It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  Don’t say soggy again. Don’t say soggy again. “And different greens get soggy differently. Arugula: now, that’ll get soggy. Kale, not so much on the, um, soggy… front.”

  “Charles.” Rachel turned her attention to him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on false consciousness.”

  Zach’s face heated. Idiot.

  Next to him, Jon Favreau was making Darlene cackle with laughter. Ordinarily a lovely sound, but right now it screeched like nails down a blackboard. How soon till this nightmare could be over? Every passing minute underlined the fact that he didn’t belong here at all.

  “So, Zach.” Charles was speaking to him across the table. “Didn’t think this sort of thing was up your alley.”

  Screw you, mate. He knew Charles thought he was a Zoolander-level idiot: a lot of less attractive men did. “I enjoyed it very much.” Actually, there were parts of the conversation that he enjoyed, when Charles wasn’t posturing and generally being a cocky knob. The debate had the lively, unpredictable feel of improvised jazz.

  Charles took a sip of water. “So I assume you’re still Darlene’s bandmate?”

  “That’s right. Bandmate.” Zach gave Darlene a smile that tottered over the line between platonic and secret passion.

  She returned it like a bad throw.

  Charles watched the whole exchange with open alarm. His mouth hardened. “I’m curious, Zach. What was your take on the debate in my book?”

  Zach felt a small slap of panic. “Considering I’m at the launch, I haven’t quite had the chance to read it yet.”

  “Sure,” Charles said. “But why do you think the working class vote against their own interests?”

  To his horror, Zach sensed Rachel Maddow leaning closer, curious as to his reply. “That’s a very complex issue. That I’m not really qualified to have an opinion on.”

  Charles nodded slowly. Mockingly. “No, you’re not really the political type, are you?” He returned to his dinner, slicing into his fish. “How many people googled ‘What is the EU?’ after voting in Brexit? Millions, wasn’t it?”

  Zach had voted for Britain to stay in the EU. And he knew what the European Union was, Christ. Charles might be a progressive, but he was also a bit of a bully who loved the sound of his own voice.

  “Racism,” Charles continued, voice swelling like a politician, “is just as much of a problem in the UK as it is here. Right, Darlene?”

  Darlene blinked. “I know more about racism in America,” she said, with what Zach felt was admirable control. “Which, considering Black women make thirty-nine percent less than white men, is obviously alive and well.”

  “Spoken like a true Princeton grad.” Charles’s smile read as patronizing.

  Zach didn’t get the sense that for Charles, Darlene-as-girlfriend was proof that he could “date up” in terms of her hotness; rather, that he could date across racial difference—and he wanted everyone at the table to see it. And that was so mind-blowingly foul.

  The conversation appeared to have come to an end. But Zach was surprised to realize he wasn’t done. “Obviously racism is an issue in the UK, and here, and everywhere,” he said. “But the leave vote wasn’t all about immigration. It was a protest vote. Like Trump.”

  Charles snapped to attention, stunned that Zach had dared offer an opinion. “What’s that about Trump?”

  Instantly, Zach doubted himself. But it was too late now. “Well, his election was a protest vote. Wasn’t it?”

  Charles raised his voice. “Donald Trump is an ignominy who should be erased from the pages of history.”

  Zach almost laughed. “What, like, censored? Careful, Charles, you’ll be burning books in a minute.”

  A flash of anger passed Charles’s face before it was hidden with noble posturing. “Brexit was about race, and class, as was Trump.”

  “Obviously,” said Zach. “But you make it sound like people were stupid for voting for them: Against their own interests.”

  “Not knowing what the EU is after you vote to remove yourself isn’t just stupid, Zach,” Charles said. “It’s disrespectful, dishonorable, and unpatriotic.”

  “Sure,” Zach said, “I agree with that too, I think. And look, I am definitely not working-class. But I played music in London, right, I played, and drank, with lots of guys from the north. And it’s really bloody rough up there.”

  “Rough like how?” Darlene asked.

  “No jobs, loads of drugs, really dangerous,” Zach said. “They see what it’s like for the elite, like me, and you, Charles, and everyone at this table, and they’re pissed. And rightly so.”

  The people around him were all listening. Including Rachel.

  “And so, yeah,” Zach said, “some of them voted to leave.”

