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

said. “A young man clearly in need of the grounding a solid relationship would bring.”

“I have solid relationships!” Zach exclaimed. “God, you’re making me out to be some sort of depraved Don Juan—”

“Zach?”

The table looked up.

Zach felt a hard jolt of alarm. “Lauren!” The woman he was intending on breaking up with was at his table. Under usual circumstances Zach would find her skintight miniskirt quite delightful, but right now it seemed a little… revealing. “H-Hi.”

“You always said Babbo was fantastic, so I’m here with my roommate.” She tucked a lock of blond behind one ear coyly. “So funny running into you.”

“Yes, absolutely, um, hysterical.” He didn’t want to hurt Lauren, he just couldn’t imagine a successful relationship with her. Or, anyone. He’d get bored, or (more likely) they’d get bored. So it was safer to enjoy an extended fling, then sensitively end it. But, not in front of his parents.

Lauren addressed the table. “You must be Zach’s family. So nice to meet you. How long are you in town?”

His mother’s smile was tight. “We’ll stay the night and drive back tomorrow.”

Lauren let out a laugh. “To London?”

Zach winced.

Catherine cut her eyes to Zach. “To Southampton.”

It was a stupid lie, but one he regularly told. It just made things easier if his girlfriends never expected to meet his family. Lauren glanced back at Zach, who smiled weakly. Christ, he was a knob sometimes. He could see her deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night I have rehearsal with Darlene.” Zach glanced at his parents—See? I’m responsible! “But I’ll, um, definitely give you a call. Sometime.”

He may as well have dumped her then and there. A ripple of emotion distorted Lauren’s face before she pressed her lips together, gave Zach a perfunctory smile, and began to walk off. She’d taken only a few steps before swinging around. “Are you sure you’re not too busy calling the girl who texted you the other night? The one wanting to suck your big D?”

Catherine dropped her salad fork.

Panic shot through Zach’s chest.

Lauren continued, her voice rising. “Meant to ask you about your last STD check, but obviously I should just get tested ASAP.”

Zach’s entire face was on fire. He could barely get the words out. “I’m always, um, careful…” But Lauren was gone.

Zach was adept at handling his family’s outsize expectations. But this was different. This was a screwup. Of Titanic proportions. He cleared his throat. “Funny story, actually—”

“Oh, save it, Zach.” His mother was uncharacteristically sharp. “Your father and I are withholding your trust until you get your act together.”

He understood each word separately but not in that exact order. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your trust fund,” his father said. “You’re not getting it.”

Still, utterly incomprehensible. “But—but—but that money’s mine. That’s my money.”

“No, Zachary, it’s our money,” Catherine corrected. “That you’re clearly not mature enough to handle.”

“But Imogene—”

“Spent hers on a portfolio of well-researched investments and charitable donations.” Catherine cocked her head. “What would your plans be?”

Zach gripped the side of the table. His entire life had been leading up to his twenty-seventh birthday—the age his parents felt a young person’s brain finally finished developing—whereby an embarrassing amount of money would be discreetly bequeathed to him to do with whatever he damn well pleased. Which was play music with Darlene, have sex with random bridesmaids, and enjoy life to the best of his ability. That’s why he didn’t need a job or further education or even a plan. It was crude to admit, but the fact was, his family was rich. He was rich.

Except now, he wasn’t. He racked his brain for an angle, a convincing argument, a counterpoint. None emerged. No! This could not be happening.

“The thing is,” he began, licking his lips.

“Yes?” His mother sipped her wine.

“The thing is,” he repeated. “The thing… is—”

“Hello, Livingstones.” Darlene stood at the table, smiling politely. Under her cropped denim jacket, she was wearing what she usually wore to jazz gigs: a floor-length, high-necked ivory silk dress, plus a glossy black bob wig. Sexy, yes, but also modest. Classy.

Zach was on his feet. “The thing is, I have something to tell you. We have something to tell you.”

“We do?” Darlene asked.

“Yes, we do. We weren’t ready to do this because it’s so new—very, very new—but given the, uh, circumstance.” Zach put his arm around Darlene’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Darlene and I… Well, we’re… in love.”

Darlene stared at Zach in total disbelief. “We’re in what?”

21

At first, Gorman found the concept of adult education vaguely embarrassing. Wasn’t there something sad about a roomful of adults well past the flush of youth sitting around a poky little classroom? Like wearing overalls or doing shots, it did not seem suitable for those over fifty. But Eliot’s death, and Savannah Shipley’s arrival in New York, had reminded Gorman that life was short. The week after E died, Gorman signed up for a playwriting class at a local community college. He’d spent his actual collegiate years wrestling with his sexuality by having closeted sex with wrestlers. But now, Gorman was an adult-education convert. His Monday-night playwriting class was one of the best parts of his week. He enjoyed meeting with “the over-forties Breakfast Club” for high-minded discussions about how form serves content or the sonic effect of alliteration. Each student spent the year working on a full-length play of their own, and the whole venture felt like a salon or a secret society. He was comfortable with this routine—Gorman always sought comfort wherever he was—but as he entered the classroom on Monday night, his cozy tradition had unexpectedly transformed.

“We have a new student,” announced Jon, a rotund, bearded young man who’d had two productions staged at downtown theaters. “Gilbert.”

Gorman twisted in his seat. He expected to see a former bus driver seeking the sublime or a supermarket employee who fancied himself a philosopher (they already had one each of those). Gilbert was neither.

“Hello.” Gilbert gave