It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

“Oof, I don’t really have the brain for all that legalese.” Disdain colored his words. “My sister is the brilliant one. I’m just comic relief. The heir and the spare! I’ll pay, just run the lawyer’s name past me first so I can try to find out if they know Imogene, or Mina. Christ, that would be an embarrassing way to get caught.”

  Darlene followed him to the front door. “Of course you have the brain for legalese; you’re really smart.”

  “Ha!” He was already out in the hallway, heading down the stairs.

  “Zach, wait!”

  But the spare was already gone, the front door to her apartment block banging loudly as he left.

  33

  Summer was growing season: the warm weather coaxing even the most stubborn varietals into full, lush bloom. And just as the delphiniums and gardenias and dahlias began to open up and show their true colors, Henry watched Gorman come to life. Casting had begun for Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail.

  “It’s so thrilling to hear my words read by actual actors.” Gorman buzzed around the kitchen, opening one drawer, then another. “The director is incredible. A New School grad—we were lucky to get her.”

  “And everything’s going well with Gilbert?”

  Gorman opened another drawer. “Yes.”

  Was it Henry’s imagination or was Gorman blushing? “What are you looking for?”

  “Wine opener.”

  “There.” Henry pointed to the cutlery drawer. “Where it always is.”

  “Rehearsals start soon.” Gorman began pulling the cork out. “I’ll need to be there every day.”

  “But you’re just the playwright.”

  “The playwright sits in on rehearsals for rewrites.” Gorman spoke in the authoritative-and-offended voice he used when he just learned something five seconds ago. “That’s industry standard.”

  Henry served two generous bowls of chicken chow mein, garnished with green onions and sesame seeds. Gorman poured them both a glass. They sat across from each other at the dining table, draping linen napkins over their laps. Gorman switched on Dancing with the Stars, put it on mute, and asked Alexa to play Chopin.

  “So I’ll be there from five every night. Oh, this is delicious, Choo-Choo. How’d you get the chicken so—”

  “Wait a sec. From five p.m.? Every night?”

  “Every weeknight.”

  Henry stared at Gorman. “What about the shop?”

  Gorman fussed with his napkin, not meeting Henry’s eye. “Yes, well, I was thinking we get that part-timer back in for a few weeks. She was good; you liked her.”

  Henry’s chopsticks paused midway to his mouth. The shop was open till 9:00 p.m. over the summer. Twenty hours a week at twenty dollars an hour. “So not only are we spending ten grand on getting this thing up, now we have to spend four hundred dollars a week on a part-timer to cover you? Starting when?”

  Gorman’s gaze darted from his bowl to his wineglass. “Rehearsals start, er, tomorrow.”

  This was typical.

  Their therapist, Jennifer, a gray-haired septuagenarian who wore cat-eye glasses and Bakelite necklaces, once said they could choose to lean into their similarities—shared interests, strengths, and values—or focus on their differences. Differences that included Gorman’s tendency to obfuscate conflict. Or how Henry handled holiday cards and birthday presents while Gorman just showed up. Or how Henry was close to his family, while Gorman tolerated his. Or how— Henry stopped the spiral. They were different. But they loved each other. And love was a choice.

  “Fine,” Henry said. “I’ll look into it after dinner.”

  Gorman looked surprised. Then relieved. Then suspicious. Then sheepish. “I can look into it. It’s my problem to solve.”

  “That would be great,” said Henry. “Turn on the volume. I want to see this cha-cha.”

  “Choo-Choo loves the cha-cha,” intoned Gorman and Henry giggled. It was true. He did.

  Later, after Gorman had cleaned up and they’d made love (they usually had sex after Dancing with the Stars), Henry watched Gorman sleep. The soft rise and fall of his lover’s chest always soothed him.

  When Henry was younger, he thought that loving someone was supposed to feel good, always. If it didn’t feel good, that wasn’t good love. But over the years, he’d learned that loving someone meant doing things he didn’t want to do. Go to a party he didn’t want to go to. Indulge a hobby he found tedious, a friend he found boring, a behavioral pattern he found annoying or strange. Pay for a part-timer to allow his significant other to pursue an expensive, time-consuming pipe dream that was quite possibly motivated by a crush on someone barely out of college.

