Clay would be humiliated, on a global scale. The pain of it squeezed her chest and lungs, making it hard to get a good breath. It felt like terror.
And it was 100 percent her fault.
It was a mistake to leave the apartment without a plan, and on her own. The small group of male photographers swarmed her, yelling questions and accusations: Zia, is it true about you and Clay Russo? What’s he like in bed? She made it to her bike, but between the chaos around her and tears in her eyes, she couldn’t work the lock. Someone yanked the hoodie off her head. She almost screamed.
“Zia!” Darlene called from her window, pointing at an idling car. “I called you a Lyft!”
She fought her way into the back seat. In the rearview mirror, the driver examined her. Trying to figure out if she was a celebrity. No, but I sleep with one, and now everyone knows. She pulled the hoodie low and texted Darlene to change the address to Clay’s apartment.
There, more photographers were waiting, but an experienced doorman held them back. The marble foyer felt huge and quiet as a crypt. A fairly famous young actress who owned a condo in the complex watched her scurry inside. She was someone Zia made friendly small talk with while sunbathing on the building’s roof. Now, a slight look of suspicion narrowed her eyes.
The doorman called up. Zia prayed not to be turned away. Thankfully, she wasn’t.
The elevator doors opened into Clay’s apartment to reveal a brusque-looking woman Zia recognized as Lana, Clay’s publicist, flanked by two younger women, a guy in a suit, and Dave, all huddled around the kitchen island, which was covered with open laptops. A tinny voice was speaking from a phone. “… absolutely a violation of statute and total invasion, even for Clay’s reduced expectation. We’re still figuring out if it constitutes revenge porn, but it may not even matter if—”
“Hang on, Kien.” Dave cut the voice off.
Five sets of eyes landed on Zia. Five people whose entire jobs were now managing her epic, unforgivable screwup. She felt exactly ten years old.
For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Lana pointed at her. “I need to talk to you.”
Clay walked in from the bedroom, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater. As soon as he saw Zia, he pulled up short. “What’s she doing here?”
Coldness slammed Zia in the chest. She. She’d been reduced to she.
Dave hesitated. “I let her in.”
“Can we talk?” Zia begged Clay. “Please?”
Everyone looked at Clay. He ran a hand through his hair, his mouth tight. “Yeah, sure,” he said eventually, in a way that sounded like, May as well get this over with.
* * *
Clay shut the doors to the windowless media room. A C-shaped leather sectional faced a TV screen the size of a dining room table. His man cave. His space. Zia shivered. Even in the hoodie, she was freezing.
Clay faced her with an expression she hadn’t seen before. Disbelief. Derision. He spread his arms wide, showman-like. “What the hell, Zia?”
Instinctively she moved toward him, needing contact. “Clay, I’m—”
He raised both hands and took a step back. Don’t. Touch me.
She stood in the middle of the room, wringing the bottom of the hoodie. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “M-my sister—”
“Your sister, posing as you, sold the photograph for fifty thousand dollars, yes, we know.” His voice was curt. This Clay wasn’t kind and gentle. He was powerful, and he was pissed. “Why did you take a photo of me naked?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think—”
“Are there others?”
“What?”
“Other pictures?” he clarified impatiently. “How many others are there, and does she have them?”
“No.” Zia shook her head, stunned at the question, which, of course, made perfect sense. “No, that was… there’s no other photos like that.”
His eyes were narrowed, arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he believed her. “So, what: you wanted to sell it and your sister got there first?”
“What? No!” She took another step forward.
Clay’s hands shot up again. “Don’t come near me.”
Anger lashed through her. “Jesus, Clay. I’m your girlfriend, and I took a picture of us. A picture for me. My sister stole it. I didn’t show it to her. You were leaving for six weeks—I wanted something to remember us, to keep us safe.”
“Safe? You wanted to keep us safe?” Clay was shouting. “My cock is on the internet. Forever. Do you have any idea how degrading that is? Anyone can see my penis anytime they want. That’s a sex crime.”
