And she got to teach him about Cindy Sherman.
She got to teach Zach about a lot of things. And his willingness to learn relaxed her in a way learning from Charles never did. Being with Zach made her feel… happy. Being with Charles made her feel anxious and needy. She rarely felt anxious around Zach; at least, not before they’d started making out. As much as Charles taught her, she never felt like they were equals.
I feel like an equal with Zach.
Sun streamed through the bookstore’s skylight, warming her skin. And suddenly, it all became clear.
They were falling in love.
No.
She was already in love.
That was it: so plain and simple it was a mystery how it ever hadn’t been so.
She loved Zach Livingstone. And he loved her. Of course he did.
The realization bloomed electric inside her, filling her limbs until she was high and floating and giddy and silly. She loved Zach. They loved each other. Since their first kiss he’d never given her a real reason to suspect he couldn’t be trusted: that was all in her head. Darlene was struck with a desperate desire to run after Charles and redo the last minute of their conversation—but it didn’t matter. Charles was her ex, and what he thought of her and Zach was of no consequence at all.
His summer-blue eyes. His flop of hair and crooked grin. It was all hers.
Mina and Imogene’s wedding was this weekend. What a perfect place to declare their feelings, and finally consummate a love story that’d been building for two long years.
I love you, Zach. It’s you. It’s only, always, you.
Feeling queenly, Darlene put on her sunglasses and stepped out onto Smith Street.
And it was only now, four miles away on the island of Manhattan, that Zach Livingstone did what Darlene had failed to do when she bumped into Charles.
He hung up the phone.
For a long moment, he sat on the end of his bed, staring at the carpet.
Speechless.
Unable to breathe.
I’d sooner marry a donkey than date Zach Livingstone.
A freight train slammed into him, throwing him a hundred feet, crushing every bone in his body. He ended up on his bedroom floor in a broken heap, choking in gulps of air. Now I know, he thought, head cradled in his hands. Now I know what heartbreak feels like.
66
Liv and Sam were in firm agreement not to tell their children they were dating. All the holier-than-thou parenting blogs shrieked that whatever time frame one had in mind was far, far too soon, and a too-early introduction would permanently and egregiously damage the child in question. Before becoming a mother, Liv found the idea of caring what other moms thought of her parenting style downright absurd. Let alone moms on the internet she’d never even met. She still felt that way, but also, secretly, she wanted the judgy internet moms’ approval. She didn’t want to screw up the introduction, or Ben. Part of her worried she’d already screwed him up, what with his father dying, her imperfect parenting, and her own expectations. Ben’s birth was hard-won, and at first, she was looking forward to a son who was as funny and charismatic as his father. But Ben was serious and sensitive. It took effort to release those expectations and get to know the independent little human who might not roll with the punches of meeting Mom’s new boyfriend.
And so, she and Sam were a secret, skillfully skirting their children’s lives like a well-trained concierge. This was for the kids’ benefit… but it was also kind of fun. The sneaking around and stolen glances gave the relationship extra heat. And, somewhat disturbingly, was an insight into her own husband’s liaison with her business partner. In the meat-and-potatoes world of adult tedium, affairs were sweet and sticky dulce de leche.
Benny had met Sam, and so the occasional run-in was permitted: Sam was a coworker, just like Savannah. The two liked to throw a baseball under the willow tree or make dinner together. Taco pizzas or sloppy joes were Liv’s son’s favorite meals to cook with the gentle, patient chef. After a while, Ben started bringing him up in conversation: Sam said bananas float in water. Sam thinks the Mets have a real chance this year. Sam was one of twenty invited to a Friday night Shabbat, and not just because he offered to make beef brisket.
But Liv had never met Sam’s daughter, Dottie. Sam talked about her but hadn’t offered to show pictures. Sam’s ex-wife had a firm no kids on social media policy, and so his five-year-old was absent from the ghost town that was his never-updated Facebook page. Liv assumed that sharing this part of his life with her—arguably, the biggest and most sensitive part—was something he wasn’t ready for, or felt she wasn’t ready for. So she was more than aware of the significance when, one afternoon, Sam leaned back into the old sofa they’d first made love on and said, “Would you like to see some pictures?”
Liv’s heart leaped straight up in the air. “I’d love to.”
And only now, as Sam started fiddling with his phone, did the reality of a future together suddenly come into full view. A blended family. The four of them, under one roof. Would they live here in the brownstone? Sam in the bedroom she’d shared with Eliot, Dottie in the guest room, guests on the sofa? Would Sam be okay with raising Ben Jewish, would they have to start doing Christmas, what would Ben think of that? It was far, far too soon to think about any of this, and the too-early introduction of all the questions gave Liv a faint headache. Oh shit, she thought, lightheaded, as