  Henry was up for it. Gorman was his best friend and he’d made many compromises to give Henry the life he wanted: the flower shop was primarily Henry’s dream. Gorman was good with numbers but he didn’t enjoy balancing the books like he enjoyed writing. Henry trusted that eventually, his partner would provide what he needed. But that hadn’t stopped Henry from shoving the stand mixer deep into the back of the pantry, unopened. The sight of it still made him upset.

  34

  When Savannah lived in Kentucky, she’d cook dinner for her roommate-slash-best-friend, Cricket, every other night. Chicken tacos or mac and cheese eaten in front of the TV while they caught up on the always-depressing news or a ridiculous reality dating show. It was one of the best parts of her day; homey, but also more fun than being home with her family. So it came as a shock to realize at the beginning of her fifth month in New York City she’d not once prepared a home-cooked meal for her Brooklyn roommates. Savannah and Cricket lived parallel lives, privy to each other’s every waking thought. But Arj, the grumpy bartender; Cool Leonie, who she only ever saw leaving for or returning from an online date; and Yuli, the hippie with anxiety, ranked only a notch above strangers. Her three roommates’ daily activities, relationships, and yes, meals, were a complete mystery. Living with them was like watching a scene from an unfamiliar TV show: things were happening, but it was unclear what it all meant.

  It was a hot, sunny Sunday. A full day before she’d have to throw herself back into the challenge of Vanessa and her misguided father and the business of weddings. She’d cleaned her room, a precisely organized shoebox decorated with the cheerful, aspirational women she admired so much: Michelle Obama, Reese Witherspoon, Ellen DeGeneres. She’d caught up on a few text chains, gone for a run, and gone to church, a hipster Christian event in Williamsburg. It was more like a concert than a service. There was a VIP section, and the pastor wore edgy streetwear that wouldn’t be out of place at New York Fashion Week. But connecting with God in the company of other Christians still felt comforting. God was real. He had a plan for her. With life changing all around her, this could still be her one constant.

  She called her loving, absentminded father, Terry, which descended, as always, into an IT tutorial. “Dad, you have to flip the screen so I can see you.”

  “I’m making quesadillas!”

  All she could see was a sliver of ceiling. “Dad, flip the screen.”

  Her father’s bespectacled face filled the small screen. “We miss you, Pookie Bear. Look, I made salsa!” He tasted a mouthful and gagged. “Must’ve used sugar instead of salt. Okay, that’s no good.”

  “Miss you too, Dad.” She loved talking to her parents, even if it was disorienting. The life she’d left was still happening without her. Her dad’s bad cooking, her mom’s endless knitting, Pickles, the ancient cockapoo, perennially underfoot.

  “This is great!” Terry wandered into the living room, away from the meat sizzling on the stove. “What’s this called?”

  “FaceTime, Daddy.”

  “FaceTime! How much is it?”

  A dog yelped.

  “Well, I didn’t see you, Pickles, I’m talking to Savannah. C’mon, outside.”

  “Free, Dad. It comes with the phone.”

  “Free? How about that! So, what else, honey? You booked your flight back yet?”

  “Back w
here?”

  “Home! You said you’d be home by Christmas!”

  Technically, her parents had said she’d be moving home by Christmas, and at the time, she hadn’t disagreed. But the first half of the year had flown by and she was still finding her feet. What would her life even look like back home? An easy job somewhere on Main Street, drinks with Cricket and the girls at the same three bars, seeing her parents every weekend for countless hours doing who-knows-what. New York was challenging, but it wasn’t predictable.

  “Here’s Mom, knitting a—what is that, honey? A hat?”

  “I’m making you a scarf for fall, Pookie!” Sherry sang out. “Do you like the color?”

  “I can’t see you, I can only see Dad.”

  His giant forehead filled the screen. “How do I flip it? Ah, here we—” He hung up on her.

  Savannah decided to make pan-fried chicken for her roommates. Her grandmother’s recipe. Nothing brought people together like fried chicken. Maybe she’d bring Honey a piece. She twirled her keys as she skipped out the door.

