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

an annoyed look. Through his pale jeans, she saw the hard outline of an as-yet-unwitnessed part of Zach’s anatomy. Something he’d referred to more than once as his “Jolly Roger.” The sight of it sent a fresh wave of blood gushing to her face. What would he do if she reached out and touched him? Held his gaze, deliberately, as she did?

“You should go.”

There was another painfully long pause. “Okay. I’ll just use the loo.”

He disappeared down the hall. Checking the bathroom door was closed, Darlene dipped a finger between her legs. Her underwear was soaked. Her entire body felt heavy and sweet, like an overripe summer fruit that needed to be plucked. Intellectually, she knew Zach wasn’t a friend, let alone a lover. But her body had no idea. It had just learned its new favorite song.

By the time Zach came back out, Darlene was standing by the open window on the other side of the room. She’d wrapped the kimono around herself as tightly as a sushi roll. He offered her his phone. “Photos turned out great.”

The sight of them making out would send her over the edge. “Please, no. I don’t want to lose my appetite permanently.”

“Well, you’ll see them when I tag you.” He rocked back on his heels, attempting “peppy.” “So how about a neighborhood wander? We could get a soft serve at Milk Bar and I could do the whole licking-it-off-the-top-of-your-nose thing.”

The idea made her tingle violently. She clenched hard to make it dissipate.

“My sister’s down to meet up,” Zach added deliberately. “That’s who was texting me.”

She wanted to believe this. She didn’t know if she did. “That was Imogene?”

“Yes. Darlene, I’m not— Look, I only want to hang out with you.”

He sounded tense and sincere. But even if he was telling the truth, it was too late now. She’d already pulled the plug. “I have to work on some lyrics.”

He let out a rough, exasperated breath. “Fine.” He strode for the front door. “So how do we sort out this contract, Mitchell?”

The boundary should feel good. For some reason, it didn’t. “I thought you were going to sort it out.”

“Oof, I don’t really have the brain for all that legalese.” Disdain colored his words. “My sister is the brilliant one. I’m just comic relief. The heir and the spare! I’ll pay, just run the lawyer’s name past me first so I can try to find out if they know Imogene, or Mina. Christ, that would be an embarrassing way to get caught.”

Darlene followed him to the front door. “Of course you have the brain for legalese; you’re really smart.”

“Ha!” He was already out in the hallway, heading down the stairs.

“Zach, wait!”

But the spare was already gone, the front door to her apartment block banging loudly as he left.

33

Summer was growing season: the warm weather coaxing even the most stubborn varietals into full, lush bloom. And just as the delphiniums and gardenias and dahlias began to open up and show their true colors, Henry watched Gorman come to life. Casting had begun for Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail.

“It’s so thrilling to hear my words read by actual actors.” Gorman buzzed around the kitchen, opening one drawer, then another. “The director is incredible. A New School grad—we were lucky to get her.”

“And everything’s going well with Gilbert?”

Gorman opened another drawer. “Yes.”

Was it Henry’s imagination or was Gorman blushing? “What are you looking for?”

“Wine opener.”

“There.” Henry pointed to the cutlery drawer. “Where it always is.”

“Rehearsals start soon.” Gorman began pulling the cork out. “I’ll need to be there every day.”

“But you’re just the playwright.”

“The playwright sits in on rehearsals for rewrites.” Gorman spoke in the authoritative-and-offended voice he used when he just learned something five seconds ago. “That’s industry standard.”

Henry served two generous bowls of chicken chow mein, garnished with green onions and sesame seeds. Gorman poured them both a glass. They sat across from each other at the dining table, draping linen napkins over their laps. Gorman switched on Dancing with the Stars, put it on mute, and asked Alexa to play Chopin.

“So I’ll be there from five every night. Oh, this is delicious, Choo-Choo. How’d you get the chicken so—”

“Wait a sec. From five p.m.? Every night?”

“Every weeknight.”

Henry stared at Gorman. “What about the shop?”

Gorman fussed with his napkin, not meeting Henry’s eye. “Yes, well, I was thinking we get that part-timer back in for a few weeks. She was good; you liked her.”

Henry’s chopsticks paused midway to his mouth. The shop was open till 9:00 p.m. over the summer. Twenty hours a week at twenty dollars an hour. “So not only are we spending ten grand on getting this thing up, now we have to spend four hundred dollars a week on a part-timer to cover you? Starting when?”

Gorman’s gaze darted from his bowl to his wineglass. “Rehearsals start, er, tomorrow.”

This was typical.

Their therapist, Jennifer, a gray-haired septuagenarian who wore cat-eye glasses and Bakelite necklaces, once said they could choose to lean into their similarities—shared interests, strengths, and values—or focus on their differences. Differences that included Gorman’s tendency to obfuscate conflict. Or how Henry handled holiday cards and birthday presents while Gorman just showed up. Or how Henry was close to his family, while Gorman tolerated his. Or how— Henry stopped the spiral. They were different. But they loved each other. And love was a choice.

“Fine,” Henry said. “I’ll look into it after dinner.”

Gorman looked surprised. Then relieved. Then suspicious. Then sheepish. “I can look into it. It’s my problem to solve.”

“That would be great,” said Henry. “Turn on the volume. I want to see this cha-cha.”

“Choo-Choo loves the cha-cha,” intoned Gorman and Henry giggled. It was true. He did.

Later, after Gorman had cleaned up and they’d made love (they usually had sex after Dancing with the Stars), Henry watched Gorman sleep. The soft rise and fall of his lover’s chest always soothed him.

When Henry was younger, he thought that loving someone was supposed to feel good, always. If