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

She’d only mentioned her dream of recording an EP—a shorter version of a full-length album—to Zach once.

“I remembered.” He almost sounded offended. “I’m excited for you. You’re a genius, Mitchell, and soon, everyone will know it.”

That was the thing about Zach. Just when you decided to be annoyed with him, he’d turn around and be disgustingly earnest. “I haven’t got any finished songs yet. But I found a producer I like. He’s not cheap, but he’s good, and he gets me. Now I just need the cash.” She positioned the tip jar at the front of the small stage.

“Why can’t you just ask your dad for money? Didn’t he write a million books?”

“He’s written four.” Darlene’s father was a professor of African American studies at Oberlin. But the Mitchell family motto was basically Do it on your own. “I haven’t asked my dad for a thing since I moved out.”

“There’s such a thing as being too self-sufficient. Let people help you.” Zach plugged the pedals into his guitar, testing them one by one. “You know what they say. Behind every strong woman is an almost-as-strong man.”

“Not behind me. I don’t want my success handed to me. I want to earn it.”

“Honorable. You know you’re my hero, Mitchell.” Zach pushed his hair out of his eyes, watching her reach up to swivel the PA. “I might actually be in love with you.”

Darlene rewarded this with a withering smile. “Save it for the bridesmaids, Livingstone. All I need to hear is you learning the first dance in less than thirty minutes, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Zach pulled a guitar pick from his pocket and faultlessly started the new arrangement of “At Last.”

11

One of the things a newly engaged couple didn’t realize about their decision to have a wedding was that their task was not to plan a ceremony. Or a party. It was a show. A high-stakes, high-drama, once-in-a-lifetime show. That was one of the things that hooked Liv in—the sight of everyone dashing around as they drew closer to the curtain call, perfecting the set for the arrival of the cast (the wedding party) and the audience (their guests). It recalled the thrill of acting in New York in her early twenties, except these shows were real life, and she was actually being paid.

But today, Liv was an actor who couldn’t remember her lines. She kept feeling there was something missing. Over and over again, she’d check the run sheet, sensing a major oversight. And every time, she remembered what it was. Or rather, who it was. Eliot and weddings were as interconnected as an infinity ring. They’d met at the very first one Liv had planned.

She was twenty-five. Her hair was long, and her dresses were short. The dream of becoming the next Winona Ryder was starting to crumble under the weight of ego-crushing auditions. Appalled at what a snobby Manhattan planner was charging an old friend from acting class, she offered to help. It turned out beautifully, a relaxed late-summer affair in Prospect Park with a jazz quartet and lawn games. The couple said their I dos with wet cheeks and full hearts, and just for a moment, the world was perfect. Love was real, and people were good, and there was hope for the entire human race. Liv didn’t know it at the time, but that sort of feeling would sustain her for years to come. It renewed her passion, buoying her through the less fun (aka utterly shitful) aspects of full-time wedding planning. Maybe she’d catch it in the father-daughter dance, or the best man toast, or the way a newly married couple would gaze at each other, so full of wonder. The world was run by madmen and bastards. But we could also love one another. We could also be tender.

As the dinner finished up, and everyone was feeling nicely tipsy, Liv had tucked her long locks behind her ears and tapped her glass, commanding the attention of the guests. She’d told a few jokes and a suitably embarrassing story about the bride mistaking an audition call for Sun-Maid raisins as being for A Raisin in the Sun and presenting a theatrical monologue for a dried-fruit commercial, to waves of satisfying laughter. “I want to end with one of my favorite poems. ‘Pathways,’ by Rainer Maria Rilke. To me, this poem speaks to how much everyone needs love. Even the loners. The seekers. The wanderers.” She cleared her throat, and began. “ ‘Understand, I’ll slip quietly, away from the noisy crowd, when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I’ll pursue solitary pathways, through the pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: You come too.’ ”

The crowd murmured their appreciation.

Liv raised her glass, addressing the newlyweds. “May you always walk side by side, seeking the stars and new horizons. To love.”

“To love,” echoed the crowd.

Liv sat back down, giddy with a post-performance rush. She was only able to refocus as one of the groom’s college friends took the microphone. He wore a tux with a bow tie undone. Dark hair, confident nose; Jewish, like her. Handsome, with a glint in his eye. Liv sat up straighter.

The speaker pointed at the groom. “This guy has always been a prick.”

The crowd laughed.

The man continued, now indicating Liv. “I mean, who makes his best man follow that? A beautiful woman speaking heartfelt words?”

The crowd laughed harder. Liv’s cheeks warmed, suddenly feeling the effects of the seventeen thousand glasses of wine she’d knocked back.

Eliot continued, the microphone loose in his hand. “Everything you’re going to see from me is going to resemble a chimpanzee throwing his own feces. Which reminds me of the time we all got drunk at the zoo.”

The college friends howled, thrilled. A tawdry tale was being exposed, but Liv didn’t hear a word of it. This guy, whoever he was, was cute.

Later, Eliot had found Liv at the edge of the tent, taking a break from the dance floor. An unlit cigarette