Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m the first guest to arrive which makes me feel slightly overeager, but Dr. Kahn is so thrilled to see me that my embarrassment soon fades.
She puts me in the bedroom next to Caleb’s old room, which I find a little odd since she normally puts the women on one side of the hall and the men on the other.
But maybe Bailey is coming and has insisted on sleeping in Caleb’s bed, so all the men will be moving.
Not going to lie—the thought of another woman in Caleb’s bed makes me feel slightly violent.
I ask Dr. Kahn if there is anything I can do to help her get ready for Shabbos and she asks if I could go through Caleb’s closet and make a donation pile. Which has nothing at all to do with Shabbos and makes me feel slightly suspicious. But Dr. Kahn hands me a few trash bags and shoos me away.
Stepping inside Caleb’s bedroom feels a bit like entering a time warp.
It’s exactly the same as it has been for the last thirty years—the same furniture, plaid blue bedding, shiny football and boxing trophies.
I inhale the slightly musty scent and close my eyes, remembering all the Shabbos afternoons we snuck up candy and played boardgames in here.
I glance at the window over his desk and smile, remembering the time Caleb instructed Zevi and me to stand on one side of the house while he threw a baseball over the roof for us to catch.
Unfortunately, the football knocked against the chimney and then smashed this very bedroom window.
I miss those sweet, innocent days. Funny how I was in such a hurry to grow up, and now I finally have, I miss being a kid. Where did all the years go? And how did I end up back in this bedroom with trash bags to sort through his closet?
I shake my head and start the project. Twenty minutes later, I’m knee-deep in memorabilia and photographs that I can’t believe Caleb kept.
It’s like a treasure chest of our entire childhood.
Snapshots of all the food we cooked, the adventures we went on, the impromptu parties we had.
I find some hilarious pencil sketches that I had totally forgotten I’d drawn of him and grin.
Then I come across an apology letter I’d written probably when I was around seven or eight.
Dear Caleb,
I’m sorry I threw pees at youre eyes and put water over youre head. It was funny for me, but maybe not for you.
Love,
Ashira
Ps I don’t like pees
I’m still laughing when I glance up in surprise. Caleb stands in the doorframe, blinking at me as if I’m an apparition and he can’t decide if I’m real. He looks even more handsome than I remember him, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how I could have ever turned this man down.
“Hi.” I swallow, gazing back up at him. I grin and pretend this is not a weird situation at all. “Happy Birthday!” I trill, waving my hands.
He tosses his overnight bag on his bed. “Are you my present?”
It’s surprisingly flirtatious for someone who’s on the brink of engagement. Although he’s also scowling at me which is even more confusing.
“Uh, no.” I stand up and clear my throat. “But I did get you a present.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looks pissed and he sounds it too. This does not bode well for the weekend vibes. “Your mom invited me.”
“Great.” He sits down on his bed and glances at the mess on the floor. “And you’re raiding my closet, why?”
“Also, your mom.”
“Of course,” he mutters, rubbing his eyelids. “I’m going to kill that woman.”
“Sorry. I can leave,” I say, and start to head to the door, but his next words stop me.
“Why did you really come?”
I pause, hovering at the doorframe. “Because I missed you,” I say bluntly, and his eyes widen in response. “Anyway, I should go, I shouldn’t be in your room, especially now that . . .”
“Now that we’ve kissed?” he says, standing up.
Heat crawls up my neck and face. “No! No.” That was the last thing I expected him to say, and I glance around furtively, as if Bailey herself might’ve overheard. “Because you’re dating someone,” I whisper. “Is she . . . coming?”
He stares at me for a beat. “No.”
“Oh?” I wait for him to expound, but to my shock, he shuts the door in my face.
Okay then. I definitely shouldn’t have come. I go to my room and start packing my things when I hear a ping from my phone.
I’m sorry. Forgive me?
I stare at Caleb’s text and wonder how to respond. Finally, I type back,
Nothing to forgive. But do you want me to leave? Because I understand if you do.
His answer is immediate.
I want you to stay.
Ridiculous how one text can spread such joy through my heart. In that case, I type, unsure what kind of devil is prodding me on, meet me in the library at the stroke of midnight.
For some reason, I want it to be just the two of us when I give him his birthday present.
I can’t decide if I should be excited or scared.
I smile and type,
why would you be scared?
Colonel Mustard. Library. Knife.
I snort.
Actually, I was planning on using the candlestick. Shabbos and all.
And when I hear his peal of laughter from the other side of the wall, I feel a surge of pure happiness. We’ll be okay, I realize. Somehow or other, we’ll get through this.
* * *
Of all the rooms in Caleb’s parents’ house—and there are quite a few of them—the two-story library with its floor to ceiling windows is definitely my favorite.
I smile as I enter the room and breathe in the intoxicating combination of leather and old books.
There’s a huge L-shaped couch in the center of the room with a loveseat and two chairs.
The colorful Persian rug, houndstooth print pillows, and contemporary lighting give off an old-world, eclectic mix of style.
It’s got a classic, timeless elegance while still being homey.
Strangely, Bailey’s name wasn’t brought up the entire night. Wait, no, that’s not true. At one point, Sissel asked why she wasn’t here, but Caleb gave her a look of such utter contempt that she immediately bit her tongue.
The whole thing is entirely confusing. But based on Caleb’s mood, it appears as though there might be trouble in paradise.
I hold on to the railing and climb the spiral staircase that leads to the second level.
The bookcase in the center aisle is filled with classics like The Great Gatsby and To Kill a Mockingbird, Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov which is more Caleb’s speed if he were to read fiction.
It amuses me that he’s this big warrior dude and also a literary snob.
