After ten minutes or ten years, he pulled back to gaze at her, twisting his fingers into a stray tendril. “I have a crazy idea.”
She ran her fingers through his hair, relishing the chance to touch him. “I like crazy ideas.”
“Come to Tokyo with me next week.”
“Sure,” she joked. “That sounds fun.”
“No, I’m serious. Come to Tokyo. I have to go for this energy drink thing. It’s only four nights, and if you hate it, I’ll fly you home.” He squeezed her hands, saying something about a private jet, five-star hotel, sightseeing in his downtime. Spending time with his best friend and manager, Dave, the guy whose wedding they met at. “It’ll be so much better if you’re there. Please?”
“Clay!” She laughed, amazed he actually seemed serious. “I can’t go with you to Tokyo. I don’t even know you.”
“It’s a fourteen-hour flight. Plenty of time to get to know each other.” Clay took her hands, his voice becoming soft. “We don’t have to rush anything, I promise. Separate beds, all that. I just… really like you, Zia. I want to see where this could go.”
She’d never been to Japan. She’d always wanted to go. Clay seemed trustworthy. If he wasn’t, she could handle herself. It wouldn’t eat into her savings too much, and she could trade out the freelance shifts she had lined up. One more for the memoir, right?
“Okay.” She shrugged. “But only if you take me out for sushi.”
“Really?” He cupped her face. “You’re amazing.” He kissed her. “Thank you.” He kissed her again, deeper. “One favor: I just need for you not to put any of it on Instagram or anything.”
Zia knew he didn’t just mean the trip. The need for discretion made sense, but the rule unsettled her. Her ex-boyfriend had a lot of rules, too. But Clay’s not Logan, Zia reminded herself. And she’d promised herself not to let her past—a past that unfolded over seven years ago—dictate her future. “I’m not even on social.”
“Perfect. That’s just… perfect.” He kissed her a third time, and she giggled, giddy with the thrill of a new adventure. And a new man.
Clay rubbed his thumbs gently over her cheekbones. “Where did you come from, Zia Ruiz?”
“Special delivery,” she replied. “From your dry cleaner.”
Their joke from the wedding. Clay only paused for a second before tipping his head back and starting to laugh.
Zia ignored a wiggle of fear in her stomach and laughed along with him.
27
When Gorman suggested dinner at Frankies, “their spot,” Henry tried not to get ahead of himself. Five years at a flower shop had taught him that human beings were capable of deep care and affection. But it seemed unlikely Gorman would’ve so quickly boomeranged from “Here’s a stand mixer” to “Here’s a gold ring.” His partner was stubborn and did not like being told what to do. “Darling, I already have a mother,” he’d remark when challenged. “I don’t particularly want another.” Yet, as Henry dressed for dinner, he couldn’t help but fantasize. A ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne, glinting like a treasure on the ocean floor. The prospect felt like a door opening, and the relief was palatable. Henry didn’t dare expect. But he hoped. He hoped, so much.
Which is why Gorman’s announcement came as a particularly unpleasant shock.
“Let me make sure I’m hearing this correctly.” Henry put down his wineglass, careful not to raise his voice. Even outside in the garden, they were seated quite close to the couple next to them. “You want to put on your snail play with some young guy from your class, and you want to spend ten thousand dollars of our savings doing it.”
“We’ll get the money back, Choo-Choo.” Gorman’s face was alive with excitement. “In ticket sales. It’s an opportunity. For me. For us.”
This seemed like both an afterthought and a stretch. “Who is this boy? Graham?”
“Gilbert. Oh, just a cute young thing with a particularly good connection. Connections, really—he said his aunt could help us find a top director. This could be the first step. My play. Onstage.” Gorman hadn’t been this enlivened since being cut off in traffic by Bette Midler. “They review off-Broadway plays, you know.”
“They?”
“The New Yorker. The New York Times.”
Ah, the lifelong scramble for approval. First parents, then friends, then East Coast media. “When?”
“HERE programs years in advance—”
“Years?”
