It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  Honey sipped her whiskey. “That was three years ago. I moved to New York, found other queer people, worked a bunch of different restaurant jobs until I ended up here. Dated Ro, but I think we’ve outgrown each other. I really want that, though,” she added, without quite looking at Savannah. “A girlfriend. A real relationship.”

  Savannah could tell she meant it. “What about your family—have you spoken since?”

  “A few months ago, I got a voice mail from my dad, asking me to call.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. Three years is a long time to feel totally rejected by your own parents—” Her words caught in her throat, almost a sob.

  Savannah squeezed her hand as hard as she could, wanting to say so many things at once: I care about you. I will never reject you. I’m here for you.

  Honey drew in a breath, regaining control. “I don’t know if I trust my parents. I have to protect myself.” She met Savannah’s eyes, sad but resolute. “Maybe that’s why I lied to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Honey drew in a long, slow breath. “I don’t want to get my heart broken by a straight girl.”

  It took a moment to land. “Me?” Savannah asked. “I’m the straight girl?” It almost sounded as if she was asking if she was, indeed, heterosexual, so she rephrased it, as a statement. “I am a straight girl.”

  “Right.” Honey let out a mild, amused laugh. “It’s just… we spend a lot of time together.”

  And when they weren’t together, Honey was never far from Savannah’s thoughts. She’d become the lens through which Savannah viewed the city. “Because you’re my friend,” Savannah shot back. “We’re friends.”

  “And that means a lot to me,” Honey said. “I’m just trying to point out that what we have isn’t that different from…”

  A relationship. Savannah’s heart was beating so fast she was almost panting. She wanted to play dumb or laugh it off. But that would be childish.

  “It’s different,” she said, “because I don’t date girls. I never have. I’m not into that—I wouldn’t even know—that’s just not me—”

  “Okay, okay.” Honey held up a placating hand. “I don’t want to freak you out.” Her eyes shifted out the window. The street was empty, the moon kidnapped by clouds. Nothing lighting the way. “Let me put it this way. When I lived in Alabama, I was a huge football fan. I mean, we all are. Roll Tide, all that. I went to all the games, knew every player’s name. But after I finished high school, something changed. I couldn’t get into it. Then one day, we beat Tennessee in this epic game, nineteen to fourteen. My whole town was going nuts, and I felt… nothing. I suddenly realized I didn’t actually care about football. I only liked it because everyone else did. Liking football was what I did to fit in.” She leaned forward across the table, her brown eyes bright. “I liked it because I hadn’t been given the option not to.”

  A faint ringing, like a distant alarm bell, went off in Savannah’s chest.

  Honey’s words were soft in the quiet, empty restaurant. “I think life is just about figuring out what you like and what works for you, regardless of what everyone else is doing.”

  Savannah’s breath had turned shallow. She felt like she was stark naked. She wanted so badly to push the chair out from underneath her, mutter an excuse, and scurry home, refusing to think about what Honey was implying. But instead, she picked up the whiskey bottle and poured herself another drink, determined not to run away.

  43

  Zia untied Clay’s wrists from the slats on his headboard, still slick with sweat and breathing hard. “Is it just me,” she panted, “or does that get better every time?”

  “It’s not just you.” Clay rubbed his reddened wrists, then wrapped her in his arms, nipping at her neck. She giggled, squealing. They rolled over, kissing, laughing, completely lost in each other. Their experiments with power play were a revelation for Zia. As a man, Clay was respectful but inherently powerful. As a lover, Zia was in charge. She settled in the crook of his arm, warm, solid muscle secure around her. She’d never felt so safe. So comfortable. Clay had been in LA the past few weeks, and she’d missed him. Her fingers found the gold necklace resting in the dip of her throat. The Japanese symbol for light. She never took it off.

  Outside, the sun was setting, and the city looked like a giant glowing picnic basket. So many different things would be happening that evening. A thousand different adventures, just waiting to be had.

  “Let’s go out,” Zia said.

  “Bed. Must stay in bed.”

  “We’ve been in bed all day. It’s a miracle our muscles haven’t atrophied.”

