“And it wasn’t like we never had sex,” Liv said. “Every now and then I’d get drunk and relent.”
“Hot,” said Gorman.
“The current thinking on affairs is that it’s less about the relationship they’re leaving or even the new relationship they’re having,” Henry said. “It’s about the new relationship with the self. Eliot liked who he was when he was with Savannah.”
Someone unencumbered by his identity as a husband and father. Someone vibrant and intelligent, all inspiration, no obligation. Liv could fathom this, even if she couldn’t understand his willingness to let his second life shatter hers. “But by that logic, Savannah could’ve been almost anyone. So why leave a business to her?”
“That,” Henry said, “is what I’m still trying to figure out.”
As far as Liv was concerned, Savannah was one of those women who chose cultivating a conformist personality as survival. Admittedly she wasn’t unimpressive, and she didn’t lack confidence: she’d arrived in New York City with the zeal of a conquering hero and she was, Liv had to admit, a fast learner. But Liv was sure Savannah would fall victim to the thing that took down most mainstream girls in America: the belief that being pretty enough and smart enough and kind enough was, in short, enough. Savannah Shipley would succeed as that version of a woman. She didn’t have true potential to be interesting.
* * *
On the night before Dave and Kamile’s wedding, Liv and Savannah pored over every last detail for the third time. Liv peered at the final run sheet through black-rimmed glasses. “The band is sound-checking—”
“At two p.m. while they’re doing family photos,” Savannah recited. “When we’ll also test the mics and AV.”
“Hair and makeup—”
“Arriving at the bridesmaids’ rental house at seven a.m. sharp.”
Kamile had hoped to trade all her vendors’ services for social media posts. Only a few took the deal: makeup was one of them.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to start an Instagram?” Savannah asked. “After Kamile posts about us, it’d be so good if she could tag us.”
Post about us. Tag us. Savannah insisted on making out as if they were some kind of team. Liv removed her glasses. “Remind me of rules one, two, and three?”
Savannah let out a scoff of annoyance.
Liv raised an eyebrow.
Savannah realized what she’d done and blushed. “I’m so sorry. I just…”
“Had an emotion other than peppy? Don’t apologize for that.” Liv zipped up the emergency kit, a bag filled with everything from bobby pins to bandages, plus a backup copy of the couples’ vows and list of must-play songs. They had plans, and contingency plans, and contingency plans of the contingency plans. In Love in New York was ready. Or, as ready as they’d ever be. Liv felt an unfamiliar wobble of nerves. It had been so long since she’d had a wedding go off without a hitch. A self-destructive part of her almost wanted tomorrow to implode. It might be preferable than doing all this again with Savannah Shipley. “It’s late. Go home and get some rest.”
Savannah rose obediently. “Liv—”
“Let’s not,” Liv cut her off. “You’re so grateful for this opportunity, and you can’t wait to celebrate the wondrous thing that is true love and blah blah blah.”
“I was going to say we should bring antiperspirant deodorant. Dave sweats a lot.”
“Oh,” said Liv. “Yes, of course. Well, see you tomorrow.”
She watched the girl stride up the darkening street toward the subway. Prospect Heights to Bushwick: that was a long commute. Complicated, too. The 3 to the L? The B to the M? But Little Miss Hush Puppy had never said a word about it or (apart from the test meal with Sam) been late to a meeting, not once in the two months they’d been working together. A pinprick of respect glowed quietly in the soft plum twilight.
Ugh! Liv slapped it away like a mosquito and yanked the front door shut.
9
“So there I am, in the middle of the jungle in Southeast Asia: no cell phone, no map, totally lost… and it’s starting to get dark.” The next morning, in Queens, Zia Ruiz was relishing the adorable sight of her spellbound niece and nephew, mouths open in wonder.
“What did you do, Auntie Zia?” lisped Lucy.
“Were there monsters?” shouted her older brother, Mateo, limping in a circle around her. His right leg was in a cast from a playground fall.
“Cambodia is known for being home to lots of different animals.” Zia made her voice spooky. “Like snakes. And spiders. And big, man-eating tigers!”
The kids screamed as she leaped forward and tickled them, an explosion of shrieking giggles.
“Hey, hey, hey: inside voices, please,” Layla called from the cramped kitchen. “Or I’ll set those tigers on you.”
Zia and Layla shared a family resemblance, inheriting their father’s olive skin and their mother’s loose curls. But Layla looked much older than her thirty-five years, closer to forty. She was a single mom of two, and it showed in the indigo circles under her eyes. Zia looked a pinch younger than twenty-seven, with a full, carefree smile and startling green eyes that inspired painters and bad pickup lines.
“What happened?” Lucy asked her aunt.
“I stayed up all night and found my way out the next morning,” Zia replied, kissing Lucy’s forehead. “Got eaten alive by mosquitoes. But the jungle at dawn… man, it was unforgettable. A symphony of life.”
“Just another day in the globe-trotting life of Zia Ruiz.” Layla dried her hands with a dish towel. Her smile was wry.
Zia wrapped her arms around her big sister, feeling the same way she always did when talking about her work overseas: unbearably guilty. “One of these days, you have to come with me. You’d love it.”
“Okay.” Layla shrugged, addressing her kids. “You guys are old enough to stay home by yourself for a few months, right?”
The kids chorused, “Yes, totally!”
The sisters exchanged a smile.
“Yeah, I bet. Okay, if we’re out the door for day care in five, you can watch Paw Patrol tonight,” Layla bribed. “Again.”
That sent Lucy scampering and Mateo after her, his cast banging against the floor.
Layla slipped on her CVS vest. She’d been working for the pharmacy ever since she kicked the kids’ deadbeat dad out of their one-bedroom years ago. “I missed you so much, sis. You were gone forever.”
“Four months,” Zia corrected. Four amazing months helping build a school in rural Cambodia. Zia worked as a paid volunteer coordinator for Global Care, an international NGO devoted to humanitarian and environmental causes. She’d joined a team in its local field office and would stay as long as they needed her. Sometimes a disaster would mean an influx of interest that needed managing; sometimes she was just covering someone’s maternity leave or overseeing a construction project. Between jobs she wanted to take, Zia picked up cater-waiter work in New York and spent time with her sister.
Working for Global Care didn’t feel like work. It was a promise she’d made to herself, the ability to pack up and leave on a day’s notice. It was a freedom she was still getting used to having again. For reasons she didn’t like to think about.