okay. Let’s find a date.”

  Sam made a low noise and pulled her close for a kiss. Not his usual good night kiss. A searching, openmouthed kiss that included one thumb brushed over a decidedly erect nipple.

  Oh, yes. Liv’s sex days were not over yet.

  They made a plan. For a weekend when Claudia had custody of Dottie, and Ben could sleep over at his grandmother’s. A plan with enough time for Liv to fit in a few workouts and buy impractical lingerie and raze the jungle sprouting between her legs. Liv purchased the underwear online, squinting at the tanned leather stomach of the child-model in an effort to picture it on her own, normal body. Working out was harder. Gyms were made for people under forty who were already in shape. Liv wanted a toned tummy, but her greatest ab workout was sneezing.

  “Come for a run with me!” Savannah jogged in place in the office doorway, a headband keeping a tight blond ponytail off her face. She was wearing a lot less makeup these days. It didn’t just make her look prettier. It made her look more confident, somehow. “It’s lovely out!”

  Day after day, Liv found an excuse—emails to send, vendors to call. But as Sex Date crept closer, and Savannah kept pestering, Liv finally broke down. She unearthed sneakers that hadn’t been worn since Obama was president and joined Savannah for a very slow, very difficult run-walk.

  “I’d forgotten… how hard… this is,” Liv managed between pants. Her face was on fire.

  Savannah kept pace with her. “It’s just practice, Liv! You’re doing great!”

  “I want… to die.”

  Savannah laughed gaily. “I had a thought about Eliot. Something that might help you get to the bottom of why everything worked out the way it did. Why don’t you try asking Google for his Gmail password?”

  Liv pictured scaling a mountain to find a socially awkward thirty-year-old in sneakers at its peak: Please, Mr. Google, I’m old: help me? “Sounds hard.”

  “Not really.” Naturally Savannah had already researched exactly how this was done: copy of the death certificate, proof of an email exchange between Liv and Eliot. “Maybe there’d be something in his in-box that would explain the will.”

  It was not a prospect Liv coveted: reading Eliot’s flirtatious messages to a naive Savannah, sandwiched in between the terse updates to his wife.

  “I can do the application,” Savannah offered.

  “Fine,” Liv puffed. “Ooh. I think I have a stitch.” They’d gone two blocks.

  The days fell away:

  Sex Date was next week.

  Sex Date was tomorrow.

  Sex Date was tonight.

  Liv woke with a palatable feeling of dread. Snap out of it, she told herself. This is supposed to be fun! Relax!

  But she couldn’t. Fear hung around her like a watchful black crow. No matter how busy she made herself with washing the sheets and applying various serums and dropping off Ben at her mother’s, the dark bird was there. Judging her jiggling belly and post-childbirth vagina, which felt roomy enough to house an entire murder of crows. What if it wasn’t as good as sex with Eliot? What if it was better? What if she couldn’t get into it, or got too into it and said, “I love you!” when she really meant, “I’m coming!” She knew she needed to calm down and be an adult about the whole thing. But sometimes being a calm adult was really hard, and it was a lot easier to be a panicked non-adult.

  As the sky darkened, Liv slipped into a robe, then jeans, then back into the robe. Mild panic upgraded itself to borderline terror. She needed something to take the edge off.

  She couldn’t remember who’d given her the joint: it’d appeared in the foggy non-time immediately following Eliot’s death. Liv was an uncommitted weed smoker in her youth, but stopped altogether while trying to conceive and never got back into it. Back then, everyone smoked limp little joints that got disgustingly damp at the filter when passed around. But this elegantly rolled object looked factory-perfect and made getting baked seem extremely sophisticated.

  Liv lit it and took a tiny hit. Easy enough. She poured herself a glass of wine, which disappeared in no time, so she poured herself another. That was one of the pleasures of drinking at home—a country club pour every time. But the wine barely made a dent in her nerves, and the weed, well, that didn’t seem to be working at all. Sam would be there in less than thirty minutes, and she was still jumpy with nerves.

  Screw it.

  She took a longer, deeper drag, and then one more for good measure, enjoying the way it burned her throat and made her eyes water. That meant it was working.

  Relax, she instructed herself, bringing the wineglass to her l
ips. Relax.

  57

  The Strand bookstore on Broadway was packed and buzzy by the time Darlene and Zach arrived. Zach hadn’t RSVP’d, but after he turned on the charm for the woman with the clipboard, the sold-out event wasn’t sold-out for him. Oddly, Darlene seemed irritated by this.

  The book launch wasn’t a date. It was a punishment. And Zach had no idea why.

  Things with Darlene had gotten a little… cool. It might be his dumb paranoia, but she seemed to take a giant step away from him after The Kiss That Mattered. The first kiss they hadn’t documented for social media (and what a handy excuse that’d turned out to be). The first kiss where he let her have him, all of him, every desperate, driving, needy part of him… but then she’d backed off. Not disappeared, they were still in their stupid fake relationship, which he was both annoyed by and thankful for. But she was no longer asking him to kiss her, with those blown dark eyes and pink parted lips. Instead, he’d begged to be her plus-one for a book launch. Not just any book launch. Awful Charles’s book launch. Her ex.

  “He’s in conversation with Rachel Maddow,” Darlene had said, after Zach spotted the invite stuck to her fridge.

  “The tennis player?”

  “No! The journalist. On MSNBC. You definitely know her.”

  Zach maybe knew her. “I didn’t think you were still in touch with Charles.”

  Darlene had shrugged, grabbing a bowl of the shrimp lo mein he’d brought over. “I ran into him. He invited me. I said yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t spend all my time with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re not actually a couple.” Her voice hitched before she regained control. “It’s healthy to have a wide circle of intellectually stimulating friends.”

  Who happen to be your ex. So here they were, front row, in seats reserved with Darlene’s name, which she was obviously impressed by. On the stage were two chairs, a fifteen-foot projection of the book cover—Mistakes Were Made: The Paradox of the Working-Class Revolution—and a photograph of Awful Charles boasting the confidence of a pop star in the pasty body of a garden gnome.