“This is good.” Clay indicated the party. “You’re good, keep going.”
“Oh, I’ve got it. Stylish older ladies, eleven o’clock.” She indicated a group of brightly dressed women in their sixties, all laughing and toasting with white wine. “They’re all in the art scene somehow. Smart and fun, and they’re not going to throw themselves on you. Probably.”
“Perfect.” Clay crooked his neck to smile at her.
The openness she saw earlier was back.
“Although I’m a little sad I can’t stay here talking to you,” he added.
Was it possible Clay was flirting with her? “What would we talk about?”
He shrugged and angled his body toward her. But he didn’t try to brush her arm or lower back. He respected her physical boundaries. “You.”
“What about me?”
“I know your name and that you’re clever and that you’re the purveyor of delicious sriracha tempeh sliders. What else?”
The memory that came to mind was one she hadn’t thought about in years. “When I was about seven, I started a club that rocked PS Eighty-Four. POCTA.”
“POCTA?”
“Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”
Clay repressed a laugh.
Zia did not. “I know, not the most catchy acronym. We raised thirty-five dollars in a bake sale and donated it to the local animal shelter. But then one of the guys in our class started calling us Perverted Old Cows Together Again, and the whole thing fell apart.”
“Still, you made an impact.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of into that. Being a good person. Or, trying to,” she added.
“I’m kind of into that too,” Clay said. “But I’ve got nothing on POCTA.”
“Zia!” Liv strode toward her, a determined look on her face. As her eyes moved to Clay, her expression changed, lightening from disapproval into wonder.
“I’m so sorry,” Zia said to Liv. “I was just about to—”
Liv waved it off. “Welcome back, honey. It’s good to see you.”
Zia found herself being hugged. She certainly considered Liv a friend, she’d worked for her on and off for ten years, but Zia had been closer to the more playful Eliot. Liv’s warmth was because of Clay, somehow.
He introduced himself, and he and her boss exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Liv tactfully informed her there was another tray of sriracha tempeh sliders with her name on it, and headed off.
“Duty calls.” Zia squeezed Clay’s upper arm. The sensation of her touch flickered lightly over his face. “Have fun on the dance floor—the DJ’s great.”
“Oh, I’m leaving right after dinner.” Clay offered his hand. “But very nice to meet you, Zia.”
“You too, Clay,” she said, shaking it. He let it linger. Just for a microsecond. But enough for the feeling to race up her spine, sparking across her back. She could feel him watching her when she left, happy to be wrong about the very charming celebrity guest. Or if he’d been acting, at least she’d never know. She’d likely never talk to Clay Russo again.
14
Cocktail hour became dinner. Speeches were made. Glasses were topped up for one, two, five toasts. Kamile danced with her father in her Chantilly lace dress, weeping in his arms. After the song ended, Dave and Kamile embraced, and everyone spilled onto the dance floor around them. From outside the tent, Savannah’s eyes welled. “They’re so beautiful. Love is just so beautiful.”
Liv stubbed her cigarette out on a tent pole and put the butt in her fanny pack. “I give it ten years.”
Savannah fixed her with a disapproving look. “How can you say that? Look at them. They’re besotted.”
“Of course they are,” Liv said. “They’re young and gorgeous and in perfect health. They found a best friend and a lover and a confidant and a co-parent and an adventure buddy and a muse. They found their soul mate, and they’re so lucky because not everyone does. But after the literal and metaphorical honeymoon is over, they’ll find that being an amazing lover and best friend and parent and every other little thing on their list is a pretty tall order. And after a while, or maybe all of a sudden, the way she’s so outspoken doesn’t make her strong, it makes her a bitch. And the fact he opens bottles of expensive wine every night doesn’t make him classy, it makes him an alcoholic.” Liv didn’t sound angry. She sounded resigned. “She’ll get crow’s-feet, he’ll get a potbelly, and they’ll start investing a lot of time and money in not aging. Bickering becomes woven into the fabric of their relationship until it carpets the entire house. There’s nothing new to talk about, nothing left to discover. Even sex is a drag, and it’s no longer spontaneous and passionate, it’s planned and it’s boring. And one day, they’ll wake up and realize they haven’t just gotten sick of each other: they can’t stand the person they married. That the person lying next to them in bed is just doing a comically bad impression of the man they used to love.”
Behind the decks, Zach was playing “Brown Eyed Girl” and everyone was up and dancing, singing along: “ ‘Sha la la la la la la la la, la te da, la te da.’ ”
Savannah picked her words with care. “That doesn’t happen to everyone, Liv.”
“No. Not everyone.” Liv’s eyes didn’t leave the couple, laughing as their friends and family danced around them, sloshing glasses of organic wine. “But half the weddings I’ve planned in the last twenty years ended in divorce. And they all looked exactly like this.”
When Savannah met Liv’s eyes, she expected to see bitter smugness or cold satisfaction: game, set, match. But what she actually saw surprised her. In Liv’s usually hawklike eyes, the eyes that didn’t miss a trick, was soft and billowing sadness.
“Come on,” Liv said, turning away. “Let’s start on the pack-up list.”
15
The formerly busy kitchen was quiet. Zia emptied the leftovers of what had to be her hundredth plate into the garbage. She didn’t mind being on cleanup, but it was depressing that almost a billion people lived on less than two dollars a day, and here she was throwing away landfills of locally grown salad and green-pea risotto. She filled three takeout containers for her sister, closing the lids with a satisfied snap.
“Hello?”
It was Clay Russo. The actor had a slightly embarrassed look on his face and a giant red-wine stain on his shirt. His mouth lifted in a pleased smile. “Hello again.”
“Hey.” Zia smiled back. “Interesting after-party look.”
“Dance-floor mishap. One of those drunk bridesmaids you were warning me about.”
“Dangerous. Let me see if I can find some club soda.” Her heart picked up, pattering. “I thought you were leaving after dinner.”
“You were right: the DJ’s great. Haven’t danced that much in ages.” Clay looked flushed and a little tipsy—not drunk, just less careful than earlier. His eyes were bright, fixed on her in a way that was comforting, and strangely thrilling. “I didn’t see you during the dinner service.”