It Had to Be You by Georgia Clark (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📕

they’d be hounded and Zia’s personal life would no longer be personal. Trolls would come out of the woodwork. Her online footprint would be mined for information. “They’d be obsessed with getting a photo of us,” he said, unable to hide his annoyance. Privacy gave the relationship space to breathe, and grow, he said. And they’d have lots of time together, since the job in Mozambique unexpectedly fell through. The project lost funding. Zia expected to feel disappointed. Instead, she felt relieved. Excited. There’d be other jobs, and her feelings for Clay were growing.

If they were out late and Clay’s security gave the all clear, occasionally Clay would stay over at Darlene’s. Darlene had sworn to take-it-to-the-grave secrecy, as had Zach, who’d popped by one night and ended up bonding with the actor over a shared love of nineties British rock bands. (“That guy seriously has the world’s best body,” Zach told the two women. “I can say that because I’m comfortable in my manhood.”) But usually, it was safer, and more convenient, to stay at Clay’s penthouse apartment. Zia had complicated feelings about the wraparound terrace and California king bed. Her ex had soured the taste of unearned luxuries. The only luxury she needed was time with Clay. Truthfully, Zia was happy to be discreet about her relationship. Minimizing it would help if things didn’t work out, and more important, it avoided having to tell her sister. It was easier to enjoy getting to know an interesting new person, and push the past away.

“What’s with you?” Layla demanded. “Are you getting laid?”

Around them, Lucy and Mateo pinwheeled, cabin-fevered and crazed. A summer storm had canceled Sunday afternoon at the park, so they were stuck inside. It felt like a hundred children were bolting around the one-bedroom apartment. Seated on the sofa, Zia lifted her legs to let a squealing Lucy scamper underneath. “I’m happy.”

“I’m happy? What does that mean?” In another life, her sister could’ve been a detective. She pointed at Zia’s neck. “Is that legit?”

Zia fingered her new necklace. : the Japanese symbol for light, on a delicate chain. Clay had surprised her with it on their last night in Tokyo. She was pretty sure it was real gold. “I got it in Chinatown for five bucks.”

Her sister’s eyes stayed on her, waiting.

Zia slipped the necklace under her T-shirt. “Fine, I’m seeing someone.”

“Another finance guy?” Layla’s question was sharp. It really meant, Another asshole like Logan?

Zia shook her head. “No. He’s a… gardener. His name is Tom.”

“Tom,” Layla repeated the name, testing for the truth.

“He’s a good guy. Nothing like… Tom’s sweet.”

“Good.” Layla swigged wine from a Winnie the Pooh juice cup.

Zia frowned. It wasn’t even 4:00 p.m.

“Self-medicating,” Layla muttered, massaging her knees. Pain flickered over her face.

“Are you taking your arthritis medication? Can I help?”

Layla scowled and rolled her eyes. She welcomed help around the house and with the kids, but her health always seemed off-limits. “So, what, is Tom really ripped?”

“He’s good-looking. But it’s not just that. He’s really kind. And smart. And funny.” Zia smiled, thinking about their silly inside jokes and running gags. “But he’s also really sensitive…”

“Okay, okay.” Layla snorted a laugh. “I get it: you’re gonna marry Tom.”

“No, I’m not!” Zia couldn’t imagine telling anyone about Clay, let alone marrying him. As much as she focused on Clay as a person, who he was to everyone else was undeniable. Clay Russo had millions of followers on Instagram. They could order takeout from any restaurant in the city and never worry about what it cost. Last night he was texting with Steven Spielberg. Marrying him was as likely as moving to the moon. “I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are. It’ll be dope. You’ll live in Brooklyn and make babies and become a mom with me. Hashtag mom life. Get ready to drink a lot.” Layla refilled the juice cup and raised it in a toast. “You got pictures?” Zia’s phone was in Layla’s hand.

“No!” Zia snatched her phone back.

“Whoa, chill out. Delete your nudes and show me your future hubby.”

The funny thing was, even if she told her sister the truth about her relationship, Zia had absolutely no evidence. Clay never took random selfies of them, so Zia didn’t, either. The only proof was the necklace, which could’ve come from anywhere, and their texts, which could be from anyone. The truest proof was her memory. Love was abstract: it was a concept, a shared agreement. Maybe that was what made love so magical, so delicate. In this three-dimensional world, we crave the ethereal. The certainty of something that barely exists.

“Layla, I’m not going to marry Tom.”

“Why not?”

“He lives in LA.”

“LA? So what, you’re gonna start spending all your time there now?” Layla looked testy. “Also, he’s a gardener and he lives in LA? Why is he out here?”

Zia tried not to flounder. “He’s more like a landscaper. He, um, designs gardens for famous people.”

Layla’s face lit like a match. “Famous people like who?”

“No one.”

“Famous people like who?”

“No one.”

“Like who?”

“No one! I don’t know!”

Layla laughed. “Calm down! I don’t actually care.” She sipped her wine, amused. “Look at you. Getting all riled up.”

Zia took their lunch plates to the kitchen.

Layla trailed her, wiping the nose of a whiny Mateo, whose leg cast was covered in wonky Sharpie scrawls. “Omigod, what if he knows, like, Beyoncé. We can pretend to be his assistants.”

“What? Why?”

“We can swipe a coaster or something. You know how much people will pay for celebrity shit online?”

“Layla!” Zia popped the trash can lid. “You can’t joke like that.”

“I ain’t joking.” Her sister’s eyes glinted. “I think this is dope. You want my advice? Keep Tom happy. The closer you are to insane wealth, the better chance we have to catch some crumbs.” She leaned against the doorframe that separated the living room from the kitchen. “You still have the looks.”

But Zia was only half hearing the words. On top of the trash was a scrunched-up bill: Layla’s credit card.