“Call if you need. Oh, this came,” he added. “Special delivery. From your dry cleaner.”
Clay’s heart paused.
From your dry cleaner, that was their joke, that was theirs!
He spun around so fast he almost lost his balance.
The assistant was holding a tux on a coat hanger, wrapped in flimsy dry-cleaning plastic.
Oh. Right, that tux, the one he wore to Dave’s wedding. He’d finally gotten around to getting it cleaned. It was literally a special delivery from his actual dry cleaner.
The assistant looked at the suit. “Were you expecting something else?”
He’d met Zia wearing that tux. They’d almost kissed for the first time when she was buttoning up the wine-stained shirt. Clay hung the suit up, not sure whether to laugh or cry. There was only one person he wanted to tell that story to. One person he hadn’t spoken to in six long weeks.
One person whose heart-wrenching voice mails he’d listened to no less than one hundred times.
Something stronger than lust was surging through him, building in his chest. He called.
“The number you’ve called has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.”
He felt his pulse all the way down to his fingertips. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Darlene’s number. She picked up on the second ring, sounding surprised and slightly suspicious. “Clay.”
“Hey, Darlene. Long time. I was, um, looking for Zia. Her number’s disconnected.”
There was a pause. “She just left.”
A puff of relief. She still existed: Darlene had just seen her. “Well, when will she be back? And do you have her new number?”
“She just left for the airport.”
A siren sounded in Clay’s head. He stopped pacing, rooted to the spot. “Where’s she going?”
Darlene hesitated. “Papua New Guinea.”
The ground fell away. “What? When? Why?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“Please.”
There was another excruciating pause. “She took one of her volunteer coordinator jobs there. There was a hurricane— Wow, you really have impeccable timing, Clay.”
“Text me her flight number.”
Silence. It sounded like Darlene was driving, the wet squelch of the windshield wipers moving rhythmically against glass, Jimi Hendrix playing low.
“Darlene, I messed up. I let Illusion Clay—it’s hard to explain but I need to see her. Apologize. For everything.”
Darlene sighed. “I’ll text you. But if you hurt her like that again, I will end you.”
“Sounds good.” Clay hung up and whirled around. He had to put on shoes, call his driver, grab a jacket—
Wait. He came to a halt. Shook his head. Took a breath.
He wasn’t really doing this. Was he really doing this? Running to the airport to get back the woman he loved?
And there it was: the woman he loved.
“Russo,” he groaned, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand. “You’re such an idiot.” He stabbed a call to his new assistant. “I need a plane ticket. To anywhere. Leaving from”—he checked Darlene’s text—“uh, I don’t know. Wherever Flight HA51 is leaving from.”
The assistant babbled some questions.
“I don’t know what airport!” Clay shoved his foot into a sneaker, hopping around on one leg. “I’ll forward you a text. Wait, can I do that?”
The assistant kept blathering.
“I don’t care about frequent flyer miles!” He had the shoe on the wrong foot. He almost lost his balance as he tried to switch it, the phone still jammed under one ear. The comic absurdity of it all struck him. He had a wild urge to laugh. “No, I don’t need luggage! No, don’t come back!”
In the three separate films where he’d done a run-for-your-love scene, there had never been any logistics. But this is what he wanted to remember—the messy, confusing, silly thrill of it. The parts of his life that were just for him. And just for her.
77
The sight of Darlene was water to a man dying of thirst. Her curls were natural and she was dressed simply in jeans and a blouse the color of a sunflower. She was the most beautiful woman at the party, in America, on the entire bloody planet. And she was here. In his parents’ home. Staring at him with full, expressive eyes. Zach’s heart, sensing the antidote to its current state, banged against his ribcage like a prisoner demanding sustenance.
“My—my name is Darlene. I’m Zach’s…”
Zach didn’t blame her. What was she to him? What was he to her?
“Ex-girlfriend.” Is what she landed on. “But we also play—played—music together. And while I’m pleased, and honestly a little surprised, that Zach is getting into politics, I thought someone should acknowledge what a unique talent Zach Livingstone is.”
