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

to Manhattan, pull his duvet over his head, and stay there for—

“I’d like to say something.”

Zach froze. He knew that voice. That clear, musical, beautiful voice.

The guests shifted, parting, allowing Darlene Mitchell to step forward.

75

Time didn’t make losing Clay any easier. But the one thing it did do was move the nation’s obsession off the infamous naked selfie. The news cycle was moving with the pace and responsibility of a drunk driver. Clay Russo’s naked body was a brief distraction from frightening new pollution statistics and arguments about health care. But Zia didn’t stop thinking about it. Or him.

Was he still mad about it all?

Did he think about her?

Listen to the voice mails she’d left him?

Zia had no idea. And so, she tried to forget about Clay.

At first, taking a shift at an In Love in New York wedding at Brooklyn Winery seemed like a good idea. Close to home, good money, and working with people who were more like friends than coworkers. But as toast after toast celebrated the blissed-up couple, Zia’s defenses weakened. The couple began their first dance and grief landed on her chest, full force. She found herself in the side alley, feeling stunned and breathless, talking herself out of crying. Someone said her name. Liv.

Zia startled. “I’m sorry, I was just—” Staying up late watching old movies. “Having a moment but I—” Making love in the shower. “Just, um—” Talking about everything and nothing, curled up in bed together, the city a twinkling distant dream.

It was too much. Her face fell into her hands, and she started to cry.

Liv put her arms around her, soothing. “Shhh. It’s okay.”

“I just—miss him—so much,” Zia said between sobs.

“I know, honey. Oh, I know.” And she did know. Liv was a widow. “You don’t really have any family in the city, do you?”

“Not really.” Zia still took her niece and nephew to the park once or twice a week. But every time she looked at her sister, all she could see was cold, cruel venality.

Liv gave her a tissue, tucking her hair out of her face. “Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? Sam will cook. And we can talk about it or not talk about it. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Liv,” Zia said. “I’d really like that.”

“Good. Take a minute, then get back in there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Liv ducked back inside. Zia collected herself. She would move on. She knew she had to. But at least once a day, she couldn’t help picturing him. Alone in his trailer, jaw tense, gold eyes turned inward. Regretting what happened. Missing her.

76

As the intensity of the Jungle of Us shoot finally came to an end, Clay found himself resurfacing into a bitter, lonely reality.

It was hard for him to recognize the man who overreacted to the viral photograph. It seemed like the actions of Illusion Clay, the invented one. The very thing he was afraid of happening—Illusion Clay taking over his life—had happened.

He’d been a controlling dick. He’d blown it.

But it’d been weeks. Even though he missed Zia, the best thing he could do for her was leave her alone. When the flirty makeup artist put her hand on his thigh at the wrap party, he leaned in, feigning interest. But then he remembered Zia pretending to be a makeup artist when she returned his wallet. How easy it had been between them, how thrilling. And the spark he’d been hoping to breathe into a cleansing fire with the actual makeup artist promptly went out.

Now, back in New York, the penthouse felt huge and empty. An assistant, some eager undergrad sent to pick him up at the airport, helped Clay with his luggage, chattering about the week’s schedule of meetings and phone calls and appearances and invites. Clay only half listened, inspecting the fridge. Nothing but condiments. The prospect of ordering groceries and cooking for one felt depressing. Outside the city was washed gray. It used to feel cozy when it rained, full of candles and lamp light and the smell of her essential oils…

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Russo?” The assistant stood by the elevator, blinking behind Coke-bottle glasses.

“No. Thanks.”

“Call if you need. Oh, this came,” he added. “Special delivery. From your dry cleaner.”

Clay’s heart paused.

From your dry cleaner, that was their joke, that was theirs!

He spun around so fast he almost lost his balance.

The assistant was holding a tux on a coat hanger, wrapped in flimsy dry-cleaning plastic.

Oh. Right, that tux, the one he wore to Dave’s wedding. He’d finally gotten around to getting it cleaned. It was literally a special delivery from his actual dry cleaner.

The assistant looked at the suit. “Were you expecting something else?”

He’d met Zia wearing that tux. They’d almost kissed for the first time when she was buttoning up the wine-stained shirt. Clay hung the suit up, not sure whether to laugh or cry. There was only one person he wanted to tell that story to. One person he hadn’t spoken to in six long weeks.

One person whose heart-wrenching voice mails he’d listened to no less than one hundred times.

Something stronger than lust was surging through him, building in his chest. He called.

“The number you’ve called has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again.”

He felt his pulse all the way down to his fingertips. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Darlene’s number. She picked up on the second ring, sounding surprised and slightly suspicious. “Clay.”

“Hey, Darlene. Long time. I was, um, looking for Zia. Her number’s disconnected.”

There was a pause. “She just left.”

A puff of relief. She still existed: Darlene had just seen her. “Well, when will she be back? And do you have her new number?”

“She just left for the airport.”

A siren sounded in Clay’s head. He stopped pacing, rooted to the spot. “Where’s she going?”

Darlene hesitated. “Papua New Guinea.”

The ground fell away. “What? When? Why?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you.”

“Please.”

There was another excruciating pause. “She