It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  Clay put one hand on the kitchen counter carefully. His voice was guarded. “What are you saying?”

  It felt like an invitation to break up: I’m saying this isn’t working. I’m saying this is over. Is that what he wanted? Was he breaking up with her? No. They were not breaking up over one little mistake. Clay was leaving for Brazil in two short days: this was not the time to negotiate new rules, or God forbid, take a break. He was stressed and sleep-deprived and ultimately, what he’d said earlier was right. This wasn’t a big deal.

  Zia summoned compassion and clarity, and picked up his hand. “I care about you.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers. Those golden eyes she knew so well. His walls were gone. “I care about you, too.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He dropped his head, wincing. “I know I’m a pain in the ass. I know this sucks for you. I just… have issues.”

  “I know.” She touched her forehead to his, trying to realign.

  “After this film…” He shook his head, seeming overwhelmed, like he couldn’t even imagine life after this film. “I want us to work. I do.”

  And even though Zia knew their power balance was off and didn’t know if Clay would ever realize his need for privacy was just a way to keep her emotionally at bay, she replied truthfully, “I do, too.”

  “I do have some good news.” He looked almost sheepish. “Michelle’s book isn’t coming out.”

  The book by his ex-girlfriend. The tell-all, the exposé. “That’s amazing! What happened?”

  “Publishers dropped it. I think my team made it clear we’d sue and they didn’t want the hassle.”

  “Baby, that’s great news.” She kissed him, and then kissed him again, and again, until his body woke up and they stopped talking.

  Softness gave way to the passion they’d always had and could access as easy as whistling. They had sex on the kitchen floor. Zia straddled him, rocking her hips fast and hard to make herself come. In this moment, she felt strong and vital and completely in control.

  But it was just sex.

  Early the next morning, Zia’s head filled with questions as she watched Clay sleeping on the other side of the bed.

  What did they have? Was it real? Was she making the necessary compromises every relationship requires, especially one as complex as this? Or was it too heavily weighted in Clay’s favor? He was wealthier, more powerful, male. They felt equal making dinner, equal curled up watching old movies. But were they equal? Was the fact she was in charge in the bedroom just a sexy distraction that excused their real-life inequity?

  Was he giving up as much as she was?

  Was he hers in the same way she was his?

  Beneath his eyelids, Clay’s eyes flickered, dreaming. Her body had grown accustomed to him: his smell, his touch. They were often thinking the same thing at the same time.

  Zia’s ability to be a chameleon had its upsides. But she also had a tendency to mold herself to the people she was with.

  Clay had his needs, and she had hers. It couldn’t be all on his terms. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, she reached for her phone on the nightstand. Held it above the bed. In the rectangular screen, two lovers were tangled naked in Clay’s gray sheets. Sculpted and softly lit by the sun that was just starting to warm the enormous bedroom, as golden as the necklace that always circled her throat. She captured the image silently, twin feelings of relief and rebellion twisting through her. This was how she’d hold him close for the next six weeks. This was how she would keep them alive: this memory, this moment.

  A secret, like so many others.

  After they said their goodbyes, Zia rode her bike to Astoria, picked up Mateo and Lucy from day care, and walked with them back to the apartment. By the time her sister got home from work that night, she’d deep cleaned the entire apartment and had a chicken tagine simmering on the stove. Zia was on edge, hoping her sister wouldn’t choose easy anger over something more reasonable. But when she apologized, Layla couldn’t meet her eyes, even though she said she was sorry too.

  “He’s in rehearsals till late then leaving for six weeks in Brazil first thing tomorrow,” Zia told her. “Maybe when he gets back, I can bring it up.”

  “Six weeks?” Layla’s expression turned poisonous, and she turned away.

  Her sister’s tiny bathroom was filled with faded bath toys. A far cry from the waterfall shower and clawfoot tub Zia had gotten used to. Now that she wouldn’t be back there for a month and a half, it seemed like a dream. Like the idea of her and “famous movie star” Clay Russo was a bizarre delusion. At least she had the picture. And the necklace. Six weeks wasn’t so long. Maybe she could use the time to plan a trip for them—somewhere off the grid that allowed them to do volunteer work; give back to a community in a real way. She needed to get back to herself, her dreams, her passions, her values. Maybe the time apart would be a blessing in disguise.

