“Look, there’s Jon Favreau,” Darlene whispered, side-eyeing a handsome dude in a suit. “And, omigod, is that AOC?”
More people Darlene knew that he didn’t, perfect.
His beautiful bandmate was a Virgo, and Virgos were cautious with their feelings, unlike his Libran self. Libras were suckers for love, and yes, Zach’d had his fair share of bedfellows. But he never felt comfortable letting those women know the real him. They saw fun Zach, good-time Zach; vacation flings, nothing real. Darlene knew him better than anyone: as a musician, a son, a creative collaborator. She knew all his flaws. He cared about her. Respected and trusted her. But he got the feeling her tight jumpsuit and natural curls weren’t for his benefit tonight. The look she gave his wrinkled button-down was almost derisive. Zach searched the room. “Don’t tell me there’s no bar. Aren’t all writers alcoholics?”
“Charles is sober.”
“Ugh.” Zach grimaced. “Of course he is.”
Darlene narrowed her eyes. “Which I actually really respect.”
“Oh, yeah. Me too.”
“But there’ll probably be wine at the dinner afterward,” she added, patting his arm.
Zach slouched further in his seat. Now, there was a dinner he’d have to attend full of brilliant, bookish people like Awful Charles and Jon Favreau and AOC—people who made him feel as insightful as a loaf of white bread. He grabbed Darlene’s hand and tugged her toward him, feeling needy. “Why don’t we skip it? There’s a good little wine bar up the street. We could get high, play footsie under the table.”
Darlene extracted her hand from his. “I told you we’re here as friends.”
The word slapped him across the face. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because,” she replied coolly, “it’s the truth.”
Zach fought the impulse to scream. When would Darlene admit that they were made for each other, that they were falling in love? She could have his money, all of it. Darlene was his future, and the trust was only important in that it’d enable them to be together as much as possible. Why was she insisting they were “friends”?
Maybe because, for her, it was just about the money. Maybe she wasn’t feeling the feelings he was feeling at all.
The lights dimmed. Awful Charles and Rachel Maddow came onstage to rapturous applause. Charles was preening, activated by the crowd, which Zach found both familiar and sickening. “Wake me up when it’s over.”
Darlene looked unimpressed. “You might want to rethink the whole anti-intellectualism thing, Zach. It’s not very attractive.”
Zach deflated like a sad balloon. That was it: whatever attraction she’d felt had worn off. She’d realized that being open-minded and kind and all those other nice things she’d said that night when she defended him in front of his family just wasn’t enough. His insecurity sickened him—he knew it was about as appealing as the “whole anti-intellectualism thing.” But he couldn’t control it.
Zach’s heart tore at the edges as Darlene trained her gaze on Charles.
58
Savannah flung open her front door, feeling like a wind-up toy let loose. “HI!”
Honey instinctively swayed back. “Hi.”
“Come in, come in. Gosh, you look so pretty. Is it too hot in here? I can turn up the AC, I just cannot seem to get the temperature right!”
“It’s fine.” Honey’s expression was bemused. Her summer tan had faded the spray of freckles across her nose. Savannah had the urge to touch them, connecting each dot, one by one. Honey frowned at her. “Do I have something on my face?”
“What? No. Ha! So good to see you.” She launched herself at Honey for a hug.
“Ow.” Honey wriggled. “Little much.”
“Sorry.” Savannah leaped back, embarrassed. “Just happy to see you! It’s been so long and I—” Am nervous and excited and scared and everything because I think I want to kiss you and I have no idea how!
“Savannah.” Honey’s brown eyes were gentle and possibly tinged with mirth. “Calm down, okay? Why don’t we have a drink and put the movie on.”
“Yes. Of course. Great idea.” Savannah restrained herself from offering five more affirmations.
Honey had traded jeans and a T-shirt for cutoffs and a T-shirt. Savannah had decided on a short summery romper, with just a touch of lip gloss and blush. It was too hot for much more.
