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

enthusiastic. “A lot funnier than I was expecting, and the scene where Egor comes out to his mother?” He shook his head in awe. “I got chills.”

“No,” Gorman said, feeling oddly urgent, “what did you think of Gilbert?”

Henry looked surprised, but then everyone was up and crowding toward the small playhouse bar. Someone pushed a drink in his hand, wanting to talk about the play.

“Henry,” Gorman tried again. “What did—”

“Gor!” Henry laughed. “It’s your night.” He indicated the throng of people around them, their gazes fixed on Gorman. “Enjoy it. That’s an order.”

Because Henry was usually right about most things, Gorman put the issue aside and found himself the center of a large, lovely circle of praise and adoration. So funny! and My mother was exactly the same, and I can’t believe I’m talking to the playwright! The validation filled him up like helium, expanding him in all directions. It was summer in Paris and box seats at the opera and cocktails by a pool with a view of the Pacific.

As the bar called last drinks, Gilbert popped up in front of him, flushed and happy. “We’re gonna go dancing.” He indicated a trio of the younger actors. “You and Henry have to come.”

Gilbert had never invited him out dancing. It was all happening. Gorman expected Henry to wrinkle his nose—dancing, on a Tuesday?—but his eyes widened and he nodded eagerly.

They all ended up on line for a West Village club Gorman had never heard of. A rumor skipped up the queue it’d be an hour wait. Gorman dimly recalled waiting this long when he was Gilbert’s age. Gossiping and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes with his catty, gorgeous friends, feeling anxious and expansive about the night ahead. Tomorrow wasn’t a concern back then. But that was a very long time ago.

In front of them, Gilbert sucked on a JUUL, billowing out saccharine-flavored smoke. He offered it to Gorman and Henry. They both shook their heads and exchanged a private smile. Kids.

Henry slipped his arm through Gorman’s, snuggling closer. “So, what’s your next play about, handsome?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’ll write another one.” Lightning only strikes once, right?

Henry elbowed him. “What? You have to!”

“Do I?”

“Don’t you want to?”

Gorman felt oddly shy. The whole night was still so unbelievable. “Yes.”

“Then we’ll make it happen.”

“What about the shop?”

Henry’s eyes were soft and full of pride. “The shop makes me happy. This makes you happy.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

Gorman swelled with gratitude. He kissed Henry on the mouth and inhaled his shampoo: basil and lemon. He never got sick of that smell. He liked it every time.

The line shuffled forward, but there were still twenty people in front of them. What were they waiting for? A noisy club playing songs he didn’t know, selling overpriced drinks, full of people three decades younger than him? Gilbert dancing with Henry? Kissing Henry? Taking Henry back to some poky little studio? “Do you really want to go to a club, Choo-Choo?”

“Not especially,” said Henry, “I thought you wanted to go.”

“Let’s go home.” Gorman took Henry’s hand. “I only want to be with you.”

69

The next morning, Zia took her time cycling home from her sister’s, relishing the feeling of fresh air on her arms and in her lungs. Whenever she and Clay took a car, it was a monstrous black Suburban with tinted windows, entered and exited in an underground parking lot. Being on a bike felt like flying. Clay would be at the airport by now and already, she was enjoying the mental break. She picked up some groceries from the bodega, and on a whim, a bright bunch of flowers for Darlene. She locked up her bike, sidestepping a couple of tourists with bulky SLR cameras, heads buried in their phones. Look around you, she wanted to tell them. The world is beautiful—you’re missing it.

She unlocked their front door and bumped it open with her hip. She’d cook tonight and catch up with Darlene. Maybe a sheet mask, a podcast, paint her toenails red—

“Zia!” Darlene thundered down the hallway from her bedroom in a panic. “I called you a million times!”

Zia dropped the bag of groceries on the floor, her adrenaline spiking. Her mom. Layla. Darlene’s parents. Zach. “What, what’s happened?”

Darlene shoved her phone in Zia’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t have—you didn’t, right? It’s everywhere, just now, like, five minutes ago.”

Darlene’s phone was larger than her own. Which meant the picture of her and Clay—the picture she’d taken yesterday morning—looked even more luminous. Even more gorgeous. It was closer cropped and color corrected to enrich the golden-morning light slanting over their forms. Impossibly, she met her own eyes, as the Zia on the screen stared directly at her. Her breasts were wrapped tight in the gray sheet, looking large and voluptuous, her legs tucked to one side. Next to her on the bed, Clay was still fast asleep.

Still completely naked.

Horror jammed itself in her chest and split her open.

Zia had only been half aware of the fact Clay’s penis was visible in the photograph. They often slept naked, and his impressive form had become familiar to her, no longer eliciting the same giddy excitement it did months ago. But now, Clay’s penile presence was horrifically underlined. A black star was placed over her boyfriend’s nether regions, its size indicating Clay’s own.

But this couldn’t be on Darlene’s phone. Because that meant… Zia stabbed at the screen, swiping frantically until a gaudy celebrity gossip website popped up. Exclusive! Clay Russo and sexy new girlfriend Zia Ruiz get steamy at home! Sound fell away as Zia scanned the article, only registering snippets. This exclusive picture… the star’s impressive, er, physique… Ruiz, 27, met at a wedding she was working at… clearly a scorching hot new couple! At the bottom of the article were social media share buttons. Published seven minutes ago, the article already had 23.4K Facebook shares. As Zia watched, the number changed. 23.5K.

Twenty-three thousand, five hundred.

People.

Had seen that picture.

Everyone had