  Her lover groaned, stretching. Every muscle in his body was toned and taut, like a jungle cat. “You’re right. Need sustenance. I’ll cook for you!”

  “You don’t have any groceries. We could go pick some up?”

  “Not a good idea, unfortunately.” Clay pulled on the briefs that’d been torn off when the sun was still high in the sky. “I’ll order some. How do you feel about… Italian?”

  He made it sound like a spontaneous suggestion, but Italian was the only food Clay liked to eat, order, or cook. And he wasn’t a particularly gifted chef. At first, keeping the relationship discreet suited Zia. But she was starting to feel claustrophobic. She wasn’t entirely certain why Clay wanted to keep a giant wall between her and the rest of the world.

  “Let’s go out. There’s a free jazz show in Central Park.” Darlene and Zach were going, allegedly to maintain a trust fund–related ruse, but actually to film themselves making out while denying the fact they were into each other.

  “Sounds like it might be crowded.”

  Zia slipped on one of Clay’s T-shirts and followed him to the kitchen. A wall of windows offered a 180-degree view over lower Manhattan and the glinting Hudson River. “Baseball cap and sunglasses. It worked at Bembe.”

  “Bembe is a tiny underground club in Brooklyn. Central Park is… central. It’s right there in the name.”

  “Okay, how about this Ethiopian place in Bushwick? It’s so good: you eat with your hands, all vegetarian.” Plus, there were always tons of leftovers that she could drop off to Layla the next day. She’d probably never tried Ethiopian. And it’d ease the guilt Zia felt over still dating “Tom the hot gardener.”

  “We could hit a few bars—”

  “Babe,” he interrupted her gently. “How many times do I have to say it—we can’t go out in public. I want space for us to grow.”

  “There’s no paparazzi in Bushwick.”

  “This”—he held up his cell phone—“is a portable film studio. That almost everyone owns.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere romantic.” Zia hopped up on one of the stools at the kitchen island. She spun in a circle, eyes closed, one finger outstretched. As the stool settled, she set her eyes on: “The Freedom Tower! I’ve never been on the observation deck. Maybe you could pull some strings. Go up after they close.”

  Clay was focused on his phone, tapping silently. She knew he was ordering groceries.

  A strange, unsettled emotion unspooled in her belly. They hadn’t finished discussing their plans, and he was already making them. She wanted to show him New York, her New York. He didn’t seem even tempted by the idea.

  Logan’s face flashed in her mind. Square jaw. Cold eyes.

  “Baby?” She hopped off the stool to circle her arms around Clay’s neck. “Doesn’t that sound fun? Apparently you can see all the way to Philadelphia.”

  Clay’s attention was on his phone. “I’m actually not great with heights.”

  “What?” She laughed in surprise, unsure if this was an admission, or an excuse. “Seriously?”

  “I mean, I’m not afraid of heights,” he amended quickly. “I just would prefer not to be able to see Philadelphia from anywhere other than Philadelphia.”

  “But you live all the way up here in the sky!
”

  “Where no one can see in.”

  And where Zia was all alone. A prisoner in a gilded cage.

  Clay tapped his phone triumphantly and held it up. “Done! Groceries will be here in an hour.” He put on a very bad Italian accent, pulling her into his arms. “I’ll make-a you a delizioso lasagna.” He planted a kiss on her mouth, and then another. And another. A look of wonder warmed his gold-green eyes. “You make me so happy, Zia Ruiz.”

  She knew he cared about her. Clay wasn’t Logan. Logan was hard and cruel and troubled. Clay was a giant marshmallow in the body of a Greek god. Last week he cried at the end of Thelma & Louise and wasn’t even embarrassed. If she told him she was going out with Darlene and Zach, he’d tell her to go and have fun, and mean every word. But she didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want to be apart. Her worry was erased, gradually but certainly, by the sweetness in his gaze.

  “I just want to be out in the world with you. For you to see my real life. I love your place, but we spend a lot of time here.”

