It Had to Be You by Georgia Clark (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

27

When Gorman suggested dinner at Frankies, “their spot,” Henry tried not to get ahead of himself. Five years at a flower shop had taught him that human beings were capable of deep care and affection. But it seemed unlikely Gorman would’ve so quickly boomeranged from “Here’s a stand mixer” to “Here’s a gold ring.” His partner was stubborn and did not like being told what to do. “Darling, I already have a mother,” he’d remark when challenged. “I don’t particularly want another.” Yet, as Henry dressed for dinner, he couldn’t help but fantasize. A ring at the bottom of a glass of champagne, glinting like a treasure on the ocean floor. The prospect felt like a door opening, and the relief was palatable. Henry didn’t dare expect. But he hoped. He hoped, so much.

Which is why Gorman’s announcement came as a particularly unpleasant shock.

“Let me make sure I’m hearing this correctly.” Henry put down his wineglass, careful not to raise his voice. Even outside in the garden, they were seated quite close to the couple next to them. “You want to put on your snail play with some young guy from your class, and you want to spend ten thousand dollars of our savings doing it.”

“We’ll get the money back, Choo-Choo.” Gorman’s face was alive with excitement. “In ticket sales. It’s an opportunity. For me. For us.”

This seemed like both an afterthought and a stretch. “Who is this boy? Graham?”

“Gilbert. Oh, just a cute young thing with a particularly good connection. Connections, really—he said his aunt could help us find a top director. This could be the first step. My play. Onstage.” Gorman hadn’t been this enlivened since being cut off in traffic by Bette Midler. “They review off-Broadway plays, you know.”

“They?”

“The New Yorker. The New York Times.”

Ah, the lifelong scramble for approval. First parents, then friends, then East Coast media. “When?”

“HERE programs years in advance—”

“Years?”

“—but, they had a slot open in September. If we can come up with the money, we’d start casting, well, tomorrow.”

September. Months away. A server hovered, offering to refill their fifteen-dollar glasses of wine. Henry dispatched him with a grim smile. “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, Gor. Especially if we’re not certain we’ll get it back.”

“It’s an investment!”

“Yes, and all investments are ultimately gambles, aren’t they?” Henry pushed his plate aside so he could thread their fingers together. “Sweetie, I just… I just thought we’d be using that money for something different.”

“What, exactly?”

In the long run? Maybe adoption-agency fees. Diapers, childcare, cheesy matching pajamas for snowy Christmas mornings. “For a wedding.”

Gorman actually looked confused. “Whose wedding?”

Henry felt like he’d just been slapped.

“Oh, oh.” Gorman got it. “Well—I mean… One day…”

Henry kept his voice calm. “When?”

“One day. In the future.”

Henry’s entire body constricted. He instructed himself not to cry. “Do you not want to get married?”

Gorman sat back in his seat. “Darling. I know I have a youthful zest, but I’m from a different generation. We didn’t grow up expecting to get married: that was all bourgeois nonsense. It’s still a bit of a new idea for me.”

This “new idea” had been New York State law for a decade. It was so frustrating being in this position: wanting something his partner didn’t want to give, that society technically allowed him, but didn’t always celebrate. Something that straight couples expected and usually got, in a way that was not just easy, and feted, but also ascribed as normal. Henry felt needy and pissed off and sad. “Well, it’s not a new idea for me. And it’s what I want.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to get married?”

Anger streaked in Henry’s chest even as he knew he wasn’t angry with Gorman. He was angry with himself. Why, after everything, after coming out dozens of times over the years and living as honestly as he knew how, couldn’t he tell the truth?

Because he wanted children. “Because I love you.”

“And I love you. I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to tell me that. That’s the truth.”

Henry couldn’t tell Gorman what he wanted because Gorman wouldn’t agree, and then he’d have to live a compromised life or go through the harrowing process of untangling himself from someone he lived and worked with, who he still loved. That was the truth.

“Henry.” Gorman caught his gaze and held it gently. “I’m not saying never. I just need more time. And, in the interim, I really want to put on my play. I’m not sure how many more chances an old guy like me is going to get. It’s my baby.”

And it was this that almost broke Henry. But they were in the nice garden of a nice restaurant, surrounded by dozens of other couples who were all keeping their shit together, despite the cruelty of modern life. Henry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re not old. And, sure, you have my blessing. Let’s just keep talking, okay?”

“And continue our great conversation,” Gorman said, with warmth. “For as long as we both shall live.”

28

Liv’s peaceful Sunday morning was shattered by someone pounding on the brownstone’s front door for a full ten seconds. “Jesus Christ, coming!” She pulled open the door, careful not to spill any coffee from her My Favorite Season Is the Fall of Patriarchy mug.

Savannah was holding out her phone like she was presenting Liv with an Oscar.

“If you think I can read that without my glasses, you’re in for a rude shock when you’re my age,” Liv told her.

Inside and bespectacled, Liv peered at the screen. “What am I looking at?”

“Our Instagram!” Savannah was practically vibrating. “I know you said you didn’t want to start one, but I did—”

“Savannah!”

“And look—we have three thousand followers! Kamile posted about us—”

Liv looked over her glasses. “You’re kidding. Why? How?” Then, peering into Savannah’s tote bag: “What’s all this?”

Savannah shoved the glittery WELCOME HOME DAVE + KAMILE! sign back in the bag. “I