“—but, they had a slot open in September. If we can come up with the money, we’d start casting, well, tomorrow.”
September. Months away. A server hovered, offering to refill their fifteen-dollar glasses of wine. Henry dispatched him with a grim smile. “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, Gor. Especially if we’re not certain we’ll get it back.”
“It’s an investment!”
“Yes, and all investments are ultimately gambles, aren’t they?” Henry pushed his plate aside so he could thread their fingers together. “Sweetie, I just… I just thought we’d be using that money for something different.”
“What, exactly?”
In the long run? Maybe adoption-agency fees. Diapers, childcare, cheesy matching pajamas for snowy Christmas mornings. “For a wedding.”
Gorman actually looked confused. “Whose wedding?”
Henry felt like he’d just been slapped.
“Oh, oh.” Gorman got it. “Well—I mean… One day…”
Henry kept his voice calm. “When?”
“One day. In the future.”
Henry’s entire body constricted. He instructed himself not to cry. “Do you not want to get married?”
Gorman sat back in his seat. “Darling. I know I have a youthful zest, but I’m from a different generation. We didn’t grow up expecting to get married: that was all bourgeois nonsense. It’s still a bit of a new idea for me.”
This “new idea” had been New York State law for a decade. It was so frustrating being in this position: wanting something his partner didn’t want to give, that society technically allowed him, but didn’t always celebrate. Something that straight couples expected and usually got, in a way that was not just easy, and feted, but also ascribed as normal. Henry felt needy and pissed off and sad. “Well, it’s not a new idea for me. And it’s what I want.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why do you want to get married?”
Anger streaked in Henry’s chest even as he knew he wasn’t angry with Gorman. He was angry with himself. Why, after everything, after coming out dozens of times over the years and living as honestly as he knew how, couldn’t he tell the truth?
Because he wanted children. “Because I love you.”
“And I love you. I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to tell me that. That’s the truth.”
Henry couldn’t tell Gorman what he wanted because Gorman wouldn’t agree, and then he’d have to live a compromised life or go through the harrowing process of untangling himself from someone he lived and worked with, who he still loved. That was the truth.
“Henry.” Gorman caught his gaze and held it gently. “I’m not saying never. I just need more time. And, in the interim, I really want to put on my play. I’m not sure how many more chances an old guy like me is going to get. It’s my baby.”
And it was this that almost broke Henry. But they were in the nice garden of a nice restaurant, surrounded by dozens of other couples who were all keeping their shit together, despite the cruelty of modern life. Henry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re not old. And, sure, you have my blessing. Let’s just keep talking, okay?”
“And continue our great conversation,” Gorman said, with warmth. “For as long as we both shall live.”
28
Liv’s peaceful Sunday morning was shattered by someone pounding on the brownstone’s front door for a full ten seconds. “Jesus Christ, coming!” She pulled open the door, careful not to spill any coffee from her My
Favorite Season Is the Fall of Patriarchy mug.
Savannah was holding out her phone like she was presenting Liv with an Oscar.
“If you think I can read that without my glasses, you’re in for a rude shock when you’re my age,” Liv told her.
Inside and bespectacled, Liv peered at the screen. “What am I looking at?”
“Our Instagram!” Savannah was practically vibrating. “I know you said you didn’t want to start one, but I did—”
“Savannah!”
“And look—we have three thousand followers! Kamile posted about us—”
Liv looked over her glasses. “You’re kidding. Why? How?” Then, peering into Savannah’s tote bag: “What’s all this?”
Savannah shoved the glittery WELCOME HOME DAVE + KAMILE! sign back in the bag. “I might’ve lightly ambushed her at the airport. Turns out she’d just forgotten to post with all the post-wedding craziness. But I offered to drive her home, and she ended up writing the nicest thing.” Savannah read aloud. “ ‘Absolute dream to work with @Savannah_Ships’—that’s me—‘and #LivGoldenhorn. Cannot recommend these two talented wedding planners from @InLoveInNewYork highly enough.’ She only posted an hour ago, and we already have six email inquiries.”