  Clay relented, tucking an untamed curl behind her ear. “How about dinner next Friday? I’m shooting all day but no plans at night. I’ll find somewhere… discreet.”

  “Next Friday, I’m working.” Zia padded toward the shower. “Wedding at the Harvard Club.”

  “Get someone to fill in for you.”

  “I need the money!” she called back, closing the door to the bathroom. The white marble glowed in the soft lighting.

  Zia knew Clay respected that she worked. He let her pay for things whenever she wanted: splitting the bill for takeout or picking up their cappuccinos from the café downstairs. But the difference of their incomes was like the difference between the earth and the sun. It wasn’t easy to understand or look at directly.

  And adding to her stress was the fact Zia hadn’t found a way to bring up the overdue bill she’d seen in Layla’s trash with her sister. She’d done some research about the cost of a broken leg: even in New York, fifteen grand was high. Layla was cagey about money, and proud: she’d never admit outright that she needed help. The gentle prodding Zia tried—How’s everything going with the insurance claim? Any complications with his recovery?—had been shut down. But it was obvious there was a problem. Her sister had stopped buying name-brand food. Broken things went unfixed. Layla never spent a dime. Zia wanted, even needed, to tell her sister about dating Clay. Ever since they were small, new to the city with only one parent, the sisters had been charged with taking care of each other. Not telling the truth felt like failing some sort of test. But Zia felt strongly that confiding in Layla would unequivocally be a disaster. Just as she knew the longer the relationship was kept secret, the worse it’d be if Layla ever found out.

  44

  Gorman raised his wineglass and gave Liv a meaningful smile. “To second chances.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Liv replied. “It was one date.” But her eyes were sparkly, and there was a funny little smile at the corner of her mouth. Gorman knew not to push it.

  They relaxed into folding chairs to soak up the last of the sun, taking advantage of the fact that it was just the two of them. Henry wasn’t a huge fan of the brownstone’s backyard, which the Goldenhorns had let go to shit over the past few years. But as long as the wine was flowing and the chair was comfortable, Gorman didn’t mind. Outdoor spaces were rare in New York. They must be enjoyed.

  Liv popped a potato chip in her mouth. “How’s life as the next Arthur Miller?”

  “Fabulous,” Gorman purred, regaling her with tales of rehearsals and rewrites. “And you’ll love the lead actor. He’s absolutely adorable.”

  “Gilbert,” Liv recalled.

  “Yes, that’s right. Have I mentioned him?”

  Liv hooked an eyebrow. “Once or twice.”

  Gilbert was turning out to be not a bad actor. Not a great one, per se, but not bad. The sandy-haired boy in the cute round glasses and Fire Island tan had thrown himself into rehearsals with the committed, hungry enthusiasm of youth. Gilbert wanted to understand the role of Egor Snail, which meant he wanted to understand Gorman. This had entailed several long boozy evenings at various drinking establishments where Gilbert listened, rapt, to Gorman wax lyrical about growing up in a time that predated Grindr and PrEP and Neil Patrick Harris. Occasionally Gilbert would offer a comment that was a little tactless (“I honestly can’t imagine what’s harder: growing up without marriage rights or TikTok”) but overall, it was flattering. Fun. And yes, a little flirty. Which was all quite yummy. Henry was mortgage payments and meal planning. Gilbert was tell me more about Stonewall in the nineties, then heading off there to dance all night.

  When was the last time Henry danced all night?

  “So,” Liv asked. “Are you boffing?”

  Gorman choked on a potato chip. “Boffing! Good grief, Goldenhorn.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to?”

  Gorman brushed a few chip bits from his shirtfront. “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

  Liv chuckled. Her gaze wandered over the weeds that’d taken the flower beds hostage. “I never really got how all that worked. An open relationship.”

  Gorman shrugged. “It’s sex. That you’re open about.”

  “But don’t you get jealous? Of Henry sleeping with other people?”

  Gorman twirled his wrist airily. “That’s straight-people stuff. We don’t really think that way. Besides,” he added, “Henry hasn’t slept with someone else in”—he frowned, doing some calculations—“gosh, it must be at least three years. Maybe four?”