  She splashed her face with water, wondering if the face in the mirror was someone who could always live in Clay Russo’s shadow.

  Something inside her recoiled, whispering, Run.

  68

  Gorman watched Henry watching Gilbert on the stage of the HERE Arts Center.

  In the months prior, Gorman imagined the opening night of Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail in extremes: wild success or abject failure. The one where there’s a line around the block for a sold-out show and reviewers fighting over press tickets. The one where the only audience members are him, Henry, and somebody’s aging parent who falls asleep. Reality, of course, fell somewhere in the middle. It was a sold-out show, but it was a small theater. Reviewers weren’t fighting over tickets, they were sitting in the second row, and there were three of them. No one fell asleep.

  Technically, the show went well. No missed cues, no flubbed lines. There was an electricity onstage that’d been missing in the previews. But Gorman couldn’t focus on the action. He was focused on Henry. The calm solidity of his profile. His hands folded neatly in his lap. His even, watchful attention.

  “We’ll talk about it,” Henry had said, “after the show.”

  It being sex with Gilbert.

  Maybe it was because he’d forgotten what it was like for Henry to sleep with other people, or maybe it was because the concept of marriage had started to seem less suffocating, and more like a first draft he could work with. Whatever the reason, Gorman didn’t like the idea of Henry and Gilbert. Not one little bit.

  There was a standing ovation at curtains. The cast pointed their collective arm at the sound booth, then the director, then Gorman. Henry whistled through his teeth. Gorman inclined his head like the queen acknowledging her loyal subjects. He was supposed to be relishing this moment; he’d fantasized about it his entire life. But he was only aping his role as grateful, humble wordsmith. All Gorman could think about was if Henry liked Gilbert, and how monumentally awful that would be, and honestly, it was incredibly annoying.

  “What’d you think?” Gorman asked as everyone started hunting around for their coats.

  “Babe, it was brilliant!” Henry sounded genuinely enthusiastic. “A lot funnier than I was expecting, and the scene where Egor comes out to his mother?” He shook his head in awe. “I got chills.”

  “No,” Gorman said, feeling oddly urgent, “what did you think of Gilbert?”

  Henry looked surprised, but then everyone was up and crowding toward the small playhouse bar. Someone pushed a drink in his hand, wanting to talk about the play.

  “Henry,” Gorman tried again. “What did—”

  “Gor!” Henry laughed. “It’s your night.” He indicated the throng of people around them, their gazes fixed on Gorman. “Enjoy it. That’s an order.”

  Because Henry was usually right about most things, Gorman put the issue aside and found himself the center of a large, lovely circle of praise and adoration. So funny! and My mother was exactly the same, and I can’t believe I’m talking to the playwright! The validat
ion filled him up like helium, expanding him in all directions. It was summer in Paris and box seats at the opera and cocktails by a pool with a view of the Pacific.

  As the bar called last drinks, Gilbert popped up in front of him, flushed and happy. “We’re gonna go dancing.” He indicated a trio of the younger actors. “You and Henry have to come.”

  Gilbert had never invited him out dancing. It was all happening. Gorman expected Henry to wrinkle his nose—dancing, on a Tuesday?—but his eyes widened and he nodded eagerly.

  They all ended up on line for a West Village club Gorman had never heard of. A rumor skipped up the queue it’d be an hour wait. Gorman dimly recalled waiting this long when he was Gilbert’s age. Gossiping and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes with his catty, gorgeous friends, feeling anxious and expansive about the night ahead. Tomorrow wasn’t a concern back then. But that was a very long time ago.

  In front of them, Gilbert sucked on a JUUL, billowing out saccharine-flavored smoke. He offered it to Gorman and Henry. They both shook their heads and exchanged a private smile. Kids.