  “These are friends of yours?” Charles said. “People who supported one of the most racist cultural shifts in modern memory?”

  “I think Zach said they were his colleagues,” Darlene said. “But does it matter if they were also friends? We’re always talking about how we need to hear all sides; get out of our bubbles.”

  “And I’m not saying I condone it,” Zach said, “I’m saying I understand why people voted for Trump or for Brexit, not as a mistake, but as a… flex. A firing shot.”

  “Even if they are shooting at the wrong target,” Darlene said. “The right-wing media—”

  Charles addressed Zach. “People voted for Trump because—”

  Zach spoke over Charles. “She wasn’t finished.” The thought of punching Charles in the face flashed briefly, enjoyably.

  “The right-wing media,” Darlene repeated, “does a pretty good job of convincing people that immigrants and people of color are taking their resources, rather than the top one percent in the US who own forty percent of America’s wealth.”

  “Totally,” said Zach. “Yes. And, to be honest, I think it’s a patronizing liberal fantasy to think it was all a big mistake. These people need help and respect, not to be gaslit about their own intentions.”

  Next to him, Rachel Maddow nodded.

  “Well, maybe you should write a book about it,” said Charles. “Oh, wait, you’re a musician, not a thought leader.”

  “Is that what you are?” Zach feigned surprise. “All this time, I’ve been going with ‘pretentious know-it-all.’ ”

  Someone choked out a laugh. Charles pressed his lips together. With enormous effort, he turned to the person next to him and struck up a conversation.

  Darlene gave Zach a look. Before he could figure out if she was amused or annoyed, Jon Favreau was in her ear again.

  Rachel Maddow leaned toward Zach. “You’re obviously not a fan,” she murmured. “What brought you here?”

  Zach glanced at the now-distracted Charles and Darlene. “Matters of the heart, Ms. Maddow.”

  To his surprise, she looked intrigued. “Spill.”

  61

  Liv awoke feeling like a notch below fetid-swamp-monster. Her tongue was a secondhand shag carpet. Her brain was in a vise that was tightening. Sunlight barged rudely through the curtains. It was late. Very late.

  “Ben!” The word, a choked gasp. School. Ben. Late. She jerked herself upright, flinging a hand, knocking a glass. It fell with a tiny smash.

  It was Sunday. And Ben… Ben was at her mother’s.

  Last night flooded back in a sickening rush.

  Sam.

  Sex Date.

  Weed.

  Cucumber.

  Oh no.

  Her bedroom door creaked. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

  Liv crawled back under the covers, praying for a trapdoor. She heard Sam pick up the bits of broken glass, then sit down next to her on the bed. “How’s the head?”

  She could barely look at him. Her words were croaks. “Just… tell me I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  Thrash around to Fleetwood Mac? Cackle like a maniac? Demand you show me your cucumber? She cracked an eye at him. He looked Sunday fresh. Where h
ad he slept? The couch? Ben’s room? Oh God. “Any of it.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, you were a bit out of it.”

  “I was catatonic.” Her stomach took this opportunity to rumble loudly. This was all about as sexy as a Pap smear. “What time is it?”

  “Time for breakfast. Stay right there.”

  There was zero chance she could do anything else.

  Sam delivered breakfast in bed. Hash browns and eggs and bacon. Hot and salty and delicious. When Liv was in her twenties, she could knock back a bottle of wine and wake up feeling fantastic. Now it took two cups of coffee, an aspirin, and a long hot shower for her headache to finally subside. She came downstairs in a robe. Sam was in the kitchen, cleaning up. A repeat of the first day they met. Except this time, she knew the man wiping down the chopping board. And she liked him so, so much.

  They settled on the couch, Liv’s feet in his lap. It wasn’t yet noon. Ben wouldn’t be back until dinnertime. “So,” Sam said. “What was all that about?”

  “Oh, I just like to get shitfaced before I do it,” Liv deadpanned, and Sam laughed. “No, I am really sorry. I was nervous. Guess I overcorrected.”

  “I was nervous too,” Sam said. He was massaging her feet. It was making her feel tingly. “It’s been a while, and I wasn’t sure if the, ah, pocket rocket”—he gestured at his lap—“would still be fully functional.”

  “It certainly seems to be working. All those nights on your couch…” Her smile was suggestive.

