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

his apartment, Zach stared at his ceiling in silence. His bed was covered in political books—his newfound medicine. He read, and listened to podcasts, and watched the distressing, dystopian news. He did not listen to, or play, or even think about, music. Because music was Darlene. And once you had the ear for it, every song was about love or women or getting your heart put through a bloody Vitamix and honestly, he couldn’t handle it.

Memories of things she said or did attacked him at all hours. Strangely, there was one moment that he kept coming back to, from a wedding upstate in May, the one where Zia met Clay. Something Darlene said that he couldn’t stop thinking about.

I don’t want my success handed to me. I want to earn it.

He joined a local activist group aimed at registering people to vote, and this felt good; this felt productive. When a very cute fellow activist asked him out for drinks, he declined politely. He dragged his useless, broken heart around with him like a pile of trash, hoping that time would do what the expression claimed, and heal his septic wound.

It didn’t. He missed her. Christ, he missed her. He made it seem like he didn’t love her anymore, but that wasn’t true. He couldn’t turn off his feelings, even if he wanted to. He missed his bandmate. He missed his best friend. He missed his girlfriend. He just missed her. But every time she texted—Please. Please, just call me—he heard those words. I’d sooner marry a donkey than date Zach Livingstone. And his throat would get tight, and his stomach would boil, and he’d throw his stupid phone across the room. Darlene didn’t care for him: she’d only said that because she felt bad she’d been caught. Kissing was easy but love was not and there was still so much he didn’t understand about her, about her world and her struggles. And he’d never be able to. Because he was a stupid white guy with the brains of a witless beast.

“Can I get everyone’s attention, please?” Mark Livingstone tapped his wineglass with a dessert fork. The clean, high sound rang out across the crowded room. Zach’s twenty-seventh birthday party had originally been planned as a Sunday picnic, but the freezing rain lashing the East Coast moved it into the formal front room of the Livingstone estate. Relatives and family friends nibbled crustless sandwiches and petit fours, to the subdued strains of Bach’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Minor. Zach’s music buddies, scruffy-looking folk from all walks of life, looked either bewildered or snide at the chichi surroundings. Zach had been too morose to push back on his mother’s planning, and so now he found himself the guest of honor at a ridiculous tea party. He didn’t even feel like getting sauced.

But only a donkey would feel ungrateful surrounded by so much privilege and people who genuinely cared about him. Zach tried to feel thankful for his many blessings—and he did. But the one thing he wanted, the one girl he wanted, thought he was an idiot. So he probably was. His chest hurt. It hadn’t stopped hurting since his sister’s wedding. He slumped into a settee at the back of the room, only to have his shoulders tapped by his mother—Posture, darling—as she took a seat beside him.

“Quiet down,” Mark boomed, and everyone shut up. There’d been three pretty average speeches so far: his great-aunt, one of his father’s business associates, and a family friend he didn’t even like. His dad, thankfully, was last. “It’s been a banner year for the Livingstone family,” began Mark. “Catherine has been doing wonderful work on the board of Save the Children”—his mother inclined her head at the light applause—“and many of you were present last month for the wedding of our daughter, Imogene, to her lovely wife, Mina.” The applause increased. Imogene pinched Mina’s bottom. Mina elbowed her, hiding a smile. “But we’re here today to honor my son, Zachary Bartholomew Livingstone, on his twenty-seventh birthday.” Zach managed a watery smile. Imogene caught his eye and made a sympathetic face. She and Mina were the only ones privy to the true despair felt by the man of the hour. “As many of you know,” Mark continued, “Zachary enjoyed something of a… Bacchanalian youth.”

The room tittered—they knew.

“But this year, we’ve started to see a real change in him. In fact, just this summer, Zachary became interested in politics. And I’m pleased to inform you he’s beginning a paid internship with our local congresswoman.”

The crowded clapped, surprised.

“It’s only a day a week,” Zach muttered, embarrassed.

His mother shushed him, whispering over the applause. “I know things didn’t work out with Darlene, but we’ve been very impressed with you this year.” She shifted closer to him across the stiff settee. “We’re going to give you your trust.”

The offer irritated him. If there’d never been a trust, maybe he and Darlene would’ve gotten together like a normal couple, and she’d be here beside him, holding his hand and exchanging secret smirks. “Thanks, Mum, but you can keep it. I’ll figure all that out on my own.”

His father started saying something about the value of hard work.

Catherine’s forehead tried to crease. “Zach, I’m saying we’ll give you the money.”

“And I’m saying I don’t want it,” Zach said. “I’ll earn it myself: I’m actually pretty capable. Donate it all to the ACLU or something.”

His mother looked absolutely aghast.

“This year, we’ve gotten a glimpse of the man he’s going to become,” Mark was saying. “Responsible. Mature. Sober-minded. And I for one could not be prouder.” Mark raised his glass. “To my son. Happy birthday, Zachary.”

“Happy birthday, Zachary,” echoed the guests.

“Thanks.” Zach raised a limp hand in acknowledgment. “Thanks so much.”

“All right, everyone.” His mother was on her feet. “Into the kitchen for cake.”

The noise level rose again. Zach willed himself to get through this last little bit. The sooner it was over, the sooner he could go back