  “And you?”

  “Less.”

  “So really, you’re in an open relationship.”

  “Oh, darling,” Gorman sighed. “Don’t bore me with your bourgeois values.”

  Liv took a sip of wine. She was wearing blush, Gorman noted, and were those new earrings? Second chances, indeed.

  “Do you think you’ll ever get married?” Liv asked.

  “Christ, you sound like Henry.”

  “Henry’s brought it up?”

  Gorman’s lower back pinched. He shifted in his chair. “Henry wants to get married.”

  “What? When?”

  “Yesterday would’ve been preferable.”

  Liv bolted forward. “Gor! That’s wonderful! Congratul—”

  “Deactivate, darling. I don’t know if all that’s for me. I don’t know if I’m marriage material.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just feels so… final. Committing to one thing. One person. One life.”

  “You’d still be able to sleep with other people, according to your rules.”

  “Henry wants a closed marriage. But it’s not just about the sex, believe it or not.” Gorman squinted, mopping his forehead with his kerchief. He’d never worn sunscreen when he was younger, and now, he regretted it. Far too many wrinkles. “There’s a certain freedom in being unmarried, isn’t there? Married is… married. When we couldn’t get married, I felt like, Fine, who cares? All these institutions we were excluded from: the military, marriage, government, boardrooms: I saw them all as capitalist hetero nonsense. They didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. Now the world’s changed, but I don’t know if I have. I just want that… freedom. To live life on my terms.”

  Liv pffted.

  “What?” Gorman was offended. “That’s what I think.”

  “Apart from the fact you’re pissing on the institution I gave up a lot for—and that my business, and a lot of yours, is built on believing in—it sounds like what you actually want to do is run away with Gilbert after he falls in love with you. Which is more juvenile than the boy in question.”

  “Witch.” Gorman snatched the wine and refilled his glass. All right, yes: perhaps Gilbert was playing a part in his thinking. Perhaps he had indulged in a few fantasies of dating a much younger man: spontaneous weekends in Paris and Rome. Lounging by a pool as blue as a Hockney. He didn’t want to lose hi
mself. Cut ties with the young man who’d screwed in club bathrooms and the piers along the Hudson River. The young man who’d once taken the stage of the Pyramid Club in drag as Miss Demeanor, and had everyone singing along to “I Will Survive.”

  He recalled a moment in last week’s rehearsals. The scene where Egor comes out to his mother.

  Egor: I’m not going to end up like you, Mother! Bitter and angry and dead on the inside.

  Mother: And how exactly do you think you’ll avoid that, Egor? We all become our mothers, eventually.

  Egor: I’m going to suck the marrow out of life, Mother. I’m going to suck it!

  Gorman originally imagined this as darkly humorous, even campy. But Gilbert played it in a way that was surprisingly powerful: a threat. Gorman didn’t laugh. He got chills.

  Egor was right.

  “Life is for the living, Liv.”

  His best friend burst out laughing. “Darling, I love you. But here’s three things I’m pretty sure are true. One: a cute twentysomething is not going to run away to a Greek island with you. Two: everyone creates their own version of a marriage. If freedom is important to you, invent a marriage with freedom baked into it. Three: Henry is wonderful, and he loves you. You might see marriage as a bad imitation of heteronormativity. But he probably sees it as a safety net for the life your generation fought so hard to get.”

  A warm breeze rustled through the dusk, sending dead willow leaves floating around them. Gorman remembered when the willow was too small for the patch of new, dark mulch around it. Now, it was as dried-up as the spiderweb-covered pot plants. The liver-spotted skin on the back of his hand. Gorman didn’t want to get old. He didn’t want to be a dull old man any more than he wanted to lose his sense of self in a partnership. But possibly, there was some truth to what Liv had just laid out.

  Liv asked, “Does Henry want children?”

  Even though they’d never discussed it, the answer came from somewhere deeper than logic. “Yes.”

  Liv made eye contact with him deliberately. “Then, trust me: a man like Henry won’t wait forever.”