  Sam grinned back, his eyes tracing the body hidden beneath the robe. “There have been a few admirable launch missions.”

  “Very admirable indeed…”

  Perhaps Sex Date was not over yet.

  Liv crawled over the sofa to him. She straddled him and kissed his mouth.

  “Hello,” Sam said, surprised, but pleased. He glanced at his lap. “And, hello. Houston, we have liftoff.”

  Liv giggled.

  “Too many space jokes?” Sam asked.

  “Never,” she said, and kissed him again. This time he kissed her back, one large hand on her jaw, the other on her back. She was still hungover, but in a way that made her lazy and languid. Able to relax into the unfamiliar-yet-familiar feeling of making love. She took Sam’s earlobe between her teeth. “What time do you have to get home?”

  “Dottie’s at a birthday party with her aunt.”

  Liv tugged her robe open.

  Sam’s eyes glazed as he focused on her breasts. He flipped Liv onto the couch, his mouth on her neck, his body on hers. His full, delicious weight pressed her into the old sofa. Liv closed her eyes and thanked her lucky stars. What was she so worried about? This would be easy.

  “To infinity,” she murmured, “and beyond.”

  62

  “What’s up with you?”

  Zia blinked at her sister. Layla was staring back with narrowed eyes. Dark circles cut under them. She looked more tired than usual.

  Tell her. Just tell her!

  Her niece and nephew were weaving, whining, wanting attention. The television was on, blaring Sunday cartoons. Layla persisted. “What, you have a fight with Tom or something?”

  “Actually, yeah, I did want to tell you something about, um, Tom.” They still hadn’t gone public, but Zia knew she was using this as an excuse not to be honest. Maybe Layla would be happy for her. Excited to meet a guy who really cared about her. “The thing is—”

  Mateo rocketed past, slamming into a side table, knocking a lamp. It fell to the tiles, smashing to bits. Layla leaped to her feet. “Jesus, what the hell!”

  Mateo mumbled sorry. His cast had come off the week before, and he was making up for lost time.

  Layla stomped on the pieces, furious. “That’s great, Matty. That’s just great!”

  “Calm down.” Why was her sister getting so worked up? “We’ll get another one.”

  “As if I can afford that,” Layla muttered.

  Zia swept up the broken pieces and dumped them in the trash while her sister poured a very full juice cup of very cheap wine and sent the kids to the bedroom they shared with her. Layla massaged the joints in her hands, grimacing. “So, what about Tom?”

  “Oh, it can wait.”

  “I’m working doubles all next week.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Zia muted the television. Sweat had broken out under her armpits and on top of her lip. She didn’t expect to be this nervous. “So, this is kind of a crazy story, actually. Tom’s name isn’t actually Tom.”

  “What, are you banging one of my exes?”

  “No! God, no, Layla. It’s, well, I’m kind of dating”—say it. Say it!—“Clay Russo.”

  Layla blinked. Frowned. “Is that Pablo’s cousin?”

  “No, Clay Russo. He’s an actor, and an activist.”

  “I know who Clay Russo is.”

  “Well, that’s who I’m dating. Not a gardener,” she added dumbly.

  Layla looked confused. “Ha ha?”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “I think I’d have picked, like, Jesse Williams. Dude’s fine.” Layla sipped her wine, bored of the bad joke.

  “I’m not making it up. We met at a wedding back in May. He was a guest. We hit it off. It’s been on the down-low but now—”

  “Zia—”

  “He’s my boyfriend, and I want you to meet him and—”

  “Zia, whoa!” Layla put down the cup, her expression transforming into real concern. An old tenderness emerged, the one born in the aftermath of the Logan breakup and court case. “You sound like you really believe this.”

  At a loss at what else to do, Zia got out her phone. Layla watched her unlock it, and tap open her photos. They still didn’t take any couple pictures, but the other night they’d drunk a lot of cabernet and made a mess in the kitchen. Zia had tipsily snapped Clay covered in pasta sauce, laughing hysterically. She showed the only picture she had of Clay to her sister. “See? That’s his kitchen.”

  Layla peered at the photo. “You get this off the internet?”

  Zia exhaled, frustrated, pointing at the picture. “That’s my tote bag. Sis, I’m telling the truth.”

