Chapter Thirty-Six
I close my eyes and release a small sigh.
I don’t know if it’s the weight of his arms or the fresh spring breeze scent of his clothes, but something about this—about him—feels right.
It’s like clicking the correct jigsaw piece into the correct hole after shoving thousands of others at it first. Or when you meet a new person and instantly know that this is someone who will become a forever friend.
Because it’s effortless. Easy. Inevitable.
I’m suddenly hit with the realization that while some people spend a lifetime traveling the world in search of life’s meaning, I, at twenty-eight-years-old, have found it in the arms of this man.
“And for the record,” he whispers against my hair, tickling me, “I’d love the hell out of our baby.”
I smile at that and lean back to look at him. “Would you be one of those overly protective dads?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
I arch an eyebrow and try not to laugh. “Only maybe?”
“I could be talked into letting it leave the house,” he says, his hands pressing gently on my back, “if my wife insisted on it.”
“I think Child Protective Services would.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“Caleb . . .” I say sternly, as his hands drifts lower.
“Hmm?”
“Your hands.”
“What about them?”
“They’re on my butt.”
He grins and pulls me tighter against him. “I know.”
“Are you dating Bailey or not?”
“No.” The mention of her name snaps him out of his libido-induced haze and he instantly releases me. He collapses onto one of the wingback chairs and lets out a small groan. “It was horrible. You can’t even imagine how awful it was.” He closes his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he adds.
“Okay,” I say, even though I’m dying to know the details. Who dumped who, for example? Is he heartbroken right now? He didn’t seem heartbroken a minute ago when he had his hands on my butt, but he looks pretty miserable now.
I sit on the other chair and wait. And wait some more. Finally, he says, “She thought I was going to propose.”
I blink. “And you didn’t . . . ?”
“I was going to. I tried. I really, really tried.” His eyes wince, and I can tell he’s reliving the memory.
“I had the ring in my pocket and everything. But the words kept getting stuck. Right here,” he says, pointing halfway up his throat.
“I couldn’t do it,” he repeats. “I just kept thinking that this isn’t the woman I want to marry. ”
My mouth goes dry and I swallow. “Who is?” I breathe, my heart hammering.
Instead of answering, he says, “She didn’t smell right.”
I turn that over in my mind. “Did she not shower?”
“No, she did.”
“Was she one of those anti-deodorant hippies?”
“No, that wasn’t it.” He drums his fingers on the arms of the chair. “She never got excited, either,” he adds.
“About what?”
He shrugs. “About anything. She didn’t jump or shriek or clap her hands with enthusiasm or laugh so hard that things came out of her nostrils.”
“I am so confused by the words coming out of your mouth.”
“She didn’t tease me or make jokes. Well,” he pauses, “I suppose she laughed at mine. But she never snorted.”
“You require a woman who snorts?”
“I do.” He nods, turning to face me. “It’s in the top five requirements, for sure.”
“I think maybe you’ve had a stroke? Like, one of those mini ones?”
“She didn’t like cats either.”
“Lots of people don’t like cats.”
“But she didn’t like cat videos.”
“You don’t like cat videos,” I remind him.
“I know.” He nods. “We had that in common. And she could cook,” he adds. “Like, even better than me.”
Huh. “How did she feel about football?” I ask.
He lifts his hands. “She loved it.”
I feel suddenly annoyed that I wasn’t who discovered her. “Where did you find this needle in the haystack?”
“Casanova.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
“He cross-examined her outside a shul in Queens.”
“That figures.” I cross my arms and add, “She sounds pretty perfect.”
“She is,” he agrees. “But not perfect for me.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“I can tell by the huge grin you’re trying to hide.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my face. “I’m a really bad liar.”
“Really bad,” he agrees. “The worst. But I was thinking about it,” he continues, “and I think the biggest problem with Bailey boiled down to one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“She wasn’t you.”
His eyes are like two black sapphires rimmed with gold and I’ve never seen a more beautiful color. Their intensity steals my breath away and I have to remind myself to exhale. The passion, the longing, the goodness—it’s all there in his eyes.
“You’re the one I dream about when I close my eyes. You’re the one that challenges me and pushes me to be a better man. You’re my North Star, Tinsel. You always have been.”
I’m too afraid to move or speak. I’m terrified that I’ll wake up and realize this was all just a dream.
“I know you’re not interested in marriage,” he says, “but I need you in my life. In any capacity, if you’ll just let me.”
