Of course Zia wanted to see Clay again. But a new horizon was beckoning.
She reread the enthusiastic email she’d received from the team leader in Mozambique. Yes, they’d love to hire her as a volunteer coordinator at the women’s resource center. Six months in Africa. Wanderlust stirred, stretching like a cat waking up from a nap.
Zia was intrigued by Clay, but she was also wary of what falling for someone could do to her. Had done to her before. The loss of freedom. The loss of self.
She’d been intrigued by Logan, too.
Her ex-boyfriend’s name still made it feel like there were spiders under her skin. He’d been her first serious relationship, back when she was only twenty. He was almost thirty, devoted to owning good suits and making good money. The kind of man who thought everything they wanted already belonged to them.
Logan had made everything that happened feel like a consequence of her behavior. Now she knew abusive relationships were never the fault of the survivor.
Air drained from her lungs, replaced by a suffocating blackness closing in.
The feeling of being trapped. Completely powerless.
Don’t think about Logan. Don’t go back there.
The front door opened.
“Darlene!” Zia swiveled around, grateful for the distraction. “How was the gig? Zinc Bar, right?”
“Fine.” Darlene looked pensive and distracted, but also light. Like a girl with a secret.
“Dee. What’s going on?”
“If I tell you something, you have to promise not to judge me. Or ask any follow-up questions.”
“Okay.”
Darlene sank down next to her on the sofa. “I kind of… just… made out with Zach.”
A bolt of surprised excitement made Zia grab Darlene’s arm. “What? When? Finally!”
Darlene was blushing. “Finally?”
“C’mon, you guys have mad chemistry. I knew this would happen.” Zia edged closer, grinning. “What was it like?”
“I said no follow-ups!” Darlene couldn’t stop a smile unfolding over her face. “But it was pretty hot.”
Zia laughed. “So, what—do you want to date him?”
Darlene exhaled, looking conflicted. “Can you keep a secret?”
Zia could. She’d kept Clay a secret. And it felt like freedom to release herself into Darlene’s world. Zia grabbed a beer from the fridge and handed it to Darlene. “Tell me everything.”
24
“You said Kamile would post about us on Sunday.” Liv wedged her phone under one ear, stirring a pot of green-pea risotto in her kitchen. “It’s Friday.”
Savannah blathered something about being “on it, totally on it.” The girl was an atrocious liar. She didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve; she was parading around in a giant heart costume.
Kamile had agreed to share her “fantastic, flawless” experience of working with In Love in New York in the first public photograph from her wedding day, which would be the most valuable to her fans. There was indeed a picture posted last Sunday morning, which Liv was able to see online, even without an Instagram account. A Vogue-worthy shot of the beatific bride gazing at her devoted groom, both awash in golden-hour light. The caption? Married my best friend yesterday #sealedthedeal. Over twenty-four thousand likes. Two thousand comments. Hundreds of reposts. No one tagged except for Dave. Even Liv knew what that meant. And it wasn’t just her business: Kamile had promised a few other vendors the same kind of trade, vendors Liv felt responsible for. She muted Savannah, and asked Ben to set the table. As soon as he was out of earshot, Liv unmuted the call and cut Savannah off.
“Listen, Shipley. I worked for eight weeks on that wedding. You promised she’d post and that we’d get so many referrals we’d be instantly back in business. But there’s no post, and no referrals.”
There was a tense pause. Savannah sounded strained. “I have another friend, who’s getting married this summer…”
Liv almost dropped the phone in the saucepan. Panic flared in her chest. “Another— No. I can’t wait that long.” Liv squeezed her eyes shut, humiliated. “I’m broke.”
“So am I,” Savannah said passionately.
Being broke in your twenties was a rite of passage. Being broke in middle age was frightening. Liv was cooking to save money. Between the mortgage, bills, and all their weekly costs, the Goldenhorns were hemorrhaging cash. She’d enjoyed working on Dave and Kamile’s wedding. She’d actually let herself see a spark of faith in Savannah.
“You’re a naive idiot,” Liv hissed. “I never should’ve trusted you.”
“But, Liv—”
Liv hung up and let the phone clatter to the messy kitchen counter.
Was this why Eliot changed his will—to punish her for falling out of love with him by pairing her with a ditzy business partner doomed to fail?
“Ready, Mom!” Ben sung out.
Liv inhaled a breath. When she was Savannah’s age, she said whatever was on her mind and indulged every passing emotion. Who knew acting would be so handy as a parent? Ignoring the stress tears in the corners of her eyes, she swung around and made herself smile. “Great job, honey!”
The risotto looked runnier than the one Sam made. Perhaps they added too much stock? She’d only eyeballed the measurements.
Ben pursed his lips at his bowl. “We can still order a pizza.”
“No pizza.” Liv took a seat opposite her son. “We made it from scratch.”
Ben’s expression indicated this was the problem.
Ben forked risotto into his mouth. Disgust flickered over his face. Liv made herself swallow a bite. The worst pea risotto in history slimed down her throat.
“Let’s order a pizza,” she said. “Quickly.”
She couldn’t really afford it. But they had to eat.
Liv scooped up both bowls. It was a pretty good excuse to call Sam, ask for advice. But surely the frisson between them was just in her head. Like Eliot, Sam’s next partner would probably be someone Savannah’s age. It was risky and silly to think about love and sex (Wait, why am I thinking about sex? Stop thinking about sex!). There was no way anything would, should, or could ever happen between her and Sam Woods.
Liv tipped every last grain of risotto into the trash. “I don’t know what happened. We followed the recipe.” More or less.
“Sometimes, things just don’t work out how you think they’re going to,” Ben said. He got quiet.
Liv scooted a chair next to him and ran her fingers through his hair in the way that always soothed him. “You thinking about Daddy, honey?”
He nodded, eyes on the floor.
“You miss him?”
He nodded again.
Her heart felt like a wet dishrag being squeezed until it was bone-dry. “I miss him too.” She kept stroking his hair. “Hey, remember all the crazy costumes Daddy would make for Halloween?”
A smile almost lifted her son’s mouth. “Yeah.”
“How many can you remember?” She ticked off her fingers. “There was the year he was Willy Wonka and you were an Oompa Loompa, and then, what else?”
“I was Harry Potter and he was Dumbledore.”