Liv scrolled through @InLoveInNewYork’s Instagram account. “There’s a picture of me on here.” In a meeting with Kamile in the front office. Liv was pointing to the seating chart and Kamile was smiling. It was a pretty good shot, candid and natural. Savannah had obviously used some kind of filter—was that still the lingo?—because her skin looked, well, young.
“There are a lot of pictures of you,” Savannah said. “And me. We’re the brand.”
God, there were dozens of photos on the account. How surreal to see the last few months of her life reflected back in such a colorful and charming way. “Wait, did you say six inquiries?”
Savannah nodded, beaming.
“For partial or full service?”
“Both!”
This seemed to mean—it sounded like it meant—business. Customers. Money.
The elephant sitting on Liv’s chest hauled to its feet and ambled away. She let out a long, grateful breath. Finally.
Her phone rang. “Yes, this is Liv Goldenhorn… On… Instagram? I mean, yes, on Instagram… Oh, thank you so much.”
Savannah whispered to her, “I put both our cells on the new website—” Her own phone rang. Another inquiry.
Liv Goldenhorn still didn’t know why Eliot had played matchmaker in bringing her and Savannah Shipley into each other’s lives. But right now, with the early-summer sun streaming through the front window and an eager-sounding customer on the other end of the line, she didn’t care.
The truth would present itself in due course.
PART TWO IN LOVE IN MANHATTAN
29
As the weather heated up, so did wedding season.
The wedding-planning business was a long game. Full-service planners would generally start working with a couple at least ten months out, overseeing every detail from save-the-date cards to after-party nosh. But while In Love in New York was starting to plan for clients who were getting married the following year, they didn’t have many marrying over the coming summer: those folks had taken one look at the infamous pigeons-and-bees review from last November and flown the coop. It was Savannah’s idea to promote a special for day-of coordination: a modest fee to show up on the big day and run a wedding they didn’t actually plan. This was where Savannah got her first peek into the wide spectrum of weddings in New York. There was the one with the WASPy couple who incorporated the hora, not because they were Jewish, but because the boisterous chair dance just seemed like fun. The one where someone’s uncle who, in lieu of giving a toast, read his recently published essay on the future of driverless cars. The rich-kid weddings where everyone was on coke. The sober weddings were everyone drank Coke. The first dance to that song from Dirty Dancing, complete with a passable lift at the end. They even ran a solo wedding, a new trend originating in Japan, where single women married themselves.
But despite the fact Savannah owned half the business, Liv still treated Savannah like hired help. Clients assumed Savannah was Liv’s assistant. Liv complained that Savannah made the coffee too weak, that she used too many exclamation points in her emails, that she was too intimate with clients. “They’re not your friends,” Liv warned. “Don’t overpromise. Or get too close.”
Savannah ignored this advice. She’d been raised with an open-door/no-ask-is-too-big policy. Which is how she found herself spending an entire weekend hand-addressing three hundred save-the-dates for a tearful bride who’d run out of time. “She’s paying us,” Savannah protested weakly, starting envelope number 126. Her wrist was already burning.
“Not to do this,” Liv said, almost smugly.
Liv was good with boundaries and expectations, even if, to Savannah’s taste, it made her come across a little cool. But it did suit the client base. In the South, you waved at every car and smiled at every stranger. In New York, pedestrians and drivers were in a constant battle for the road, and smiling at someone resulted in an odd look or pickup line. Brides in the Big Apple didn’t have time for endless hours of cozy chitchat.
Liv explained her sales system: inquiry (usually via email), intake interview (ideally coffee, in the front office), mutual approval, custom quote, negotiation, close the deal. Her contracts and quotes were good, but Liv recorded intake interviews on yellow sticky notes, then typed them into Word documents saved to her desktop. Mind-blowingly archaic.
“We could set up a CMS—a content management system—to keep track of everything,” Savannah suggested. “And some plug-ins in our in-box to help keep everything in a pipeline.”
