Until she kissed Honey.
Honey and Savannah didn’t leave Savannah’s bedroom for one hundred years. At least, that’s how it felt. Cool Leonie referred to it as love soup: the sensation of being completely submerged in another person. Savannah was in the soup, and it was delicious.
It wasn’t until Savannah kissed a girl that she realized how much she needed—craved—softness. Softness of skin, of lips, of hair, of voice. How much she’d been trying to enjoy masculine hardness because that’s what she was supposed to like. And now a galaxy of possibility had opened up. And it all started with one gorgeous brunette who was permanently sequestered in Savannah’s twin bed. A brunette with Hope’s independence, Faith’s sass, and Grace’s inner goodness.
“I’m so into you,” Savannah kept repeating, as they rolled on top of each other. “I’m just so into you.”
“I told you,” Honey would giggle. “I knew it.”
Now, early on a Friday evening, Savannah admired how cute Honey looked, dressed only in Savannah’s Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt and boy-short underwear, as she peered into the fridge. “What are we going to eat? If I eat any more pizza, I’ll turn into a pizza.”
“I know,” Savannah groaned. “I need to buy groceries. I’ve been… distracted.”
“We could go out.”
Out. Savannah was struggling with going—or really, being—out.
They had gone out a couple of times, to get pizza or happy hour wine. But Honey wanted to hold hands and make out, and while Savannah pretended she was cool with that, she wasn’t. It felt like too much. Like they were on display. Holding hands with a woman in public, having a girlfriend, marked her as different. Outside the norm. And on top of all that was her faith. She was pretty sure her God loved her, and accepted her for who she was, without caveat. But she wasn’t absolutely sure. The hipster churches in Brooklyn were open-minded. The regular churches in Kentucky were way more traditional. And the idea of being alienated from society or her faith because of who she was dating made her feel afraid. Which is why it was easier not to think about either.
Savannah followed Honey into the kitchen. “Can’t go out. Too far from bed.”
Honey laughed and hopped up onto the kitchen counter. “Let’s go away for a weekend. My friends are dying to meet you. You’ll love them; they’re hilarious.”
Savannah had read that lesbian relationships move fast. But this was warp speed. “You told your friends about me?”
“Of course. I was thinking it was time we were ‘Insta official.’ ”
Honey said it like it was a joke. But Savannah knew she wasn’t joking. Apparently her entrepreneurial spirit also extended to relationships.
“Hey, do you remember,” Honey said, “when we first met, you asked me when New York started feeling like home?”
Savannah was too nervous over where this was going to do anything other than lie. “Um, yes?”
“It felt like home when I met you.” Honey looked deep in Savannah’s eyes. Too deep. Way, way too deep.
“I’m starving,” Savannah blurted. “We need takeout—Thai food sound good?”
She was across the street and ordering chicken pad see ew before she knew it. God bless New York: a million dinner options from around the world on a single block.
They hadn’t discussed Savannah’s sexuality. Honey seemed to believe it was now a moot point, as relevant as discussing alien conspiracy theories after being sucked up by a silver spaceship. But Savannah didn’t bring it up because, ultimately, she had no idea what all this meant. Yes, she liked Honey. But was she gay? Bi? Queer or questioning? Into all women or just into Honey? Was it an experiment? Or something more permanent?
She was starting to understand that sexuality existed on a spectrum. But figuring out where she fit on that spectrum felt like seeing color for the first time and instantly being asked to pick her favorite. Honey was gay, and the way she felt about sex with men was the way Savannah felt about wearing flannel: hard pass. But Savannah couldn’t say with absolute certainty she’d never have feelings for a guy for the rest of her life. She knew she didn’t need to define herself, and even if other people wanted her to, it wasn’t any of their business. But the fact remained that for reasons she could name and reasons she couldn’t, she wasn’t comfortable moving at the same pace as Honey.
Savannah retraced her steps to the loft feeling apprehensive about the coming conversation. But as she approached the front door, that apprehension distorted into something weird and disorienting. There were voices inside that weren’t her roommates or their friends. As she turned the key in the lock, Savannah had the surreal feeling she was stepping back into her old apartment in Kentucky, falling through layers of time and space.
The two people standing inside turned and beamed at her. “Hi, Pookie!”
Her parents.
Were in New York.
With Honey. Who they’d been talking to. Her mom was wearing sneakers and a Patagonia vest, even though it was eighty degrees. Her dad was in a Hawaiian shirt. Savannah’s heart started thrashing about in her chest. It took her several seconds to remember how to speak. “M-Mom. Dad. Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Visiting you!” Sherry was smiling so hard her eyes were slits. “You said it was a great idea!”
Savannah recalled an email from weeks ago: Dad found a last-minute deal from Louisville to NYC! Should we take it? She’d barely skimmed it, whipping off a distracted reply: Sure, whatever, great idea. They’d never followed up. She’d assumed it was a pipe dream.
“This is a fun neighborhood, huh?” Terry glanced out the window and frowned. “Very cool.”
“Yes, it’s very… urban, isn’t it?” Sherry added.
