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

with freedom baked into it. Three: Henry is wonderful, and he loves you. You might see marriage as a bad imitation of heteronormativity. But he probably sees it as a safety net for the life your generation fought so hard to get.”

A warm breeze rustled through the dusk, sending dead willow leaves floating around them. Gorman remembered when the willow was too small for the patch of new, dark mulch around it. Now, it was as dried-up as the spiderweb-covered pot plants. The liver-spotted skin on the back of his hand. Gorman didn’t want to get old. He didn’t want to be a dull old man any more than he wanted to lose his sense of self in a partnership. But possibly, there was some truth to what Liv had just laid out.

Liv asked, “Does Henry want children?”

Even though they’d never discussed it, the answer came from somewhere deeper than logic. “Yes.”

Liv made eye contact with him deliberately. “Then, trust me: a man like Henry won’t wait forever.”

The idea sent a peculiar chill up Gorman’s spine.

He loved Henry. He loved that Henry fell asleep reading in bed almost every night and didn’t wake when Gorman carefully removed his reading glasses. He loved that Henry approached life with a measured and practical thoughtfulness but could still be spontaneous and funny and cut a mean rug on the dance floor. He was trustworthy and hardworking and patient. Kind to children and animals.

Marriage used to be boring. But it was interesting to consider—just consider—that getting married, or hell, becoming a father, in his midfifties might just be the most radical thing Ralph Gorman could ever do.

45

As much as Clay was enjoying dating Zia, he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. The secrecy wasn’t a problem—everyone had their boundaries, and the fact she wasn’t broadcasting every waking thought was refreshing. But Clay sensed her wanderlust wasn’t the carefree kind that sent twentysomethings cavorting around the world with backpacks and journals. Zia pursued exploration with the mindfulness of someone in a walking meditation.

It niggled him. Still, he was very happy to be back in Manhattan, spending a night at home together, making a delizioso lasagna.

While she showered, Clay popped in his wireless earbuds and returned a call to Dave. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he told his manager, hunting around for a bottle of wine. “Zia and I have been… catching up.”

Dave chuckled. “Good for you, man.” Then, after a slightly awkward pause, “That’s kind of what I was calling about.”

Clay paused, one hand on a dusty bottle at the back of the pantry. “Meaning?”

“You want the good news or the bad?”

“The bad.” Always. Zia, the eternal optimist, would have opted for the former.

“Michelle’s book is coming out.”

“What? What about the army of lawyers? A bloodbath, with billable hours?”

“Freedom of speech, man. And she never signed an NDA, so…”

Clay groaned. His knees buckled, and he sank to the kitchen floor. He could see the tabloid covers now. CLAY BEGGED MICHELLE TO MAKE HIM HER SEX SLAVE!

“I know, man,” Dave sighed. “It sucks.”

It didn’t just suck. It was a colossal violation. As his star rose over the years, Clay had spent a lot of time musing about personhood and celebrity. The more famous he got, the less the rules of society applied to him. Often that worked in his favor—his outsize paycheck, the access he could expect, the best seat in every restaurant, concert, first class, whatever. But it also worked against him. He was more an idea than a person. Something to be used: for power, for money, for a laugh. His identity, and thus his worth, was determined by a scrim around him that was in part created by his actions, and in part created by the culture, and its oscillating tastes and values. Michelle’s book would change how society saw him and thus change him, without him taking any action at all. There was something deeply frightening about that reality. That ultimately there were two Clays. The real Clay, and the Clay invented by the desires of others: Illusion Clay. And he was never quite sure which one was in charge of his life.

“What’s the good news?”

“Excellent question. The good news is there is a lot of interest in your mysterious new woman.”

The jerk of panic propelled his head back up. “What? How does anyone even know?”

“Russo, c’mon. New York’s a big small town. You can’t keep this stuff secret forever.”

“Yes, I can.” Even to his own ears, he sounded whiny.

“All I’m saying is, Lana”—his publicist—“and I think a well-timed announcement would take a lot of eyeballs away from Michelle’s book, and onto you. What story would you rather read: the one about the bitter, bitchy ex, or the one about the happy, hot new love?”

“Neither.” Jesus, didn’t everyone have better things to do than read about people they didn’t even know?

“Well, most people prefer the happy, hot new love. We get you papped, then you bring her to a red carpet. Maybe a spread for People—”

“No!”

“You’re right: Vogue. No, Vanity Fair—”

“No, no.” Clay was back on his feet, checking the shower was still running. He lowered his voice. “I’m not ready. We’re still getting to know each other. She’s not even my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, cool.”

He could all but hear Dave rolling his eyes.

“How long’s it been?” Dave asked.

“Three months.” That wasn’t long. Was it?

Dave went on, sounding annoyingly casual, “And you’re not seeing anyone else, you spend all your free time with her, and when you’re not with her you kind of talk about her nonstop.”

“I don’t talk about her—”

“Dude,” Dave interrupted. “You do.”

The old Clay would’ve done it. Not parade Zia around like a sideshow, but make things more official. Be seen in public. Tell the truth about his feelings to his family and inner circle. But the new Clay was cautious. There was still that fear, as groundless as it was, that Zia didn’t like the real Clay. That she’d fallen for Illusion Clay, the one