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

always set to even numbers. Just a little bit of symmetry in an uneven world.

She was humming as she reached for the twenty-dollar bill tucked in her wallet. The twenty-dollar bill that was decidedly not there. No: it had to be. She definitely had a twenty. A twenty… that she spent on a cab last night. She’d waited three hours for a five-minute slot at a crappy open mic in Sunset Park. By the time her name was called, it was 2:00 a.m. and the audience had reduced to drunk white guys who stared at her boobs. A cab seemed like an act of self-care. Now, the familiar low-grade panic about being a doomed, broke musician made it look like a foolish indulgence. Darlene handed over a credit card, trying not to think about her elephantine student loans and astronomical rent. She left a good tip—relying on tips herself, it was impossible not to—and stepped outside.

A few minutes past their agreed-on time, Zia glided to a stop, dismounting her bike with the ease of someone who enjoyed outdoor activities. “Hey babe. Sorry I’m late: took the scenic route. Such a beautiful day!”

“Hey lady.” Darlene hugged her tightly. “So good to see you!”

She and Zia had met while carpooling to an In Love in New York wedding years ago. They talked so much Darlene had to remind herself not to overdo it before singing all night.

“How was Cambodia?”

Zia locked up her bike. “Incredible: the food, the kids—I wanna go back.”

“Take me with you,” Darlene groaned. “The most adventurous thing I’ve done since I saw you last was go to Sunset Park.”

Zia laughed. “Where’s Zach?”

It was 10:35 a.m. “Officially five minutes late. But if he appeared right now, he’d actually be fifteen minutes early, according to Zach time.”

They got into the rental car parked outside Zach’s chrome-and-steel apartment complex. Zach rented his condo from his parents, probably for less than Darlene paid for her postage-stamp-size spot in East Williamsburg. The two women began on breakfast: cream cheese bagel for Zia, who had the metabolism of an Olympian, and a large green juice for Darlene.

“Oh my God,” Zia groaned. “So good. I want to marry this bagel.”

“A lot of men are going to be sad they lost out to a piece of boiled bread.”

Zia snorted. “Yeah, right.” She’d always regarded her attractiveness with neutral detachment, even mild embarrassment, which Darlene both admired and felt a little jealous of.

“What about you?” Zia asked. “Still dating that political commentator guy—Charles?”

“Broke up a few months ago.” Darlene flipped the driver-side mirror down and adjusted the wig she usually wore to wedding gigs. Bouncy waves of shiny black tickled her skin. “My love life is officially on hold until I record an EP.”

“Awesome.” Zia licked cream cheese off her pinkie. “How’s all things music?”

It was a polite inquiry, and a genuine one. Everyone was interested in the path of the artist, excited for success, sympathetic about setbacks. Firm in their belief that for good people, tenacity and talent paid off. But what Darlene didn’t realize about choosing to forgo a reliable nine-to-five in favor of the nebulous dream of being a full-time musician was how often she’d have to play the role of optimistic striver. No one wanted to hear that dream chasing could be tiring, demoralizing, and financially crippling. Not that she wanted to share that uncomfortable truth. While Darlene Mitchell could sing songs that were full of emotions, she was not particularly good at expressing them. There was something about that sort of vulnerability that made her feel exposed. Or worse still, pitied. So when people asked about how her music “career” was going, she’d usually slap a smile on her face and say, Great! I’m performing pretty much every weekend! (Unpaid open mics or jazz gigs covering other people’s songs, but still: the truth.) But Darlene didn’t need to pretend around Zia. She huffed an exasperated breath. “I’m twenty-nine. I need to get off the wedding-party circuit and into an actual studio. Record my own songs.”

“With Zach?”

Darlene let out a soft snort. “No.”

“Why not? You always say he’s so talented.”

“He is. But Zach has other… priorities.”

As if on cue, a uniformed doorman opened the building’s front door for Zach and a buttery blonde in a miniskirt. This was Lauren (Laura?), a pharmaceutical rep. They’d met at a wedding; she’d been a bridesmaid. She and Zach had been dating for about six weeks. Zach dated someone for about six weeks a lot.

Lauren (Laura?) put her arms around Zach’s neck. He leaned down for a kiss, which quickly lengthened into a full-on make-out.

A scalding rush of anger that only Zach could inspire exploded in Darlene’s stomach. Could he go one month without charming the pants off some Bachelorette wannabe? And did they all have to constantly hook up in front of her? She leaned on the horn, hard. The sound broke the lovers apart with a satisfying jump. Zach shot her an apologetic grin, the kind of warm, winning smile that forgave just about anything. After one more stomach-churning kiss, he loped toward the car… before stopping to let a jogger pass. Then a dog walker. Then he was chasing the dog walker halfway down the block to return the guy’s dropped glove. Jesus, they were already late! Finally, he popped the trunk to store his guitar, the case plastered with UK flags and a BRITS DO IT BETTER sticker.

“Morning, Mitchell.” He slid into the back seat. “Hello, Zia, love: long time. Ooh, is that bagels I smell?”

The trio hadn’t worked a wedding together since November, nearly six months ago. The one on Long Island, where a flock of pigeons got loose in the kitchen and Liv found out poor Eliot had died. The last time Darlene had seen Liv was at the funeral. She’d been surprised to get another booking. In Love in New York was still alive.

“Hey, Zee-Bot.” Zia twisted around in her seat. “Blondie was cute. Predictable, but cute.”

“Don’t get attached.” Zach arched