I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat, frozen, and paralyzed with delight. Finally, I whisper, “I let.”
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I swallow.
He nods. “We can be friends. Platonic, non-touching, non-sexual friends,” he says as his eyes peruse up and down my legs.
“We could. Or, we could get married and have kids,” I blurt. “If you want to. And I could write my name there,” I say, pointing to the line in the drawing beside his name. In fact, if it wasn’t Shabbos, I’d fill it in right this minute.
His face is a combination of astonishment and suspicion. “Is this a joke?”
“No.” I shake my head and swallow against the sudden lump in my throat. “I love you, Caleb Hersch Kahn. I’ve never not loved you—not even when I really hated your guts.”
He gazes at me like he still can’t quite believe me. “I’ve been going to therapy,” I explain, twisting the hem of the shirt because I need to fidget with something. “I probably should’ve gone a long time ago, but I realized after we, you know . . .”
“Kissed?”
I blush. “Yeah, that. And it made me realize that if I wanted a future, I needed to let go of my past first.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, just grinning at me. “This is surreal.”
“It is.” My cheeks start to ache from grinning so much. “But I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Can you take off your shirt and explain what all the tattoos mean?”
He arches an eyebrow. “You want me to get naked, right here in my parents’ library?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. “I asked you to take off your top to discuss your tattoos. Very different.”
“I don’t know.” He brushes his thumb against his bottom lip. “It still feels pervy.”
I nod, considering. “I’m okay with that,” I decide.
He tilts his chin toward me. “You want to go first?”
I laugh. “What for? I don’t have tattoos.”
He shrugs. “As a gesture of solidarity.”
“Your flirting has just entered next-level,” I inform him.
“I know.” He grins.
And some devil inside me whispers for me to do it. To whip my shirt off just to see the shock on his face because I know, I just know, he doesn’t think I actually will.
Besides, he’s already seen me in leggings, which isn’t that different to seeing someone topless—besides, I am wearing a bra.
So, I do it.
Caleb’s mouth drops. It simply hangs open, and he seems to have trouble closing it and forming a coherent sentence.
I glance down at myself just to make sure that I’m not suddenly covered in leprosy marks, but all I see is my boring cotton bra and my not particularly impressive amount of cleavage.
It really doesn’t warrant this amount of shock.
And then I realize that my nipples are hard.
“All righty then,” I say, clutching my shirt to my chest. My face is burning so hot it feels like it’s on fire. “Your turn.”
He swallows and his Adam’s apple jumps from the movement. His eyes seem slightly dazed as they reach mine. “What?”
“I showed my solidarity, and now it’s time for you to show me your tattoos.”
He unbuttons his shirt like a total tease, keeping his eyes on mine and taking his time, slowly revealing his skin inch-by-inch. It’s making certain parts of my anatomy squirm. I stand up to get a closer look, and his chest rumbles with laughter.
“Do you need a magnifying glass?” he asks.
“Quiet. I’m busy.”
I ignore his laughter and try to figure out where to start. I’m a kid in a candy shop, overwhelmed by the options.
In the center of his torso is an American flag wrapped around a trident that spreads across most of his chest and abdomen. Above his right nipple there’s a passage of words in black:
My Trident is a symbol of honor and heritage. Bestowed upon me by the heroes that have gone before, it embodies the trust of those I have sworn to protect. By wearing the Trident I accept the responsibility of my chosen profession and way of life. It is a privilege that I must earn every day.
Something colorful catches my eye on his upper right arm, and I walk around him to get a closer look. It’s an eagle flying, its claws holding onto an anchor and pistol. The sentence beneath it reads:
The only easy day was yesterday.
I so badly want to run my fingers over the defined muscles and hard ridges. “How did you get so . . . taut?”
“The usual way.” He sounds amused. “Exercise.”
“Amazing,” I breathe, sounding like a crazed fangirl.
I point to the line beneath the bone frog that says:
Failure is not an option.
“I don’t know why, but the combination of tattoos and a yarmulke are so . . . hot.”
An electrical charge buzzes in the air, pulling us toward each other in a current too strong to fight. This time our kiss isn’t gentle or playful—it’s pure fire, burning and hot.
I feel myself being lifted in the air and hook my legs around his waist. Our lips and tongues clash in a frenzy of feasting, and my nails dig into Caleb’s back. I don’t recognize this version of me—this unrelenting force of pure animal instinct, demanding and insistent.