Zia started crying hard, overwhelmed with revulsion and humiliation. She was a survivor of an abusive relationship. But Clay was right: this was a sex crime. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how h-hard it’s been.” She was shaking. “You keep me so far away.”
“We’re together all the time!”
“But I can’t talk about you to anyone; I can’t go anywhere with you. We never talk about the future. I make myself constantly available for you. I plan my life around you, your needs, your schedule, your rules. You have complete control over me.” And only as she said the words out loud did she realize how true they were, how she’d repeated the same pattern: let a powerful man call the shots, telling herself it was okay because they were in love.
In love.
They hadn’t said it to each other yet. But she did love him, and she thought he loved her, and what an awful time to fully realize it all. “I needed to take something back. So, I took a picture. For me, just for me.”
“A picture that now the whole world has seen.” Clay sat on the back of the sectional, his eyes burning with suspicion. “It just seems kind of… calculated.”
Zia tried to swallow. There was something nightmarishly recognizable about all this: being distrusted, being accused. “Calculated?”
“Yeah. You always say family comes first. I bet fifty grand really helped your sister out.”
The ugliness of it made her gasp. Her shame boiled into outrage. “You don’t believe me? I’m telling you the truth, Clay. I’ve always told you the truth.”
He looked back at her with cool eyes and the fact he was still trying to figure it out made her want to break something. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet. “Zia, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“I need to be around people I can trust. I don’t trust you anymore.”
It was so painfully absurd, she almost laughed in disbelief. “You’re breaking up with me?”
“I’m sorry. But this is goodbye.”
The smile he gave her was sad and full of remorse. And, final. Without another word, Clay turned and walked out of the room.
70
Once Darlene allowed herself the pleasure of fantasizing about a future with Zach, it was hard to stop. So easy to imagine.
It’d start with sex in a plush Hamptons hotel room. In a mountain of pillows, his body on top of hers, her legs wrapped around him, undulating in rhythm, their eyes locked on each other. “I love you, Zach,” she’d gasp, close to climax.
“Oh, Dee,” he’d sort-of-groan-sort-of-moan. “I love you too.”
Moving in together, white bridal tulle, fat brown babies: it was all impossibly possible.
But there was no two ways about it: her fake boyfriend was acting very strangely.
Darlene phoned Zach back after leaving the bookstore in Cobble Hill, to finish setting up the dinner he seemed so jazzed about. But the call went to voice mail and only after messaging him twice did he text back that he was leaving for the Hamptons early and they’d meet at the wedding. He didn’t even drive her up.
It was one thing for him to be distant and distracted at the rehearsal dinner, an eighty-person affair at a restaurant in Southampton. Both the Livingstones and the Chois had planefuls of extended family in town, and Zach was expected to charm and circulate and take selfies with distant cou
sins. But when he elected to stay at his family’s home and not with Darlene in her nearby hotel, she felt confused and disappointed. It was supposed to start in the hotel. She’d booked one with two beds, but she was under the impression they both knew what would happen. Sort-of-moans-sort-of-groans. I love you, Zach.
But now he was backing out.
The rehearsal dinner was over, but the night was still young. Zach caught the eye of someone over her shoulder and called out an inside joke Darlene didn’t get. He turned back to her perfunctorily. “I’ll sleep on a couch. Just feels like I should be with my family.”
A couch? Zach’s hardiness when it came to sleeping rough was on par with the princess and the pea. Something rotten was curdling in the back of her mind. Something she wasn’t ready to look at. Disappointment, bordering on nerves, leaked into her bloodstream. “Well, what about the after-party everyone’s talking about? Should we go?”
“Oliver, you ponce!” Zach called to a disheveled boy about his age. “You’re not even pissed, ya girl!”
“Screw you, mate!” Oliver barreled over and hauled Zach into a headlock. They roughhoused like children, almost knocking Darlene over.
Zach addressed Darlene from the headlock, his face at Oliver’s hip. “See you tomorrow, ’ey, love?”
