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

nervous laugh, the sudden need to sit down. And then, as the truth of what she was saying sunk in, the horror. Not so much that she was dating a woman, although it certainly would not be good news. The horror that over the course of the six short months since she’d left her home state, their only child had turned into someone they didn’t even recognize. Didn’t even know. Or—and possibly, this was worse—that she’d been lying to them. For years. Willfully deceiving them about who she was. “Friend.”

Honey blinked. Just once.

Sherry addressed Savannah. “We booked a hotel in Times Square, so I guess we’ll just get a cab? We’re only here for the weekend, but I thought we could see a Broadway show and Dad wants to see some baseball—”

“Is the front door fireproof?” Her dad was opening and shutting it.

“—and we want to do the Hop On, Hop Off bus.” Her mom blew her nose. “Do we have to buy tickets for Ellis Island?”

“I gotta go to work,” Honey lied, backing toward the front door. “Nice to meet you guys. Enjoy New York.” Her warmth was entirely professional. “Bye, Savannah.”

“Wait,” Savannah said, but she was gone.

And so instead of lazing around in bed with Honey all weekend, Savannah found herself touring her parents around the city. It was both Terry and Sherry’s first time there. They were good sports about it, but Savannah could tell they found it chaotic, crowded, and completely charmless. Their jokes—“There sure is a lot of garbage here!” or “I had no idea you could charge that much for coffee!”—were thinly disguised criticisms. Her dad liked the baseball, and her mom thought Central Park was pretty, but the trip asked more questions than it answered. Specifically: Why do you like it here? Her love for the city was a disappointment. Savannah had always believed her parents to be open-minded and permissive—they’d never pressured her to pick a specific major or told her how to dress. But now she understood they did have expectations of her life, as it related to them. And having a daughter with a girlfriend who lived in New York City was definitely not part of their parental fantasies.

As Savannah rode with them in a taxi to the airport on Sunday night, her mom squeezed her knee, thanking her for showing them the famous New York City. “But you must be looking forward to coming home.”

Savannah pictured spending the rest of the evening in bed with Honey or even just hanging with her roommates and a lot of boxed wine. “I am,” she admitted.

Her mom smiled, relieved. “Us too.”

They’d mixed up the meaning of home.

It took an entire week to lure Honey over. When she finally showed up, the usual ease between them was gone. They watched an old episode of Schitt’s Creek in bed on Savannah’s laptop, but when neither of them were laughing, Savannah knew something was really wrong. She closed the computer. “Are you mad at me?”

Honey frowned. “Of course not.”

“You’re acting like you’re mad.”

“I’m not.” Honey drew her legs up to her chest. “I just had—I’m having—some feelings. Feelings I didn’t really expect to have.” She twisted a curl tight around the tip of her finger. “Look, I get the parent thing. You’re not about to tell them we’re together. It’s brand-new, it hasn’t even been a month: I get it.”

“But?”

“But, I was in the closet for so long, Savannah. And I can’t go back.” She hopped off the bed to pace Savannah’s room. “I’ve been thinking about this all week, and here’s where I’m at: I need to be out. Totally out. I want to meet the parents, and tag my girlfriend on Instagram, and hold her hand in public, and one day in the not-too-distant future get married to someone in a dress. And I know that’s a lot to lay on you. But I know what I want, and I know what I don’t want. I can’t be your friend, Savannah. Your ‘gal pal,’ your ‘traveling companion.’ Not for very long, anyway.”

Savannah’s pulse sped up, panicky. This sounded like an ultimatum. “It’s just… this is all so new: I don’t know what I am—straight and a little bit gay. Gay and a little bit straight.” She paused. “I mean, probably that one, but I’m not totally there yet.”

“You don’t need to label yourself,” Honey said. “That’s kind of the slogan of our generation.”

“It’s not about labels,” Savannah said. “It’s about knowing myself. I’m still figuring out who I am.”

“I get it,” Honey said gently. “But I know who I am. And that’s super gay, and super into you. So either we’re doing this, or I might have to seriously think about finding someone else to fall for.” Honey looked at her evenly and with absolute certainty. “Someone who’s ready to love me back.”

64

Zach dumped a pile of books on the café table. Imogene’s tea sloshed over the edge of a thin China rim. “What the—”

“Did you know that every two days, we create as much information as we did from the dawn of civilization up to 2003?” Zach pulled the earbuds from his ear. “We’ve never had so much bad information, and a serious threat to American democracy!”

“I did know that, actually.” It was a sunny Sunday afternoon in the West Village, and the siblings were meeting for tea to discuss Zach’s best man speech, i.e., ensure he didn’t just wing it. Zach’s sister sifted through his stack of books: Lit: Race Relations in America Today, Capitalism vs. Marxism: New Ideas on Old Systems, a collection of essays by Roxane Gay. “Oh, Mistakes Were Made: The Paradox of the Working-Class Revolution. I just read the review in the Times.”

“How was it?”

“Spicy.”

“Ha.” Zach shoved Charles’s book to the bottom of the pile. “Do you listen to political podcasts? They’re kind of amazing, I’m learning so much—” He broke off, noticing a woman with a stroller struggling to open the