  Henry slipped his arm through Gorman’s, snuggling closer. “So, what’s your next play about, handsome?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I’ll write another one.” Lightning only strikes once, right?

  Henry elbowed him. “What? You have to!”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  Gorman felt oddly shy. The whole night was still so unbelievable. “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll make it happen.”

  “What about the shop?”

  Henry’s eyes were soft and full of pride. “The shop makes me happy. This makes you happy.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Gorman swelled with gratitude. He kissed Henry on the mouth and inhaled his shampoo: basil and lemon. He never got sick of that smell. He liked it every time.

  The line shuffled forward, but there were still twenty people in front of them. What were they waiting for? A noisy club playing songs he didn’t know, selling overpriced drinks, full of people three decades younger than him? Gilbert dancing with Henry? Kissing Henry? Taking Henry back to some poky little studio? “Do you really want to go to a club, Choo-Choo?”

  “Not especially,” said Henry, “I thought you wanted to go.”

  “Let’s go home.” Gorman took Henry’s hand. “I only want to be with you.”

  69

  The next morning, Zia took her time cycling home from her sister’s, relishing the feeling of fresh air on her arms and in her lungs. Whenever she and Clay took a car, it was a monstrous black Suburban with tinted windows, entered and exited in an underground parking lot. Being on a bike felt like flying. Clay would be at the airport by now and already, she was enjoying the mental break. She picked up some groceries from the bodega, and on a whim, a bright bunch of flowers for Darlene. She locked up her bike, sidestepping a couple of tourists with bulky SLR cameras, heads buried in their phones. Look around you, she wanted to tell them. The world is beautiful—you’re missing it.

  She unlocked their front door and bumped it open with her hip. She’d cook tonight and catch up with Darlene. Maybe a sheet mask, a podcast, paint her toenails red—

  “Zia!” Darlene thundered down the hallway from her bedroom in a panic. “I called you a million times!”

  Zia dropped the bag of groceries on the floor, her adrenaline spiking. Her mom. Layla. Darlene’s parents. Zach. “What, what’s happened?”

  Darlene shoved her phone in Zia’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t have—you didn’t, right? It’s everywhere, just now, like, five minutes ago.”

  Darlene’s phone was larger than her own. Which meant the picture of her and Clay—the picture she’d taken yesterday morning—looked even more luminous. Even more gorgeous. It was closer cropped and color corrected to enrich the golden-morning light slanting over their forms. Impossibly, she met her own eyes, as the Zia on the screen stared directly at her. Her breasts were wrapped tight in the gray sheet, looking large and voluptuous, her legs tucked to one side. Next to her on the bed, Clay was still fast asleep.

  Still completely naked.

  Horror jammed itself in her chest and split her open.

  Zia had only been half aware of the fact Clay’s penis was visible in the photograph. They often slept naked, and his impressive form had become familiar to her, no longer eliciting the same giddy excitement it did months ago. But now, Clay’s penile presence was horrifically underlined. A black star was placed over her boyfriend’s nether regions, its size indicating Clay’s own.

  But this couldn’t be on Darlene’s phone. Because that meant… Zia stabbed at the screen, swiping frantically until a gaudy celebrity gossip website popped up. Exclusive! Clay Russo and sexy new girlfriend Zia Ruiz get steamy at home! Sound fell away as Zia scanned the article, only registering snippets. This exclusive picture… the star’s impressive, er, physique… Ruiz, 27, met at a wedding she was working at… clearly a scorching hot new couple! At the bottom of the article were social media share buttons. Published seven minutes ago, the article already had 23.4K Facebook shares. As Zia watched, the number changed. 23.5K.

  Twenty-three thousand, five hundred.

  People.

  Had seen that picture.

  Everyone had seen that picture.

  Clay was naked in that picture.

  Someone grabbed her arm. Zia stifled a scream. She was in the apartment, the apartment she shared with Darlene. Darlene was yelling. “Tell me you didn’t sell this picture of Clay, Zia!”

  “No, no!” Zia scrabbled in her bag for her phone. Adrenaline jacked her system, making everything sped up and frantic. “No, this is a mistake, I have to call someone, a lawyer, I need a lawyer—”

  “Who sent it then?” Darlene asked. “Clay?”