“Yeah, love, see you tomorrow,” mimicked Oliver. They broke into giggles before shoving each other and hailing a passing taxi.
Darlene tried to enjoy having a huge hotel room all to herself by drawing a bath and putting on some music. Zach had gotten a bit drunk and was excited to see old friends, that’s all. Tomorrow, the actual wedding, would be different.
It had to be.
The day dawned crisp, but by midafternoon had warmed to the midsixties. The shuttle dropped guests at the side garden, which led out to pre-ceremony drinks in the football-field-size backyard. Darlene was in one of the first groups to arrive. She felt proud of how she looked. Zach had seen all the dresses she usually wore to black-tie weddings when they were performing, so she’d gone to considerable effort to borrow a new one for her very first black-tie wedding attended as a guest. The gown was floor-length forest-green silk. Strapless, with a full skirt that rustled when she walked. She’d gasped when she saw herself in the hotel mirror. Now, she was eager for Zach to have the same reaction. She approached a server with a tray of appetizers and was stunned to see it being proffered by Zia. Her shirt was slightly wrinkled. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Darlene dragged her to the party’s edge. “What are you doing here? You did not have to work today.”
Zia’s voice was flat. “Being alone is worse. And I need the money.”
Darlene softened, wanting badly to help fix the mistake Zia had made.
The Jungle of Us had to delay their shoot date in order for Clay to work damage control on various late-night shows, where he endured a lot of bad jokes with a big smile. Only those who knew him best could see how much it hurt. This narrative recast the photo as stolen from a hacked cell phone and Zia as a former fling from months ago. Zia was able to convince Clay’s legal team that it wasn’t her intent to post the picture, an act which would’ve constituted revenge porn, a class A misdemeanor in New York. Thankfully, this refocused the legal team’s efforts away from her and her sister and onto suing the site that bought it.
And Clay was four thousand miles away in Brazil.
Darlene touched her friend’s arm. “You’re not serious about running off overseas again, are you?” Zia had mentioned taking another volunteer coordinator position, somewhere far away from everything and everyone. “I’ve just gotten used to having a roommate.”
Zia looked blankly around the party. A sea of men in sharp suits and women in sky-high stilettos or dresses all the way to the floor. “There’s no future for me here.”
Zach’s mother, Catherine, caught Darlene’s eye, gesturing for her with the wave of a diamond-encrusted hand. “Go easy on yourself,” Darlene told Zia. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Zia replied. “I just wish I was saying that to…” Her words wilted and died.
The backyard started to fill. Fifty guests became one hundred, then two hundred. It was both Korean and Hamptons custom to have a sizable guest list. Darlene was no longer playing the role of devoted girlfriend—she felt like she was Zach’s girlfriend, proud of his accomplishments, grateful to be connected to him. She chatted briefly with Liv, noting how much happier the wedding planner was looking lately. Savannah did not seem as rosy-cheeked. Darlene spotted her gazing at a quartet of cool, gay lady couples, before snapping to, and hurrying inside.
Just as Darlene was starting to think she wouldn’t see Zach until the ceremony, the patio door slid open, and there he was. Her jaw dropped. “Holy Livingstone.”
Zach in a tux? Simply spectacular. Tall, dark, and mouthwateringly handsome. He was James Bond, an ad for Rolex, an argument for dual citizenship. The three-piece tux was the same blue as his eyes. It made his shoulders look square, and his body look strong. His typically floppy brown hair was swept back off his face, exposing clear skin and cheekbones Darlene didn’t even know he had. The entire effect made him look like Prince freaking Charming. How had she ever doubted it? She was, and perhaps always had been, hopelessly, crazily, wildly in love with this boy. This funny, sensitive, surprisingly sweet boy. Her fake boyfriend. Her real heart.