Some of Zach’s music buddies—really, they were Zach and Darlene’s music buddies—called, “Hear, hear.”
“Zach auditioned for me about two years ago,” Darlene said. “He was forty-five minutes late”—the room chuckled, unsurprised—“so I was pretty annoyed when he finally showed up. Certain I’d never work with someone so unprofessional. But then, he started to play. I’d never seen anything like it. No sheet music, no warm-up. He just sat down at the piano and played like it was pouring out of him. I asked if he could play any other instruments. He was like, ‘Yeah, a little guitar.’ ”
A collective titter at her impression of Zach. Mark’s face was dark, but Catherine laughed too. Zach couldn’t take his eyes off Darlene, a weird, warm feeling twisting up inside him. “And he picked up a guitar and started ‘Voodoo Child’ by Jimi Hendrix. Which, if you don’t know, is a really tricky song to play, and Zach was basically doing it with his hands tied behind his back.”
“I was just trying to impress you,” Zach said, and everyone laughed.
“It worked,” Darlene said, and her smile turned his insides into a squelchy, melted mess. “Zach has an amazing career ahead of him as a professional musician, if that’s what he wants to do. And, I hope he does want that, because, well, I need him. I say this without any disrespect, Mr. Livingstone, but if Zach turns into someone who is only responsible, mature, and sober-minded, the world has lost the most charismatic, most hilarious, most fun person I’ve ever met.”
The younger generation broke into applause. Zach felt himself smiling for the first time in a very long time.
“So let’s all raise a glass to Zach.” She looked right at him. “Just as you are.”
The guests toasted him, then his mother insisted it was time for cake. Everyone flowed toward the kitchen.
Zach hadn’t stopped staring at Darlene. She inclined her head, drawing him to an empty corner of the room. “D-Dee,” he said, once they were alone. “That was lovely—”
“Zach, I’m sorry,” Darlene spoke over him. “I’m so sorry for what I did. There’s no good reason for you to trust me. But I hope that you do. I need you to.”
The world around him stilled. “Why?”
“Because…” Her eyes shimmered with emotion. “Because you’re the one for me.”
In the kitchen someone was calling for him to blow out the candles. Zach didn’t hear it.
Darlene continued. “These past few weeks apart have been the hardest of my whole life.” Her voice quavered. “I’ve been afraid to let myself love someone. Let someone love me. But I’m not afraid anymore.” She gazed at him, and it was just them, just the two of them. “I love you, Zach. So much it’s kind of freaking me out.”
Zach let out a breath. The painful ache in his chest was gone. In its place was pure, peaceful warmth. He smiled, and it felt like leaping over a wall. Darlene smiled back, and goddamn she was beautiful. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She let out a sound of relief and circled her arms around his neck. She felt so damn good, so damn right. He would never let her go. Ever. “I love you too, Dee. I always bloody have.”
; He pressed his lips to hers and she kissed him, again and again and again, until they were both laughing, suddenly self-conscious and a bit delirious.
Someone popped a bottle of champagne.
Bang. The starting gun on a new life. “Oooh, yes!” Zach grinned at his girl. “Let’s get sloshed.”
“That’s my boy,” Darlene said, and it was true. He was hers, and she was his.
Imogene put on “Voodoo Child” and people started dancing and things got deliciously hectic and celebratory and fun. And everything in Darlene Mitchell and Zach Livingstone’s small corner of this big, unwieldy world was completely as it should be.
78
“Flight HA51 to Honolulu is now ready for general boarding. All passengers please have your boarding passes ready.”
Zia grabbed her backpack and joined the queue of fellow travelers waiting to board the first of three flights to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. Total travel time: fifty-nine hours and forty-five minutes. She’d forgotten to pack a neck pillow. Or snacks.
Usually waiting for a flight, even a long one, filled Zia with excitement. But leaving New York had never felt so hard. Her fingers found the gold necklace that still circled her neck. The Japanese symbol for light. Every day she woke up telling herself today was the day she would take it off. And every night she went to bed with it still warm and close against her skin.