  The L train, her straight shot from Bushwick into Manhattan, wasn’t running: weekend repairs. The subway, while noisy and crowded, was fast and efficient: thoroughbreds at the top of their game. Which made the rumbling city buses dispatched to cover for the train seem like slow-footed Clydesdales one misstep from the glue factory. The trip to the Trader Joe’s by Union Square should’ve taken twenty minutes but instead took a staggering hour and a half. Oh well: onward. Savannah marched to the sliding doors, only to be stopped by an acne-sprayed employee. “There’s a line,” he said, pointing to it.

  Mildly confused why the line for the register started outside the building, Savannah explained she didn’t have anything yet.

  “It’s a line to get in,” he clarified. Savannah almost laughed out loud. A line to get in? What, was Billy Joel playing a free concert in the frozen food section? Billy Joel was not. Instead, it seemed every New Yorker on the island of Manhattan had decided to get their groceries at the exact same time. Savannah almost had the last bunch of collard greens snatched out of her hands by a salty grandmother in a T-shirt reading Not Your Bitch! Savannah waded through the crowds, finally procuring everything on her list… only to join another impossibly long line that snaked up and down all the aisles she’d just combed through. The heavily tattooed girl in front of her was simply shopping as she waited, tossing groceries into her basket as the line shuffled forward. That would’ve saved me half an hour.

  “All in one bag?” asked the unnaturally jolly employee.

  Savannah nodded. She did not need wasted paper on her conscience. But as soon as she had stepped off the shuttle and taken the first of approximately one thousand steps home—centrally located, her apartment was not—the bag handle ripped clean off. Like the contents of a popped piñata, groceries bounced over the sidewalk and onto the street, where all three pink plucked chickens were unceremoniously crushed by the departing Clydesdale. A genderqueer hipster stopped to take a Polaroid of the massacred birds. They did not offer to help.

  Savannah carried everything that hadn’t touched the sidewalk in the remnants of the busted bag. Her arms ached. Her feet throbbed (why had she worn heeled sandals? Stupid!). Two blocks from the loft, a wild summer storm her weather app hadn’t predicted unleashed. By the time she limped back into the apartment, she was soaked and sore and on the brink of tears. The only thing that stopped her was seeing, miraculously, that all three roommates were home at the same time. A sign! Yuli, Arj, and Leonie were slumped on the two beat-up sofas in the common space, scrolling through their phones in companionable silence. She didn’t even wait for them to inquire as to her groceries, before announcing her intention. Fried chicken for all. “Which I’ll have to buy again, somehow,” she added, trying not to sound pissed. “But I will, and it’s happening. Dinner. Eight sharp.”

  Arj didn’t look up from his phone. “I’m working.”

  Cool Leonie examined a new Pikachu tattoo. “I have a date.”

  “I’m a vegan,” Yuli informed her, eyes darting around the groceries. “You’re not planning on using my Pyrex, are you?” He dribbled a nervous laugh. “Not, like, cool.”

  It was too much.

  New York was exhausting and demanding and expensive, and for what? A poky little room in a noisy loft populated by people who didn’t give two shits about her. Savannah wanted so badly to walk into her family home, scoop up the dog, and eat ice cream on the couch. But she couldn’t. She was stuck in Bushwick. With Leonie and Arj and Yuli, who was still listing the kitchen utensils she couldn’t use to make dinner for everyone.

  Savannah slipped off her sandals and walked into her bedroom. She picked up her pillow, buried her face in it, and screamed.

  35

  The Gowanus Whole Foods was so sparsely populated it was positively relaxing: Liv knew it was a good idea to go as late as possible to skip the dinner-rush crowd. She picked up a pineapple and studied it thoughtfully. She loved pineapple, as did Benny, but preparing it was such a chore. So much peeling and slicing and removal of spiky bits. Was the hard work worth the reward? The skin was yellowish but also greenish. Was it even ripe? She took a sniff. Smelled like… pineapple.

  “Hi.” Sam Woods stood a few feet away. A snappy little zing, like a wave of unexpected citrus, zipped around her chest.

  “Oh, hi.” She repressed the instinct to hug him, instead offering a small wave. She wasn’t expecting to see him in person until the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding next month. A mental scan of her outfit confirmed a slouchy jersey jumpsuit and old yellow sneakers. Possibly hairy armpits. Definitely no makeup. Could be better but had been worse. The days of leaving the house in her bathrobe were thankfully in the rearview mirror.