He hugged a svelte blonde in a tight red dress and kissed her hello. Darlene worked hard to let the wallop of jealousy pass—it was nothing; it was a wedding. After the blonde left, he finally caught Darlene’s eye. And yes, there was the reaction she was hoping for: the pulse of his eyes and slackening of his mouth as his gaze dragged up and down her dress. She approached, dopey with desire, lifting her mouth to his. Somehow, her lips landed on his cheek.
Zach stepped back, putting a foot of air between them. “Hey. You look great.”
Great? Not beautiful, not gorgeous? Where was tongue-unfurled you-look-sexy-Dee Zach? “You look fantastic.” She moved closer, putting her hand on his chest. “Can we talk?”
He resisted. “I have people I need to say hello to.”
Ignoring this, she tugged him away from the other guests, to the end of the patio. Her heart was pounding, terrified at the prospect of uncut, emotional honesty. But she couldn’t put it off any longer. “Zach.”
“Darlene.” His voice was crisp. “There’s something you should know.”
“Me first, please. Look, I know neither of us expected this. But these past few months have been—”
“Zach, sorry—what bathroom should I use?” The svelte blonde in the red dress was back.
Zach lit up like a Christmas tree. “Bitsy! You know it’s bad form to do coke before the ceremony… and not invite me.” He moved toward her, away from Darlene.
Darlene tried not to think it. But here it came: Bitsy was exactly Zach’s type.
Bitsy laughed and whacked him with her clutch. “Don’t be silly, Zook. I just want to know if I can use the one in Imogene’s room, or if she’s in there getting ready.”
Zach looped an arm around Bitsy’s shoulder, drawing her to his chest. “If she is, there’s a good chance a lot of drunk bridesmaids are by her side. So maybe I should come with you.”
Bitsy laughed again and extended a hand to Darlene affably. “I’m Bitsy. Family friend.”
“Family favorite,” Zach amended. “This is Darlene. We… work together.”
What? Was he drunk? High? She stared into his completely clear eyes. “And, I’m your girlfriend,” Darlene added. Right?
“Oh.” Bitsy sobered, confused.
Both women stared at Zach.
Zach laughed, as if Darlene had done something hilariously stupid. “In name only.” He shot Bitsy a devilish smile. “Can you keep a secret?” And then Zach proceeded to explain the whole damn scheme to a titillated Bitsy—the contract, the $25,000 paycheck, the trust. It was like watching actors in a Broadway play break the fourth wall and start discussing the
denouement with the front row. “So, we only have a few more weeks of pretending to like each other.” Zach looked oddly, almost scarily, cool. “To be honest, it’ll be a relief when it’s over.”
Bitsy gave Darlene a scandalized smile. “Oh my gosh. It’s so Pretty Woman of you.”
The words hit Darlene deep in her stomach, adding to the sick wave of confusion. She couldn’t even pretend to smile back. “Zach, can we talk?”
“Congresswoman!” Zach brushed past her to extend a hand to a distinguished-looking Black woman in a blue gown. “I’ve been meaning to chat with you about your recent climate change bill. It’s an absolute cracker, but does it go far enough reducing emissions from steel? Convince me!”
What.
The hell.
Was happening?
* * *
The ceremony was lovely, but Darlene didn’t hear a word. The dinner was delicious, but Darlene didn’t taste a bite. The DJ was excellent, but Darlene was too busy watching Zach get stupendously smashed, flailing around the dance floor like a sentient scarecrow, to hear a single note. Every time she tried to corner him, he found a way to cold-shoulder her or, worse, flirt with another woman, right in front of her. She’d be furious if she wasn’t so flummoxed. What had changed? Surely Zach hadn’t just woken up and decided he wanted to go back to his old bachelor ways, apropos of nothing? A large part of her wanted to leave. Head back to the hotel, become close friends with the minibar and fire up Tinder or something equally reckless.
But a larger part—the part that, for better or worse, still cared about this man—needed to figure out what was going on. To parse the meaning of that moment from his best man speech: “It’s a small miracle to find someone who will love you, and accept you, for who you are. Who you can trust, completely.”
She swore he looked right at her, his eyes ice-cold.
It Had to Be You Page 31
