It Had to Be You, Georgia Clark [phonics reader TXT] 📗

But Savannah was always there. Asking questions. Making suggestions. Cleaning things. She replaced the cigarette-singed couch with a pale pink sofa (sourced on Craigslist; Liv couldn’t afford a new one) and put Eliot’s things in the fourth-floor attic. She brightened the front room with a fresh coat of paint and inspirational posters (Liv vetoed CREATE YOUR OWN SUNSHINE and ALL WOMEN ARE QUEENS!, begrudgingly accepting DON’T DREAM ABOUT SUCCESS: WORK FOR IT). “But it’s not as if she’s actually helpful with anything to do with planning,” Liv complained to Henry and Gorman, in the back room of Flower Power, Honey!

“Because, you’re not actually letting her do any.” Henry added a few delicate white anemones to an airy table display. “Do you think Kamile would go for something like this? Very wabi-sabi, very chic.”

“She’ll approve anything I tell her is ‘extremely Instagrammable,’ ” Liv replied. “Which is rather a neat trick.”

Gorman looked up from his copy of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, which he was reading for his Monday-night playwriting class. “And who taught you that trick, darling?”

Liv huffed. The smartphone obsession was highly irritating, all these kids carrying phones around like miniature oxygen tanks. But it was true Savannah understood that inane world. “She’s very good at appearances,” Liv said. “How things look. How she looks.”

“But what’s going on on the inside?” Henry added another anemone to the display. “That’s what’s interesting.”

“Not much,” said Liv.

“Then what’d E see in her?” Gorman closed his book. “He was always a flirt, but I didn’t think he was the type to cheat.”

“And it wasn’t like we never had sex,” Liv said. “Every now and then I’d get drunk and relent.”

“Hot,” said Gorman.

“The current thinking on affairs is that it’s less about the relationship they’re leaving or even the new relationship they’re having,” Henry said. “It’s about the new relationship with the self. Eliot liked who he was when he was with Savannah.”

Someone unencumbered by his identity as a husband and father. Someone vibrant and intelligent, all inspiration, no obligation. Liv could fathom this, even if she couldn’t understand his willingness to let his second life shatter hers. “But by that logic, Savannah could’ve been almost anyone. So why leave a business to her?”

“That,” Henry said, “is what I’m still trying to figure out.”

As far as Liv was concerned, Savannah was one of those women who chose cultivating a conformist personality as survival. Admittedly she wasn’t unimpressive, and she didn’t lack confidence: she’d arrived in New York City with the zeal of a conquering hero and she was, Liv had to admit, a fast learner. But Liv was sure Savannah would fall victim to the thing that took down most mainstream girls in America: the belief that being pretty enough and smart enough and kind enough was, in short, enough. Savannah Shipley would succeed as that version of a woman. She didn’t have true potential to be interesting.

On the night before Dave and Kamile’s wedding, Liv and Savannah pored over every last detail for the third time. Liv peered at the final run sheet through black-rimmed glasses. “The band is sound-checking—”

“At two p.m. while they’re doing family photos,” Savannah recited. “When we’ll also test the mics and AV.”

“Hair and makeup—”

“Arriving at the bridesmaids’ rental house at seven a.m. sharp.”

Kamile had hoped to trade all her vendors’ services for social media posts. Only a few took the deal: makeup was one of them.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to start an Instagram?” Savannah asked. “After Kamile posts about us, it’d be so good if she could tag us.”

Post about us. Tag us. Savannah insisted on making out as if they were some kind of team. Liv removed her glasses. “Remind me of rules one, two, and three?”

Savannah let out a scoff of annoyance.

Liv raised an eyebrow.

Savannah realized what she’d done and blushed. “I’m so sorry. I just…”

“Had an emotion other than peppy? Don’t apologize for that.” Liv zipped up the emergency kit, a bag filled with everything from bobby pins to bandages, plus a backup copy of the couples’ vows and list of must-play songs. They had plans, and contingency plans, and contingency plans of the contingency plans. In Love in New York was ready. Or, as ready as they’d ever be. Liv felt an unfamiliar wobble of nerves. It had been so long since she’d had a wedding go off without a hitch. A self-destructive part of her almost wanted tomorrow to implode. It might be preferable than doing all this again with Savannah Shipley. “It’s late. Go home and get some rest.”

Savannah rose obediently. “Liv—”

“Let’s not,” Liv cut her off. “You’re so grateful for this opportunity, and you can’t wait to celebrate the wondrous thing that is true love and blah blah blah.”

“I was going to say we should bring antiperspirant deodorant. Dave sweats a lot.”

“Oh,” said Liv. “Yes, of course. Well, see you tomorrow.”

She watched the girl stride up the darkening street toward the subway. Prospect Heights to Bushwick: that was a long commute. Complicated, too. The 3 to the L? The B to the M? But Little Miss Hush Puppy had never said a word about it or (apart from the test meal with Sam) been late to a meeting, not once in the two months they’d been working together. A pinprick of respect glowed quietly in the soft plum twilight.

Ugh! Liv slapped it away like a mosquito and yanked the front door shut.

9

“So there I am, in the middle of the jungle in Southeast Asia: no cell phone, no map, totally lost… and it’s starting to get dark.” The next morning, in Queens, Zia Ruiz was relishing the adorable sight of her spellbound niece and nephew, mouths open in wonder.

“What did you do, Auntie Zia?” lisped Lucy.

“Were there monsters?” shouted her older brother, Mateo, limping in a circle around her. His right leg was in a cast from a playground fall.

“Cambodia is known for