  Clay would see this. This violation.

  Someone pounded on the front door. A rough male voice. “Hello, Zia? Harry Garbon from the New York Post, how long have you and Clay Russo been an item?”

  Zia and Darlene stared at each other, both breathing hard.

  Harry Garbon continued. “Any comment on the allegations you’re just using him for money?”

  Darlene was at the window. “There’s photographers outside.”

  A half dozen men, including the two “tourists” with SLR cameras Zia’d passed, were milling on the street below. Catching sight of Zia peering down at them, they started shooting and calling her name. Zia let out a cry and stumbled back.

  Harry Garbon pounded on the door. “All I need is a picture, honey, one picture.”

  Darlene beelined for the door and made sure it was locked. “No comment,” she stated. “This is private property: I’m calling the police.” She pulled Zia down the hallway, into her bedroom.

  Zia felt like her body was shutting down. “They know. They all—that picture. I didn’t…”

  “So who leaked it?”

  Zia squeezed her eyes shut. The truth was excruciating. Not just because of what it meant for Clay.

  Layla had been acting funny all morning—pissy and defensive and then when Zia was saying goodbye, oddly contrite. Zia dug for her phone, as always, on silent. There were fifty missed calls. Dozens of messages. A front-of-house manager she used to work with years ago: Zia!!! OMG you and Clay!!!! Congrats girl, he is HOT!!! Please come in anytime, Chef would love to—

  Zia deleted it. As she did, another popped up, a volunteer she’d befriended in Cambodia. Holy shit!! Ha ha ha I knew you when. Looks like your bf has a massive cock .

  Zia thrust her phone at Darlene. “Call my sister.”

  “This is gonna be okay, Z, I promise.”

  “Just call her!” Why had she taken the photo, why hadn’t she deleted it, why hadn’t she called Layla out on acting weird. Why—

  Layla picked up.

  Blood roared in Zia’s ears. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”

  There was a painful silence. “Zia, I didn’t mean for—”

 
“No.” Zia bit her hand to keep from screaming. “Why? How could you?”

  “It wasn’t meant to… It was an Australian website, they said you wouldn’t even know—”

  “Layla!” Zia shouted. “Why the hell did you sell a picture of me and Clay? That you stole off my phone?”

  “You’re so wrapped up in him! You barely have any time for us anymore—”

  Zia hung up, unable to take it. Her own sister. “I have to call Clay.” She knew Layla knew her passcode—why hadn’t she changed it after she told her about Clay?

  “Hey, it’s Clay. Leave a message.”

  Zia hung up and threw the phone on Darlene’s bed. “Shit. Shit.”

  She could call Dave, maybe he’d be with Clay, at the airport, on the plane already? She had to see Clay, had to explain—

  “What Layla did is illegal.” Darlene was reading off her phone. “It’s illegal to sell a picture you didn’t take, especially one like that. She must’ve lied or forged your signature or pretended to be you. Layla could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll sue my sister,” Zia snapped sarcastically. “My broke-ass sister with two little kids, maybe I’ll send her ass to jail.” She picked up her phone—Zia, hi, this is Phoebe North, deputy editor of US Weekly—and called Dave.

  He answered on the first ring. His voice was atypically brisk. “Don’t make any comment.”

  “Dave! Thank God. I didn’t sell it, I swear.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “Stay there. Don’t answer the door.”

  “I need to speak to Clay.”

  A pause. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Shit, Dave, I need to speak to my boyfriend! Is he on the plane, where is he?”

  Silence.

  “Where are you?” Zia was shouting. “Where is he?”

  “We’re at his place—”

  “I’m coming.”

  She grabbed the largest hoodie she owned and bolted for the front door. The untouched photo, the one without the black star, was probably online too. It’d likely live on the internet forever, always one Google search away: Clay Russo nude. Clay didn’t even bare his butt in movies. The word viral took on a whole new meaning. Infection. Spreading and multiplying beyond control, utterly unstoppable.