  Layla’s face started to go slack. Her eyes flicked from the picture to Zia, back and forth. “You’re dating Clay Russo. For real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Swear on Abuelita’s grave. Swear on my kids’ lives.”

  Zia looked her right in the eye. “I swear. He’s my boyfriend, but we’re still not public. Which sucks, actually, because—”

  Her sister started to cry.

  “Layla!” Zia scooted closer, alarmed. Of all the reactions she expected, this wasn’t one of them. It must be the shock. Zia rubbed her back as her sister began weeping. “Layla, honey.”

  “Gracias a Dios, gracias a Dios.” Her sister was rocking back and forth. She was laughing. “I prayed. I prayed for this.”

  “For me getting a boyfriend?”

  “No.” Layla’s laugh was a little manic. “Oh, Zia. This fixes everything.”

  Zia’s skin cooled. “Fixes what?”

  “Zia.” Her sister wiped her nose with her sweatshirt sleeve. She looked ecstatic. “A few months ago, my insurance stopped covering my Humira. Do you know what that is?”

  “The medication for your arthritis?”

  “That’s right. So now it costs, like, five freaking grand. Every two weeks.”

  Zia gasped. The bill she’d seen in the trash. It wasn’t for Mateo. It was for Layla. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, honey.” Layla kissed her sister’s hands. “You already give us so much. And you don’t have an extra five grand. But now…”

  “Now?”

  Layla’s eyes were fever bright. “C’mon, Zia. Ten thousand a month is nothing to guys like that. Nothing.”

  Zia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I can’t ask Clay for money, Layla. I’ll help you as much as I can, I’ll pick up extra shifts, but—”

  “Look at that kitchen!” La
yla erupted, pointing at Zia’s phone. “That place costs a million bucks!”

  Try ten million. Zia’s heart was racing. She shook her head, trying to get ahold of the situation. “How much do you need?”

  Layla licked her lips. “Like, fifty grand? To pay off my credit cards and make it through this year.”

  Panic coursed through Zia’s chest. She pictured asking Clay for fifty grand. Hey babe, so I told my sister about us, and she was wondering if there was any way— Zia shut her eyes, mortified. “It’s just, he has a thing about being used, and—”

  “He has a thing about being used?”

  “Layla, I can’t ask Clay to give me fifty thousand dollars! Do you have any idea how insane that is?”

  “Then, ‘borrow’ a leather jacket and I’ll put it on eBay. I know what those things can cost, I read about it in—”

  Zia shot to her feet. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “No, you’re unbelievable.” Layla was on her feet, too. “That you’d choose some rich boy over your own family.”

  The guilt trip hit Zia hard. “I’m not choosing him over you! I just can’t ask him for money!”

  “I’m in pain. Every day!”

  “Layla, Clay isn’t a free ATM!”

  “Why the hell not?” Her sister was wild-eyed. “I can’t believe this is an argument. You’re so selfish, Zia. You’ve always gotten everything, and I get nothing.”

  “I can’t listen to this.” Zia grabbed her bag and stormed for the front door, tears in her eyes.

  “Yeah, off you go,” Layla taunted her. “Run away like you always do. You don’t care about anybody but yourself.”

  Zia shut the front door with a bang, tears rising up in her like a geyser, ready to blow.

  63

  When Savannah was eleven, she was obsessed with a book series called the Sweetwater Girls. They told the story of three sisters: the spirited, ambitious Hope (aged fourteen, brunette); impulsive troublemaker Faith (fifteen, redhead); and bookish, beautiful Grace (sixteen, blonde), who lived in the geographically ambiguous lakeside town of Sweetwater. The books revolved around the girls’ love lives and friendships and school dramas, stuffed with cliffhangers and emotion, and racy enough to feel illicit. Savannah had her first orgasm after Grace let local bad boy Chase Daniels touch her breast (the eldest sister had bumped her head and experienced a complete personality change; this dangerous medical phenomenon would be reversed after Grace bumped her head again). There was no greater thrill than opening the pages of, say, #23 Hope for Class President or #107 Grace’s Two Loves, and losing herself in the perpetually sunny world of Sweetwater and its three beautiful sisters. For over a year, it was a singular focus, a fiction addiction of the highest order. When Savannah grew out of the series, she never again found a passion as wholly consuming, pleasurable, and engrossing as the Sweetwater Girls.