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

York branded notepad. Scribbled on the first page was the word FUCK, underlined three times. Savannah tossed it into a wastepaper basket and cleared her throat.

“It is the honor of my life to help you plan your dream wedding. We will merge sophistication and tradition in ways that will surprise and delight you, to create memories that’ll warm your hearts for years to come.”

Kamile put her hand on her chest, and gave Savannah a moved smile. Dave kissed his fiancée on the cheek.

Savannah beamed. Exactly the reaction she wanted. “Well, why don’t you start with what you have and, I guess, what you need?”

Kamile nodded, shaking her hair out with her fingers. “Okay. Wow. So we’re getting married on May fifteenth, two months away, which is totally crazy, I know. I was going to do all the planning myself, but work is insane. We’ve got the venue, thank God, a really cute farm upstate in the Catskills; we just need chairs and tables and stuff. For flowers: I’m thinking lilies, irises, things like that, very elegant and graceful and, um, baroque? No roses, I just don’t like roses—I know I’m weird—and obviously no baby’s breath or carnations or anything, like, cheap-looking.” She was speaking very quickly, gathering speed with every word. “Jazz for cocktail hour, nothing cheesy, sort of breathy and sexy and Norah Jones-y? And then a DJ who can MC—they all do that, right? Not to sound shallow, but I’d prefer someone good-looking—it’s probably illegal to say that, but whatever. Cocktails are important, we’re sort of cocktail snobs, so we’d love a certified mixologist who’s trained somewhere good and uses all fresh stuff; I don’t want everyone wasted on Long Island iced teas, that’s sort of my worst nightmare, apart from people not using the hashtag, which—given Dave’s last name is Seal—is, obviously…” She looked at Savannah, as if they should answer together. “Sealed the deal,” Kamile finished as Savannah guessed, “Kiss from a rose?”

Kamile looked mildly appalled. “Cute, but no, and literally just said I hate roses.” Kamile started ticking off her fingers. “Got my dress; Dave’s got his tux. Need hair and makeup, someone who’s done a million brown brides before, obviously. I don’t want anyone who’s, like, ‘I don’t have foundation dark enough for you!’ Like, what a nightmare. Need a photographer who can shoot for social, that’s nonnegotiable, I have, like, three hundred thousand followers now; it’s nuts. Do you know any good DPs who can livestream? Definitely planning on doing a tasteful amount of sponcon, so it’ll be good for you to middleman that. Sorry, should I be saying middlewoman now? You know what I mean. Oh, and the caterer has to be vegetarian/gluten-free/farm-to-table, locally grown, one hundred percent organic but yummy.” A deep breath. A smile at Dave. “Whew! Did you get all that?”

Savannah looked down at her notepad. Cat’s kills (?) No BB breath. Norah Jones. Baroque MC = hot. Yummy.

Silence feathered into the still room. Impossibly, Liv was smiling. The sight of her smugly amused face spiked a burning flash of rage. The feeling was so unprecedented, so radically unfamiliar, that for a long moment Savannah forgot entirely who she was.

“So… you have your… dress.”

“Yep.” Kamile nodded.

“And Dave’s got his… his tux.”

“Yep.” Dave nodded.

Savannah pretended to write this down, when in reality she wrote FUCK and underlined it three times. “And, you’re… you’re thinking about sponsoring your livestream?”

“No, I’m getting some things sponsored, but I want you to organize the livestream.” Kamile cocked her head. Her voice became a little more assertive. “Not to sound rude or anything, but this is our wedding, and I kind of need it to be perfect. You’re up for this, right, Savannah?”

Savannah opened her mouth, ready to deflect this silly questioning of her competence. She was Savannah Shipley: head of the yearbook committee, champion fundraiser, the best social chair Delta Zeta Lambda ever had!

Not a single word escaped.

Savannah stared at Liv. Please, please help me I need you.

Kamile and Dave twisted around to eye the hungover, half-dressed woman on the couch behind them.

Liv exhaled a short puff of air: Okay, fine. “How much? Our fee,” Liv clarified, before changing it to “my fee: partial planning costs ten percent of the budget or eight thousand dollars, whatever’s higher.”

Kamile traded a look of unease with Dave before turning to Savannah. “I thought I was pretty clear about that.”

“You were.” Savannah heard her own voice, tiny as a church mouse. She willed it louder. “You were. Mrs. Goldenhorn, I said we’d do the wedding for free. In exchange for some posts on Kamile’s social media.”

Liv rose from the couch, dressing gown dangerously close to falling open, and moved to shake hands with Kamile and then Dave. “Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you. This has been extremely… ridiculous.” She walked out of the room, leaving everyone staring, dumbfounded, after her.

2

Ralph Gorman tightened the blindfold around Henry’s head and asked if he could see anything.

“Not a thing. Totally in the dark.” As always, Henry told the truth.

“Okay, birthday boy. Ready?” Gorman’s baritone vibrated with excitement. Henry had always found it sexy—the voice of a late-night radio host playing love songs by request—but tonight it gave him an extra jolt of nerves. This was it. It was happening.

“I am ready.” Henry Chu was ready to get married. And on the evening of his thirty-seventh birthday, he was certain this new chapter was about to begin, with a proposal and a shiny gold ring.

They’d been together for only a few months when Gorman told Henry he had no intention of ever marrying: I’m from a different generation. It’s just not for me. Henry had just turned thirty. Apart from falling in love with this stylish, erudite older man, he didn’t know what he wanted. He was fine being domestic partners while he and Gorman co-opened Flower Power, Honey! in Carroll Gardens. While purchasing the apartment above the shop together and feeling like an adult for