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

“The tennis player?”

“No! The journalist. On MSNBC. You definitely know her.”

Zach maybe knew her. “I didn’t think you were still in touch with Charles.”

Darlene had shrugged, grabbing a bowl of the shrimp lo mein he’d brought over. “I ran into him. He invited me. I said yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t spend all my time with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not actually a couple.” Her voice hitched before she regained control. “It’s healthy to have a wide circle of intellectually stimulating friends.”

Who happen to be your ex. So here they were, front row, in seats reserved with Darlene’s name, which she was obviously impressed by. On the stage were two chairs, a fifteen-foot projection of the book cover—Mistakes Were Made: The Paradox of the Working-Class Revolution—and a photograph of Awful Charles boasting the confidence of a pop star in the pasty body of a garden gnome.

“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