  Sam was in a ’Shwick Chick T-shirt and broken-in blue jeans. A shopping basket swung from his forearm. His biceps bulged modestly. The chef nodded at the pineapple. “Looks like you’re making a momentous decision.”

  “I can’t tell if it’s ripe.”

  He tugged at one of the spiky leaves. It didn’t budge. “Nope.” He selected another one. This time, the leaf came off easily. “That’s how you can tell.”

  “So wise.” Liv put the pineapple she assumed she was now purchasing into her basket. “What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”

  Sam selected a cantaloupe. “This should feel heavier than it looks.” He weighed it in his palm. “And it should smell sweet.” Raising it to his nose, he sniffed. “I’d say this one is pretty much perfect.”

  She took it. Not because she was planning on making a fruit salad, although that was clearly how this shopping expedition was going to turn out. Because of those kind, crinkly eyes that seemed, for some strange reason, to like what they saw. “How about some cherries? I love cherries.”

  “Hm, they’re not quite at their peak yet. But I’ll keep an eye out.” He selected a few organic apples for his basket. “How’s Big Ben?”

  “Good. At my mother’s tonight, getting spoiled rotten in between anecdotes about the Holocaust. How’s Dottie?” Liv asked, more surprised than pleased that she’d remembered Sam’s daughter’s name.

  “Great. Very into Peppa Pig. With her mom this weekend.”

  “That must be tough.” Liv had ruminated on what would’ve happened if Eliot had recovered. She had no idea if they’d have gotten a divorce or tried to figure it out.

  “At least we’re still friendly.” Sam grabbed a knob of garlic. Bits of papery white skin floated to the floor. “I’ve known couples where it got really ugly. Then it’s really hard on the kids. Claudia—that’s my ex—we still do Christmas and birthdays and school stuff together.”

  “How mature.” A word that probably would not have been applied to a separation from Eliot. Her gorgeous, gregarious husband had been funny and frank and always the first on the dance floor. But he was also irresponsible, unreliable, and self-centered. A hypochondriac who regularly diagnosed indigestion as stomach cancer. An extrovert who
needed constant stimulation. Around Eliot, Liv was always on. So now, without his enormous, unwieldy needs, she had time for her own. Needs like the time to sit. To let long thoughts unspool. So the question was:

  “What do you need?”

  Liv blinked twice. She hadn’t been saying all that out loud, had she? “Me?”

  “Do you have a list, or is it all up here?” Sam tapped his temple. “In that brilliant brain of yours?”

  Liv used to make shopping lists, itemized and neatly printed. She’d get back in that habit. She liked having a list. “I think I want to make a pie.”

  “Ooh, nice. What kind?”

  “When I was a kid, my mom would put a tin of condensed milk in boiling water until it turned into caramel. She’d pour it into a pie shell and serve it with vanilla ice cream. It was outrageously good.” Liv looked up at the man next to her. How strange to have a desire for something and state it out loud. Conjuring the abstract into matter. “I think I want to make that.”

  “Well then,” said Sam, looking around. “Let’s find the baking aisle.”

  They finished their shopping together, conversation skating around topics like cooking and kitchen staples. Safe topics: Sam was a vendor, and she was a business owner trying to repair her company’s reputation. But he was so easy to talk to, she kept forgetting they weren’t old friends. Being with Eliot had been like wearing couture. Being with Sam was like slipping into comfy sweats.

  Outside, they were going opposite directions. “Nice to run into you.” She hitched her tote bags of ripe fruit and pie crusts over her shoulder. “See you at the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding.”

  He dawdled. “Yes, see you then.”

  She gave him a nod, and took a few steps in the direction of her car.

  “Do you want to get dinner with me?”

  The question came so unexpectedly, it pulled her up short. “What, like… like, a date?”

  “No! I mean, yes. Yes, like a date. You and me. Eating. Me paying for eating. Unless you want to split, which would also be”—Sam drew in a breath, face starting to flame—“highly acceptable. Not right this second. Just… soon.”