But he’s a bit sensitive about it and says I shouldn’t judge people based on their appearance, just like I wouldn’t like it if someone assumed I’m flighty since I’m a blonde.
“You’re early.”
I shriek and place a hand over my racing heart. Caleb steps out of the shadows, dressed in his black suit pants and collared white shirt, but his tie hangs loosely around his neck and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
I swallow and glance away.
Damn, but the man is hot. As in, Bridgerton’s Duke of Hastings-level hot. But this isn’t new information, I remind myself.
“Hey, is that—” He stops and peers closer at my white shirt with a trident symbol that hits mid-thigh, then says in a strange voice, “Is that mine?”
Oh, dear. I’ve worn this shirt so often since I borrowed it without permission at the Chanukah party after someone spilled on me that I guess I forgot it wasn’t mine.
“I can explain,” I start to say, but he cuts me off with a glance.
“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for that?”
“Probably as long as I’ve had it?” I guess.
“Months.”
I shrug. “You could’ve just asked me.”
“And why exactly,” he says slowly, “would that have ever crossed my mind?”
“Do you want your present now?” I say in an enthusiastic tone, drumming my fingers on the frame.
“Only if it’s my shirt.”
“You’re rich, Caleb,” I say, trying to reason with him. “You can order a new one.”
“But that’s my lucky shirt.”
“Really?” I glance down at it. “It’s done shit good for me.”
He gazes at me with renewed panic. “You didn’t wash it, did you?”
“Of course, I washed it.” I wrinkle my nose. “What kind of weirdo would I be if I hadn’t?”
He groans and covers his eyes.
“Look on the bright side,” I say. “At least you don’t have to share a room with Sissel.”
“No,” he grumbles. “Just clothes with you. But,” he adds after a moment, doing a slow perusal of my body that gives me butterflies in my stomach, “you do look a lot better in it than I ever did.”
I feel myself blush. “It’s the heels,” I mumble offhandedly.
“Everything looks better with heels.” My legs are on display more than normal given that his shirt lands a few inches above the knee and coupled with the stilettos, I probably look like the owner of a brothel.
Which Bubby Kahn brought up again tonight, along with the belief that I’m still pregnant with her great-grandchild.
You’d think the second time around wouldn’t land as awkwardly, but nope.
Still thought I’d combust from embarrassment.
“No, it’s your lean, muscular legs. Runner’s legs,” he adds.
I grin proudly. “Did Zevi tell you that I ran the marathon?”
“He didn’t have to tell me. I was there.”
I blink. “You were there? At the marathon?”
He nods. “Someone had to keep an eye on you in case you needed help.”
Knowing that he showed up for me even though we weren’t exactly on speaking terms fills me with happiness.
“Wasn’t I great?” I beam.
“Yes.” He grins. “I’m proud of you, Tinsel.”
“Thanks.” I smile mischievously. “I guess that means I won our bet.”
“You did.”
“I guess that means you lost,” I tease.
“I like to think that we both won.”
I open my mouth, a teasing reply on my tongue, when I stop and consider his words.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think we both did.” I clear my throat.
“Anyway. Here’s your present,” I say, about to hand it over, but stop and press it against my chest instead, suddenly unsure.
What if he thinks it’s dumb? Or what if he takes it the wrong way?
What if he gets embarrassed? If he gets embarrassed, then I’ll get embarrassed, and then—
“Am I allowed to see it?” he says when I make no move to give it to him.
Instead, I tighten my grip on it. “You might hate it.”
“I might,” he agrees, holding out his hand. “Especially knowing who it’s from.”
His soft, teasing eyes manage to relax me, and I take a deep breath, then shove the frame at him before I chicken out and make a run for it.
Making a genealogy tree for Caleb wasn’t easy.
It involved playing referee over the many heated debates between family members.
No one on his father’s side could agree whether Great-Great-Great Uncle Avrum Spitkovskaya was from Belarus or Kiev.
His mother’s siblings weren’t much better, arguing over how old Tadesse Yacob had been during the famine in Northern Ethiopia that wiped out two-thirds of the Beta Israel community and how many husbands Hadas had had.
After every phone call and Zoom meeting I had with his family, I had to go for a run just to clear my head.
I used a calligraphy stencil to write down names, places of birth, marriage, and timeline, starting at the deepest roots of the tree and then moving closer to the bark with every generation.
In the wide bark of the tree, I wrote adjectives that I thought best described his family, words such as strength, conviction, endurance, and valor.
“And there you are,” I say, pointing. I had left the marriage line blank, of course, and staring at it now feels .
. . odd. The idea of a woman that I’ve never met before in that coveted spot beside Caleb’s seems wrong.
The only name that belongs next to his is, well, mine.
Although, Bailey would probably disagree.
“I hope it’s okay that I did this, I just wanted you to see what I see when I see your family,” I babble as he continues to gaze at it.
“You can totally throw it away if you want. Or you know, burn it. I could help you collect the firewood. Unless you prefer to use explosives because it would be more symbolic of how much you hate it which I completely unders—”
“Tinsel.”
I glance up. “Yes?”
“This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Thank you.”
I exhale a breath that I hadn’t even known I’d been holding in. “You don’t have to go that far—”
“I mean it,” he says, holding my gaze.
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you feel bad that your grandmother called me a pimp again?”
He hoots with laughter and covers his face. “No.”
“Or because she said I look like a Prom Queen reject?”
“I don’t even know what that means,” he says, holding up his hands and laughing.
“And because she’s not happy about Junior?” I add, cradling my stomach.
The laughter fades from his eyes and he holds out his arms. “C’mere.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. And yet, it seems inconceivable to not go to him. It isn’t even a conscious choice. All I know is that I need to touch him as much as I need air to breathe.
And so help me, I do.