Honey crossed her arms. She’d put on a pair of Savannah’s sweats. She looked like she did when serving drunk douchebags at the bar—outwardly pleasant, inwardly steely.
Terry was looking around the loft like he wanted to torch it. “You said four people live here?”
“We were just chatting with Honey,” Sherry said, turning to her. “Now, do you live here too?”
“No,” Honey said, looking at Savannah.
“This is my…” Savannah stared back at Honey. She imagined saying girlfriend This is my girlfriend. Her parents wouldn’t even hear that, they’d hear girl friend, and she’d have to correct them, No, Mom, this is my girlfriend, this is someone I’m dating. She imagined the silence. Twin blank looks. The Is this a joke?, the I’m sorry, what’s happening? The shock. The confusion. The nervous laugh, the sudden need to sit down. And then, as the truth of what she was saying sunk in, the horror. Not so much that she was dating a woman, although it certainly would not be good news. The horror that over the course of the six short months since she’d left her home state, their only child had turned into someone they didn’t even recognize. Didn’t even know. Or—and possibly, this was worse—that she’d been lying to them. For years. Willfully deceiving them about who she was. “Friend.”
Honey blinked. Just once.
Sherry addressed Savannah. “We booked a hotel in Times Square, so I guess we’ll just get a cab? We’re only here for the weekend, but I thought we could see a Broadway show and Dad wants to see some baseball—”
“Is the front door fireproof?” Her dad was opening and shutting it.
“—and we want to do the Hop On, Hop Off bus.” Her mom blew her nose. “Do we have to buy tickets for Ellis Island?”
“I gotta go to work,” Honey lied, backing toward the front door. “Nice to meet you guys. Enjoy New York.” Her warmth was entirely professional. “Bye, Savannah.”
“Wait,” Savannah said, but she was gone.
And so instead of lazing around in bed with Honey all weekend, Savannah found herself touring her parents around the city. It was both Terry and Sherry’s first time there. They were good sports about it, but Savannah could tell they found it chaotic, crowded, and completely charmless. Their jokes—“There sure is a lot of garbage h
ere!” or “I had no idea you could charge that much for coffee!”—were thinly disguised criticisms. Her dad liked the baseball, and her mom thought Central Park was pretty, but the trip asked more questions than it answered. Specifically: Why do you like it here? Her love for the city was a disappointment. Savannah had always believed her parents to be open-minded and permissive—they’d never pressured her to pick a specific major or told her how to dress. But now she understood they did have expectations of her life, as it related to them. And having a daughter with a girlfriend who lived in New York City was definitely not part of their parental fantasies.
As Savannah rode with them in a taxi to the airport on Sunday night, her mom squeezed her knee, thanking her for showing them the famous New York City. “But you must be looking forward to coming home.”
Savannah pictured spending the rest of the evening in bed with Honey or even just hanging with her roommates and a lot of boxed wine. “I am,” she admitted.
Her mom smiled, relieved. “Us too.”
They’d mixed up the meaning of home.
* * *
It took an entire week to lure Honey over. When she finally showed up, the usual ease between them was gone. They watched an old episode of Schitt’s Creek in bed on Savannah’s laptop, but when neither of them were laughing, Savannah knew something was really wrong. She closed the computer. “Are you mad at me?”
Honey frowned. “Of course not.”
“You’re acting like you’re mad.”
“I’m not.” Honey drew her legs up to her chest. “I just had—I’m having—some feelings. Feelings I didn’t really expect to have.” She twisted a curl tight around the tip of her finger. “Look, I get the parent thing. You’re not about to tell them we’re together. It’s brand-new, it hasn’t even been a month: I get it.”
“But?”
“But, I was in the closet for so long, Savannah. And I can’t go back.” She hopped off the bed to pace Savannah’s room. “I’ve been thinking about this all week, and here’s where I’m at: I need to be out. Totally out. I want to meet the parents, and tag my girlfriend on Instagram, and hold her hand in public, and one day in the not-too-distant future get married to someone in a dress. And I know that’s a lot to lay on you. But I know what I want, and I know what I don’t want. I can’t be your friend, Savannah. Your ‘gal pal,’ your ‘traveling companion.’ Not for very long, anyway.”
Savannah’s pulse sped up, panicky. This sounded like an ultimatum. “It’s just… this is all so new: I don’t know what I am—straight and a little bit gay. Gay and a little bit straight.” She paused. “I mean, probably that one, but I’m not totally there yet.”
“You don’t need to label yourself,” Honey said. “That’s kind of the slogan of our generation.”
“It’s not about labels,” Savannah said. “It’s about knowing myself. I’m still figuring out who I am.”
“I get it,” Honey said gently. “But I know who I am. And that’s super gay, and super into you. So either we’re doing this, or I might have to seriously think about finding someone else to fall for.” Honey looked at her evenly and with absolute certainty. “Someone who’s ready to love me back.”
64
Zach dumped a pile of books on the café table. Imogene’s tea sloshed over the edge of a thin China rim. “What the—”
“Did you know that every two days, we create as much information as we did from the dawn of civilization up to 2003?” Zach pulled the earbuds from his ear. “We’ve never had so much bad information, and a serious threat to American democracy!”