Honey poured two glasses of the rosé she’d brought and asked if Savannah’s roommates were home. Arj was working, Leonie was visiting her parents in New Jersey, and Yuli was working on his latest young adult novel in a coffee shop.
“Just us,” Savannah said, as if this was a coincidence and not a well-executed plan.
“Great.” Honey’s tone was so noncommittal, Savannah couldn’t read it at all. Their conversation from last month sounded in her mind: I don’t want to get my heart broken by a straight girl.
But what if I’m not straight? is what Savannah wished she’d said. How do I know?
Savannah Shipley had accepted that, yes, she was definitely very interested in kissing a girl. Specifically, Honey. But she’d invested her entire romantic life in the steadfast belief—the knowledge—that one day, she would marry a man. Just like everyone else around her. And dismantling that idea was as overwhelming and impossible as asking one to demolish a house with a teaspoon. The foundations were too solid. The structure was too big.
And yet, there was: I only liked it because everyone else did.
Her New York vision board, with its central clipping of a hot guy in a tux, had been stuffed under her bed for weeks.
Honey sat on the sofa. “What are we watching?”
Panicked, Savannah doubted her choice. It was undeniably an offering. The first tap of that teaspoon against solid brick. “I thought we could check out a show called, um, Feel Good.”
Honey almost did a double take.
Savannah busied herself with pouring cheese puffs into a bowl. “I don’t know, it sounded fun, but we don’t have to if you’ve already seen it.”
Honey curled up at the far end of the sofa. Her eyes rested on Savannah curiously. “I saw it. But I’ll watch it again.”
Savannah’s phone vibrated. Dad Calling. She felt a flicker of guilt. But she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She turned her phone off. “Let’s do it.”
Feel Good was about a Canadian comedian living in London named Mae Martin who started dating a girl called George, who’d never dated another girl before. They were kissing in the first ten minutes and then they moved in together and then it came out that Mae used to be an addict but that didn’t matter because Savannah was already in love with Mae, and George, and the idea of Mae and George together. It was familiar and alien, and Savannah was experiencing a disorienting whiplash of recognizing a version of herself in George, a fictional character from a different world. With different rules.
When the episode ended, she immediately pressed play for the second one. Then the third. Then the fourth.
“Savannah?”
“Huh?” Savannah startled, finger on the remote.
Honey stretched, looking amused. “Can we take a break?”
“Oh. Sure.” Savannah checked the time and blushed. “Sorry.”
Honey rose to get the wine from the fridge. She poured them both a glass, emptying the bottle. “I take it you’re into it?”
Savannah nodded, the words spilling out in a rush. “Holy mack, it’s amazing. It’s funny and smart and obviously, um, sexy. I really like George and Mae is just so hot. She’s like a pretty boy and a pretty girl and I’m really into it.”
Honey laughed. When she sat back down on the sofa, it was closer to Savannah. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine. She propped her hand up with her head, her fingers buried in her dark curls. “Do you think she’s your type? Or are you just into girls, in general?”
Savannah inched closer. It felt like sharing a secret. An illicit, exhilarating one. “Maybe… girls in general?”
The sk
y had darkened over the past few hours, and now it was night. All the lights in the apartment were off. The only light came from the TV, paused on the credit roll. Honey’s voice was soft. “Girls like me?”
Savannah’s gaze dropped to Honey’s mouth. Her rosebud lips, plump and parted. She wanted to feel them. Touch them. Savannah nodded, her voice both small and, somehow, enormous. “Yes.”
Honey shifted closer. Her eyes were questions as she reached for Savannah’s hand, taking it in hers.
Their fingers met. Electricity jolted up her spine. Savannah was so overwhelmed, for one horrifying second she thought she might cry. Then the feeling settled, blooming into something more manageable, and they were holding hands. Just like Imogene and Mina. She was holding Honey’s hand.
But she wanted more.
The air between them sparked with possibility.