The line moved forward.
There was no line when she and Clay flew to Tokyo. After getting dropped off at a small airport in New Jersey, they were on the plane and taking off within fifteen minutes. No customs, no security, no check-in. It was less like flying, and more like relaxing in a small, comfortable room. Their friendly flight attendant (one attendant, for the three people onboard) had ordered everything off the menu at Clay’s favorite Italian restaurant. They ate cacio e pepe and grilled swordfish, served with silver cutlery and wine pairings. But it wasn’t the luxuries that caused her heart to ache. It was the company. Clay was so sweet on that trip. So attentive. So happy. So was she. Like they were at the very beginning stages of falling in love.
Forget him, she instructed herself fiercely. You’re going to help people who need it. It’s going to be very rewarding.
The line shuffled forward. Zia waved down a harried flight attendant. “What’s the food like on this flight?”
The attendant looked wry. “Nothing to write home about.”
Wherever that was. Zia glanced around, looking for somewhere to buy an overpriced salad.
And that’s when she saw it. Some sort of… commotion at the far end of the airport. A man. Running toward her gate, a sizable crowd following him. A spike of panic flashed in Zia’s chest—terrorism?—before she heard shouts of laughter. Whoops from the crowd.
There was something familiar about that man…
Everything around Zia warped, and slowed down. Her boarding pass fluttered from her fingers.
“Zia!” Clay shouted, waving. “Zia, wait!”
He was red-faced and drenched with sweat or rain, his button-down shirt soaked. There were hundreds of people behind him; it was like a festival or a riot. Frantic airport security were trying to disperse the crowd, but it was too big, too focused on Clay. No one was going to miss this.
Whatever this was.
He came to a stop about twenty feet away, puffing and wild-eyed. “Zia,” he said between pants. “Hi.”
The line for the flight had morphed into an oval encircling them. Someone nudged Zia’s back. She stumbled forward a few steps. How was Clay here, out in public? How did he get to her gate—buy a ticket? For a flight he wasn’t even taking? Everyone was whispering, pointing, filming them with their phones. That’s her, the girl from the photo.
Finally Clay regained his breath. He ran a hand through his hair and good God, he looked gorgeous. Not because of the golden tan and solid muscles and the five o’clock shadow lining his jaw. Because he was smiling. A blazing, megawatt grin.
“Hey,” he called to her. “You going somewhere?”
“Um, yeah,” she managed, and the crowd laughed.
He squinted at her and made a face. He was enjoying this. “Too bad. Was gonna see if you were free for dinner.”
Laughter and sighs and oh my Gods scattered among the ever-increasing crowd. “Well, you’re too late,” she told him, unable to fight a smile.
“Yeah, I figured. I figured you might say that.” He took a few steps toward her, the crowd moving with him like magic. His tone softened. “Zia. I’ve been a gigantic ass. I never should’ve let you go. Baby, I’m so sorry.”
She could tell from the self-aware glint in his eye that Clay knew he was delivering every clichéd line spoken at every Hollywood airport set—but at the same time, he meant every word. And so it wasn’t a cliché at all.
“I was an ass, too. I never should’ve…” She glanced around, self-conscious. About a million phones were aimed at her.
Clay waved a hand airily. “You can say it. You shouldn’t have taken a picture of my cock.”
The crowd exploded. Every inch of Zia’s skin scorched. It was just so impossible that he was here, in public.
Clay shrugged, shouting over the feverish crowd. “We all make mistakes.”
Someone called, “And you have an amazing cock!”
Clay laughed. He laughed. “See? I have an amazing cock.” Then his face turned serious and the crowd quieted. He took another step forward, his focus only on her.
“Zia,” he said, so softly she almost couldn’t hear him. “Before you get on that plane, there’s something I need to say. Something I should’ve said months ago.”
It felt like everyone in a five-mile radius was holding their breath. Including Zia. She could barely get the word out. “What?”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. Eyes the color of a sunset. Eyes she knew so well. “I love you.”