Liv scoffed. The doorbell rang. “My system works. Remember,” she added, “don’t overpromise.”
Vanessa Fitzpatrick and Lenny Maple met the old-fashioned way. Online. For their first date, they planned to see Jurassic Park in Central Park, both being fans of outdoor entertainment and Jeff Goldblum. A boisterous summer storm had other ideas. As fat drops splattered and scattered the moviegoers, Vanessa and Lenny ran hand in hand to the park’s boathouse restaurant overlooking the Lake, to wait out the deluge with a glass of pinot. Four hours later, they were still there. They hadn’t stopped talking since.
Their wedding was to be held at the Harvard Club in Manhattan, a dark wood, old-world social club for the alumni of the Ivy League. The venue was to appease Vanessa’s father. General Tucker Fitzpatrick was a West Point grad with a master’s from Harvard, retired military, and a fan of tradition. “In general,” as Vanessa put it. Lenny squeezed her thigh supportively. He was skinny and kind-eyed, with shoulder-length hair tucked behind large ears. The couple exchanged a glance stuffed with a thousand unspoken words. While perfectly poised, Vanessa’s painted fingernails twisting the ends of her long blond hair gave away her concern.
“All I want,” she said, articulating each word carefully, “is for my father to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I know it’s old-fashioned: the idea of a man giving away his daughter. But it’s what I’ve always wanted. And maybe, it’ll bring us back together.” She exchanged a glance with her fiancé. “My dad and I haven’t really talked in a few years.”
In her intake interview, Vanessa shared with Liv and Savannah that she’d been dreaming about her wedding day since she was six. The vision of herself in a dramatic ball gown of tiered white tulle had been the very first indicator that the male body she’d been born into had been a “clerical error.” Vanessa had come out as trans in college and transitioned to female five years ago. Savannah had been extremely nervous to meet the couple. She’d never met a transgender person before and was terrified she’d make a slipup or break some unspoken rule. But then Vanessa and Lenny started sharing their heartfelt plans for a wedding that honored their community as well as their love for each other. They were excited and loving and clueless about how to pull it all off. Just li
ke every other couple. All Savannah’s worries flew out the window. She admired Vanessa’s determination. The idea of standing up to her own father over anything felt foreign, even frightening.
“I think that’s lovely,” Savannah said. “I’d want my dad to walk me down the aisle, too.”
Liv asked the bride-to-be, “Have you told your father that?”
Vanessa shook her head.
Liv gave her an encouraging smile. “We can certainly help facilitate that conversation when he arrives.”
They moved onto music selection for the cocktail hour—jazz classics that invited (“Let’s Fall in Love”), flirted (“I’ve Got a Crush on You”), and declared (“Yes Sir, That’s My Baby”). But the pending arrival of General Fitzpatrick underscored everything with panicked violins. When the doorbell rang, Savannah felt it like the crash of a cymbal.
General Tucker Fitzpatrick was the kind of man who sucked all the air out of the room and all other buildings in a one-mile radius. And it had nothing to do with size. He was only five foot six, with the compact build of a bulldog and dark hair combed neat. His handshake was crushing. As he sat on the pale pink sofa, Liv attempted light banter. They parried awkwardly for a few minutes about traffic and parking before Liv steered the conversation to logistics.
“Vanessa and Lenny would love to include you in the ceremony.”
“Well, I’ll be there.” General Fitzpatrick spoke to Liv. “Just like I said I’d show up here.”
Liv looked at Vanessa.
Vanessa nodded. Sweat beaded her upper lip. “Dad.”
He tipped his head, indicating he was listening, without actually meeting her gaze.
“Dad, I know you’ve already expressed you don’t want to do the father-daughter dance with me—”
“No one wants to see me dance,” the general said to Liv. “A brick wall has more rhythm.”
“I know, Dad, and I told you that’s okay,” Vanessa said in a way that indicated it really was not. “But it would mean a lot to me, and to Lenny, if you at least walked me down the aisle.”
It Had to Be You Page 14