“I did know that, actually.” It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the West Village, and the siblings were meeting for tea to discuss Zach’s best man speech, i.e., ensure he didn’t just wing it. Zach’s sister sifted through his stack of books: Lit: Race Relations in America Today, Capitalism vs. Marxism: New Ideas on Old Systems, a collection of essays by Roxane Gay. “Oh, Mistakes Were Made: The Paradox of the Working-Class Revolution. I just read the review in the Times.”
“How was it?”
“Spicy.”
“Ha.” Zach shoved Charles’s book to the bottom of the pile. “Do you listen to political podcasts? They’re kind of amazing, I’m learning so much—” He broke off, noticing a woman with a stroller struggling to open the café door. He hurried to open it for her, then pushed two tables together so she’d have enough room.
Imogene watched her brother sit back down with amazement. “So, you listen to podcasts and you open doors for people now?”
“I’m part of the problem, Genie. I’m trying.”
Imogene folded her arms. “This is about Darlene.”
“How’d you know?”
“Because people only make radical life changes when they’re in love or dying, and you’re obviously healthy as a horse.”
Zach shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling very British. “Well, I think love might be jumping the gun, Genie—”
“Zachary!” Imogene shouted. “You’re in love!”
“Okay, yes, fine! I might be in love.” Zach pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I am in love.”
He had never spoken the words in any situation that wasn’t postcoital or influenced by a psychoactive drug. “I’m in love.” The realization filled him completely, like a soaring, shining aria reaching its fantastic peak. “I’m in love.” He laughed out loud. “I’m—”
“Becoming a tremendous bore and a disgusting navel-gazer, so yes, you are obviously in love.” His sister raised her teacup in salute. “Congratulations. Mum and Dad will be thrilled. I think daring Darlene’s made them both more woke.”
“Don’t say woke, Genie, you sound like a colonizer. And look, don’t go setting a registry up for us yet. It’s all a bit… complicated.”
“Meaning?”
After she swore an oath of secrecy, Zach told his older sister everything: the contract and $25,000. The fake relationship and the real feelings.
“I knew it.” Imogene sounded equally charmed and satisfied. “I tried to get her to shit talk you at that dinner where you won at canasta. Called you a train wreck.”
“I am a train wreck,” Zach moaned.
“She didn’t bite. She defended you. I knew there was something going on.”
“There is. I’m in love, as we’ve established.” Zach gazed mournfully at his sister. “What do I do?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Zach popped a sugar cube in his tea. “Kill Charles in his sleep and wear his corpse as a cape?”
Imogene grabbed her little brother’s shoulders with both hands. “Tell her the truth, you prat. Tell her that you love her.”
“What… now?”
“No, wait until she’s back with Charles, or gotten famous and started sleeping with groupies.” She swatted his arm. “Yes, now.”
Zach pictured it: Darlene recoiling in horror. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Then you see out the rest of your ridiculous contract, pocket the trust, and find a new singer to work with.”
It was Zach’s turn to recoil. “I don’t want to find a new singer to work with.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you stuck your tongue down her throat.” Imogene gestured about airily. “Love is a many-splendored thing, but it’s also a total bastard. It’ll chop your heart out and eat it for breakfast, and you do not want to feel that way every time you play a wedding with the woman you one day want to see walking down the aisle toward you. If it’s not going to happen, better to know now and maintain a shred of your ever-diminishing dignity.”
Christ on a cracker: Imogene was right. He needed to tell Darlene the truth about his feelings. And if she didn’t return them, he’d have to cut ties, losing his bandmate, his girlfriend (albeit fake), and his friend (maybe his best friend?). Why was she being so distant? She still wasn’t returning any of his texts. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself with Rachel Maddow. He did end up getting pretty drunk with her, bu
t only because it was pissing Charles off so much.
Zach slumped in his seat, barely able to get the words out. “What if she thinks I’m not smart enough?”
“She’d be right.” Imogene realized he wasn’t joking. “Oh, Zook, don’t be silly. You’re incredibly bright.”
“Not as bright as Darlene.”
“I’m not as bright as Mina. And she still loves me. Difference can be a turn-on.” Imogene sipped her tea. “My future wife drinks coffee.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m kind of into it.”
Zach gazed out at the street, at all the people walking dogs and pushing strollers, leading normal, happy lives. He’d been one of them, not that long ago. Oblivious and carefree. But now everything felt complicated and high-stakes and horrendously adult. “I’ve never been on this side of it. Never had my heart broken.”
Imogene flicked his earlobe. “Character building. But here’s hoping she feels the same way.”
Zach gathered up his pile of books and got to his feet. “Only one way to find out—”
“Hang on.” Imogene grabbed his sleeve. “We’ve still got to workshop your best man speech.”
Love may have changed Zach’s heart, but it hadn’t changed his personality. He’d completely forgotten he was there to fulfill a responsibility.
“Right,” he said, sitting back down. “I’ve got loads of ideas for jokes, and they’re all absolutely filthy.”
It Had to Be You Page 28
