It Had to Be You Georgia Clark (bookstand for reading txt) 📖

she thought she had and tried to make it work. So did Eliot. But it was only after they became parents did the ravine between their two approaches become clear. At the time, it seemed like the only way. But now, just like a bride who was deciding not to wear white down the aisle, Liv was beginning to understand there were so many more possibilities than what she thought she saw at the time.

As Liv put the risotto bowls in the dishwasher, the question presented itself to her with frightening clarity: Was being a wife something she still prioritized after Ben was born? Or had it somehow been lagging in third place, behind mother and business owner? She was probably a better friend than she had been a wife, given all the time she spent drinking with Gorman. For years, she’d been certain that seeing Eliot every day, in the home they shared and the business they owned, had been the highest form of intimacy. But now, Liv had to wonder: Had she still been married to her husband?

Or to everything else around her?

25

The next day, Savannah let the city distract her from the fiasco that was In Love in New York.

She took the subway to the Upper East Side to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, ending up in a room full of modern masters: Georgia O’Keeffe, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso. One of Modigliani’s famed reclining nudes gazed back at her, eyes heavy-lidded, flesh glowing and creamy. Transcendent. New York was like this—unexpected pockets of beauty and history, offered as casually as one tosses bread crumbs at pigeons. She’d turn a corner, and suddenly, there was Carnegie Hall or a naked cowboy with a guitar or a supermodel in sweats. Once, she saw Lady Gaga, in a full, glittery ball gown, getting into a black Suburban on Park Avenue. For one brief second, they locked eyes. Savannah swore that Lady Gaga smiled at her.

At first, it felt like a waste to have these experiences alone. She and Honey would occasionally text each other perfect little New York moments—a subway saxophonist playing “New York State of Mind,” a particularly excellent lox bagel—but still, physically, alone. Savannah was used to defining herself in relation to others—a daughter, an intern, a best friend. Alone, she was just herself, discovering who she was when no one else was around. Her own mother never had this opportunity: Terry and Sherry were high school sweethearts. They’d never spent more than two nights apart. But having been in New York alone for the past few months, Savannah could feel herself changing. Like the best work of art or a glass of good whiskey, her layers were beginning to reveal themselves.

And yet, even the magic of New York couldn’t fix her current predicament. It was almost closing time on Saturday night when Savannah hauled herself onto a barstool at ’Shwick Chick and let out a heavy sigh. “I need a drink.”

Honey reached for the Pappy Van Winkle.

Over the past week, Kamile hadn’t replied to any of Savannah’s increasingly desperate texts and voice mails. The newlywed was lying on a beach in the Bahamas, ironically unplugged. That wasn’t how the world was supposed to work. You give, you get.

Honey left to clear a table, returning a minute later to ask, “But haven’t you got a contract or something?”

Savannah closed her eyes in defeat. “No.” Why had she pushed back so vehemently on sending Kamile a contract? Liv had been right. One hundred percent, absolutely, fundamentally right. The reputation of the business Savannah co-owned was still in the toilet, and the past few months of full-time work had amounted to absolutely zilch. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No, you’re an optimist.” Honey squeezed her hand. “Savannah, what you’re doing isn’t easy. You threw yourself into a new job in a new city with a woman who has every right to hate you. You brought in the first client and pulled off an awesome wedding against a lot of odds. We’re always our own harshest critic, but as your biggest fan on the sidelines, I’m telling you, you’re killing it.”

Savannah closed her eyes, trying to let the kind words into her heart. Why was it so easy to see the best in others, but not in yourself?

Her phone pinged. A text. From her father. Hey Pookie! I know it’s late, but are you free for a chat? Nothing urgent, we love you!

She flipped her phone over, feeling an unfamiliar snap of annoyance. She was fairly certain she was the only Gen Z transplant in Bushwick who talked to their parents multiple times a week.

Honey flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and invited Savannah to hang out while the staff cleaned up and balanced the books. Savannah felt like she’d just been invited backstage. A new level of intimacy, unlocked. She watched her friend expertly wipe down the bar. “What’s your plan, Honey? Think you’ll stay here for a while?”

“This is the best restaurant job I’ve ever had. But I’m just crazy enough to open my own spot, one day. I hear it’s real easy.”

Savannah perked up. “Really? That’s so cool.”

“Honey’s Fried Chicken. It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?” She leaned across the bar, her brown eyes sparking. “I’ve worked every front-of-house job, so I know how to staff up. I’m only an amateur cook, so I’d hire someone to run the kitchen. Maybe somewhere in Greenpoint, or Bed-Stuy.”

Savannah nodded eagerly. “You could start with a dinner series. Like, a pop-up. Fifty bucks for all-you-can-eat fried chicken and beer. Build a mailing list, get a logo designed, maybe start a YouTube channel. The Brooklyn food scene is so popular right now, and having a niche is smart.”

“You’re smart,” Honey said. “They’re all really good ideas.” As Honey cleaned, they riffed on the concept. The honey-fried chicken was one of the most popular items on ’Shwick Chick’s menu, and the only dish that wasn’t created by the