Zia didn’t hear the gasps and the screams. She didn’t see the thousand camera flashes. She only saw Clay. She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I love you too, Clay.”
Before her knees gave way from the sheer insanity of it all, his arms were around her, and his lips were on hers, holding her, kissing her.
Around her, total and complete mayhem. But all Zia felt was a calm, beautifully clear rightness.
She pulled back to stare at him. Her flight was still boarding. But Zia wasn’t going anywhere except home with Clay. “You’re crazy.”
“And you’re the one for me,” he murmured. “Always.”
And in this matter, Clay Russo was absolutely correct.
79
Henry called to Gorman, “Honey, have you seen my keys?”
“Don’t think so.” Gorman popped his head out from the bathroom, smoothing product into his hair. “I’ll be ready in five.”
It was a cold, rainy Sunday in New York. But rather than veg out on the couch in sweats, catching up on Dancing with the Stars, Henry and Gorman were going out for dinner at Frankies. It was Gorman’s idea.
“What’s the occasion?” Henry had asked, snipping the thorns off a bunch of burgundy roses. Even though the high season of summer was long past, Flower Power, Honey! was still full of customers. “The extended run?”
Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail was playing for an extra two weeks. They’d recouped their investment, and even made a little extra. Gorman downplayed it, but Henry knew he was proud.
Gorman had shrugged, twirling a fallen bloom between his fingers. “Do I need a reason to have dinner with the love of my life?”
And just like that, Henry decided.
He was going to ask Gorman to marry him.
Why wait? They were not bound by archaic gender norms. And ever since Henry had decided not to pursue Gilbert, things had changed between the couple. Become more forgiving. More loving. They bickered less. A certain selflessness set into the bones of their relationship. Henry realized he was so caught up in the timeline and to-do list that he’d lost sight of Gorman. Someone he didn’t just love,
but enjoyed. Admired. Now, Henry was reveling in their relationship anew, feeling his commitment returned in equal measure. He wasn’t letting go of his ideal future; rather, he was letting himself enjoy how beautiful it felt to commit to the potential of it.
It was time. And Henry was certain—98 percent certain—that Gorman would say yes.
Still, the past few weeks of ever-present nerves had made him a bit scattered, now misplacing his keys, which he never did. Henry searched through his bags, and the entry table bowl, and in the couch cushions. He tried all his coat pockets, and then on a whim, Gorman’s coat, hanging on a hook by the front door.
His fingers brushed something hard and soft. A small box, covered in velvet.
A disbelieving smile spread over Henry’s face.
The gold ring glinted back at him.
Not exactly the same as the one in his own pocket at this very moment. But similar in the ways that mattered.
“Find them?” Gorman called.
Henry put the box back. He felt like laughing and crying, euphoric and silly. Then he pulled himself together and called back, “No. We’ll just take yours.”
Gorman came into the living room. Henry’s breath hitched at the sight of him. Tall and distinguished. His man. His great love. And soon, his husband. Gorman reached for his jacket. “Ready?”
Henry pulled Gorman close and planted a long, loving kiss on his mouth. “Looks like we both are.”
80
They met in neutral territory—an organic café near Prospect Park. Late on a rainy Sunday, Savannah and Honey were the only ones sitting by a window that looked out onto a waterlogged backyard. Their cute waitress—muscle tee and a crunchy thicket of dirty-blond hair—was definitely checking out Honey as she delivered two ginger teas and left them to it.
Savannah wasn’t sure if this technically constituted a breakup. But it sure felt like one. As heartbreaking as it felt, she knew she wasn’t ready to give Honey what she needed. “I don’t want to ruin the chance of having you in my life,” Savannah told her. “You’ve helped me realize so many things I want to be thinking about.” She reached across the table to tentatively touch Honey’s hand. “I wish I was in a different place; your clarity about who you are and what you need is something I aspire to. Your courage gives me courage.”
It Had to Be You Page 34