She leaned toward Honey, closing the distance between their mouths. Honey did the same. This was it. It was happening. She could feel Honey’s breath. Savannah’s heart was beating wildly, slamming her rib cage with an undiscovered ferocity. Everything inside her was urging her forward, forward, forward until Honey’s lips met hers and they were kissing.
They were kissing.
And all of a sudden, everything made sense.
Every love song made sense.
Every romantic movie made sense.
Every poem, every painting, every Taylor Swift lyric, everything in the entire world made sense because this, this, was how it was supposed to feel. How love was supposed to feel, how kissing was supposed to feel. This was what everyone was talking about.
It was a sweet kiss, a sexy kiss, the first kiss where she wasn’t thinking about if her breath smelled or how much tongue she should use. It was simply the most natural, most easy, most thrilling act of her entire life.
When she pulled away, her eyes were wet. Honey stroked her face, a smile turning worried. “What’s wrong?”
Savannah pressed Honey’s fingers into her cheek and shook her head. “Nothing,” she managed. “Nothing’s wrong at all.”
Because everything was finally right.
59
Sam hurried up the steps to the brownstone. He was almost an hour late. His ex-wife, Claudia, had come down with the flu, so he’d asked Claudia’s sister to sleep over and babysit. Dottie loved her aunt, but since the divorce, his daughter had become sensitive to broken promises and changes to routine. It’d taken bribes of ice cream and a princess costume to allow Sam to leave for an “overnight work trip,” and even then he felt extraordinarily guilty. On top of everything, he was lying to his child, even if it was for a good reason.
Sam liked order. While happy to improvise in the kitchen, he preferred the satisfaction of following set rules to produce an expected outcome. But there was no recipe for this, the divorced-dad-dates-a-widowed-mom dish. This was life: messy, chaotic, and never quite turning out how you anticipated.
He’d been keeping Liv in the loop over text. Her last few messages had been a little… strange.
Sam, 6:50 p.m.: Issues with Dottie: I’m going to be a bit late.
Liv, 6:58 p.m.: No problem!!!!
Sam, 7:25p.m.: Working on it. So sorry.
Liv, 7:35 p.m.: I’m good!!!! Ha ha, LOL.
Sam, 7:45 p.m.: Okay, finally en route! Be there by eight.
Liv, 7:47 p.m.: !!!???!!! WOW. I feel
Liv, 7:48 p.m.: Srry sent that too
Liv, 7:49 p.m.: IM RELAXED!!!
Sam, 7:50 p.m.: You okay?
Liv, 7:55 p.m.: HA HA HA!
Inside the brownstone, he could hear Fleetwood Mac. The soft, rocking blues took him back to being long-haired and loose-limbed, pre-children, pre-marriage, even. A time without consequences, when the future was nothing but possibility and pleasure. Sam took a moment to ruffle up his hair and then unruffle it. He’d slept with a few women since his divorce, but not someone he really liked. There’d been a moment when they first met, her waving a banana, when her bathrobe had gaped open and he’d almost glimpsed a nipple. He’d thought about that moment many times. Liv was complex, sometimes prickly, sometimes even mean—and he liked it. It felt dangerous. And he had a suspicion she’d be a little hellcat in bed. Not that they would definitely have sex tonight: they were taking it slow. No matter what happened, they’d have fun.
And, hopefully, they’d have sex.
Sam rang the doorbell.
From the other side of the door, uneven footsteps approached. Then, nothing. “Liv?”
A muffled squeak sounded from the other side of the door, followed by a giggle.
He smiled. “Hello?”
The door yanked open. Liv was wearing a black silk robe over a pair of jeans. Her hair was wild. Her lips were painted dark red. The effect was witchy and a little weird. Not unappealing. She planted her hands on either side of the doorframe. “Hello.” Her voice was husky. “Mr. Sam.”
A rill of excitement pulsed through his body. This was a Liv he hadn’t seen before. The fact that this complicated, alluring woman could keep opening up to him was thrilling. “Hello,” he replied, “Ms. Liv.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
Sam chuckled along, double-checking that what he’d said wasn’t actually that funny. Was something off? Or was she just nervous like he was? He followed her inside. “You seem very, ah, chill.”
“I am.” She sounded drifty and full of air. “I’m chill. Chill as a cucumber.” She spun around, putting both hands atop her head like a little hat. She made her voice high and squeaky. “Hello, I’m a cucumber. Put me in salads.”
“Okay…”
Liv swept into the living room and started dancing to “Dreams.” Well, dancing wasn’t the right word for it. Flailing was more accurate.
A half-empty bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table. Next to it, half a joint.
Oh.
“Hey babe, have you been smoking?”
“A little.” She blinked slowly. “A lot?”
Fortunately you couldn’t overdose on weed. But the combination had clearly pushed Liv over her limit. Sam picked up the joint and the wine bottle from the coffee table. Liv watched them go, saying, “Nooo,” in a small, sad voice.
Sam stowed the bottle of wine he’d brought in the pantry, corked the open bottle, and poured a glass of water. “Drink this.”
Liv took a sip and made a face. “It’s water.”
“Yup.”
“Yuck.” She turned her face away from it, like a child refusing brussels sprouts.
“Please? For me?”
Sighing as if this was the single most annoying thing that’d ever been requested of her, Liv took a few gulps. She leaned back into the sofa, propping her head up in a sloppy approximation of sexy. “Why don’t you show me that cucumber in your pants, Sammy?”
“Oh, boy.” Sam laughed. “I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
“But we have a sex date,” she whined. “I got a wax. It hurt.”
Sam inhaled, oscillating between concerned and amused. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, but you’re a little out of it.”
Liv launched herself at him, her fingers diving for the top of his jeans. “I wanna see it.”
Sam skidded back. “No, Liv.”
“I wanna see your cucumber!”
“No, baby.”
“Yes!” She fought to undo his top button.
“No!” Sam wrestled her eager hands from his fly, his voice gentle but firm. “C’mon, darling. It’s time you went to bed.”
With much effort, Sam managed to get Liv into bed and drink another glass of water. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he said, moving to turn off the light. The paintings on the wall were bold and interesting, and the bed was a king. It was a bedroom he’d, ordinarily, enjoy having sex in.
“Sam?” Liv’s voice was already thick with sleep.
“Yes, babe?”
Her eyes were closed. He was ready for some unchecked confession. Maybe I like you.
I really like you. Maybe Thank you. Liv’s voice was gentle in the near darkness. “I just farted.”
He pressed his lips together so as not to laugh and switched off the light. “Good night, Liv.”
60
The after-party dinner for Charles’s book launch was at a nearby restaurant, in a private dining room lit by undulating chandeliers. Zach was pleased to see the long table held at least sixty name cards. Perhaps he and Darlene would be seated far away from Charles and they’d manage to have something of a pleasant dinner date. No such luck. Charles was seated across from them. Darlene was seated next to Jon Favreau. The name card for “Zack L”—handwritten, probably because he didn’t RSVP—had him next to Darlene on one side, and Rachel bloody Maddow on the other.
“Lucky you.” Darlene snuck a peek at Charles and ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
That was his nervous habit: Darlene did that when she got cute and shy around him.
“Yes,” Zach replied tightly. “Lucky.”
Bowls of salad were placed on the table. Zach racked his brain for a good opening line for Rachel. He’d mixed with plenty of impressive people in his life, and ordinarily felt comfortable in pretty much all social situations. But tonight was different: Darlene’s indifference had undermined his usual social ease. And he didn’t understand political stuff in the way he understood music or sex or humor; things you felt rather than things you knew. “This salad’s really good,” is what he landed on.
Rachel’s smile was mild. “Delicious.”
“People think salad is easy, but it’s not. You’ve got to get the right ratio of dressing to greens.” What was he doing? Why was he talking about salad? “Too little and it’s not very flavorful, but too much and it gets wet and, um, soggy.”
Rachel frowned. He could see her wondering if he was a lunatic. “Soggy?”
It Had to Be You Page 26