Chapter Six
I groan. I knew it. “What?”
He puts his hands in his pockets and stares into the distance. “It’s no secret that you’re an attractive woman.”
I’m so caught off guard that I almost walk into a streetlight. What the— I tilt my head and stare at him. Is he hitting on me?
“If you weren’t Orthodox, you’d probably be on some runway in Paris. Or on a magazine cover.”
OMG. He’s definitely hitting on me. I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Except it’s not funny because now I have to say no, and now it’s going to be even more awkward to be his matchmaker.
And then suddenly, out of nowhere, and without my consent, my mind generates a series of images. Caleb pinning me in place with his eyes. Caleb gently placing his lips over mine. Caleb’s tongue slipping into my mouth and—
I shudder.
From disgust. Yes, definitely from disgust.
“So when I tell you that your diet and lifestyle concern me,” Caleb continues, completely oblivious to where my mind had been, “it has nothing to do with how you look, but everything to do with your health. Because being gorgeous on the outside doesn’t mean you can’t still wind up getting sick. Like your mom,” he adds quietly.
I blink. I know I heard the word gorgeous, but it was sandwiched in the most confusing way. I shake my head. “What?”
“I’m not saying that your mom got sick because of her lifestyle, I don’t want you to think that. All I’m saying is it couldn’t hurt to do everything possible to live cleanly.”
I shake my head again. There’s so much to unpack here. He thinks I’m gorgeous and that I have an unhealthy lifestyle, and that my mom might’ve died because she was the same way?
And what does living cleanly mean, anyway? I suppose it’s too much to hope that he’s referring to hygiene.
“So, I thought we could make a deal,” he says.
I glance at him wearily. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll hire you as my matchmaker, as long as you take on some healthier habits.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I don’t like the sound of that at all. “Like what?”
“We’ll start slow—”
There’s that pronoun again. “What do you mean we?”
“I’ll be your support buddy and health coach.” He catches the look on my face and adds, “Stop panicking, Tinsel. It’s not that bad. I do this all the time, you know.”
“Oh really? How many other matchmakers have you tried to blackmail?”
“This isn’t blackmail.”
“Well, it’s something,” I mutter.
“I volunteer for an organization that helps rehabilitate wounded veterans,” he says. “If they can do it, you can do it.”
“That is such a false comparison, and an insult to soldiers everywhere,” I say, to which he laughs.
“It’s a fair trade. I’ll hire you as my matchmaker and in return, you’ll get health lessons. As a matter of fact,” he says, eyes lighting up, “there’s a marathon coming up in five months that I was planning on doing. It’s to help raise money for heart disease research in women.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. “Is that because of . . .”
“Your mother,” he finishes with a nod. “Zevi was supposed to run it with me, but he dropped out of training. Too busy working on getting his latest project off the ground. I think it’s some kind of reality dating show.”
I nod. Reality dating shows are all the rage nowadays, and Zevi tends to skip the gym when he’s making a pilot to pitch to all the major networks.
“Why don’t you join me instead?”
My head abruptly swings in his direction. “Pardon?”
“The time frame isn’t ideal,” he continues, unaware of my growing dread. “Training should ideally start six months in advance for a beginner. But you’re not one to back down from a challenge, right?”
“Only because no one’s challenged me to run twenty-six miles before,” I say. The very idea of it makes me feel ill. “I definitely don’t mind turning this challenge down.”
“I get it.” He nods.
Whew. “I’m so glad—”
“Just like I don’t mind saying no to a bunch of blind dates.”
I gaze at him in horror. Uuugh. This man. And just when he was starting to get on my good side, too.
“That isn’t—you—” I’m so upset that I can’t get out a full sentence.
“I just thought of a way to make this even more interesting.”
“No, no.” I shake my head. “It’s plenty interesting enough as it is.”
“We could have our own race, and see who accomplishes their goal first If I get engaged before the five months are up, I win, and you win if you run the marathon before I’m engaged. It’s basically a win either way for you,” he adds.
He’s evil. He knows I can’t walk away from something that has the word win attached.
So,” he smiles, resting his shoe on one of the front steps, “do we have a deal?”
I cross my arms. All frustrations aside, this might be exactly what I need to get my health back on track. There have been times when I forced myself to exercise and eat things like walnuts and berries instead of donuts and chocolate milk, but I’ve never stayed consistent.
“The problem is me,” I finally say. “I’m not disciplined.”
He nods. “I’ll help you.”
“I can be stubborn.”
“So can I.” His dark brown eyes glint with challenge, reminding me how competitive we both were as children. I was a shockingly good ping-pong player despite the height discrepancy, and there were times when both Zevi and Caleb refused to quit playing until they beat me.
If there was ever a game worth playing, it’s this one.
“Okay, Kahn.” I nod. “Deal.”
In the non-Orthodox world, we’d probably shake hands at this point, but touching the opposite sex isn’t allowed in our community.
Except for immediate family members and grandparents, you’re not even supposed to give someone a high-five.
You can’t even touch your fiancé until the glass is broken under the wedding canopy.
Being shomer negiah is so ingrained in my purview that I rarely stop to think about it.
But standing here with Caleb, under the cover of a beautiful night sky, I imagine slipping my hand into his and feeling the heat of his touch. I wonder how much pressure he would apply. He seems like the type who’d give a strong handshake, firm and confident.
Gaaagghh. What was in the wine tonight?
“Okay, then.” I clear my throat. “Now tell me what you’re looking for in a wife.”
He shakes his head. “It’s late, and,” he dips his chin at my house, “you’re home.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to avoid this part of the conversation.”
“It’s late,” he repeats.
“Are you going to turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?”
“—It’s dark—”
“—So what?”
“—I have to get up early to go to shul—”
I point my finger at him. “You’re coming inside and you’re going to answer my questions, and I will tell you when you can go. Otherwise, the deal is off,” I call over my shoulder as I climb the front steps.
“Ashira,” he says, hurrying after me. “Stop. This is a terrible idea.” I ignore him as I unlock the door.
He rants about how inappropriate this is, how unnecessary, and yichud this and yichud that.
He’s awfully jumpy about being in a house alone with the opposite gender considering the fact that he wasn’t shomer at all for fifteen years.
Maybe even longer. I’m pretty sure I caught him holding Aviva’s hand once or twice.
“I’ll leave the door ajar, okay?” I say. “Or would you prefer it all the way open? You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I’m concerned for your reputation,” he says, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think inviting a man into your house late at night where anyone can see would be the nail in your coffin?”
He’s right, of course. And if I hadn’t had a few glasses of wine tonight and if I didn’t feel like he was trying to get out of our deal, I probably wouldn’t be doing this.
“Can I take your coat?” I offer.
“No, I’m good.”
I shrug off mine, feeling slightly self-conscious as he watches. The fabric of this dress is clingier than what most would consider tznius, but it’s cute and hey, at least it covers my elbows and knees.
“Do you have any potato chips?” Caleb says abruptly, turning in the direction of the kitchen.
Potato chips? Is he having some kind of early midlife crisis?
He opens the cupboard and frowns. “Did you move the junk food?”
“Yes, two decades ago.” I pull open a different cabinet and gesture inside. “I’ve got a whole array of flavors. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
I sit at the kitchen table and watch as he selects salt and vinegar, and digs in. This is so wrong. The man sees junk food like other people view arsenic.
Understandably, I’m concerned.
Is it because he’s alone in the house with me?
Or because I’m making him answer a few questions about what he’s looking for in a wife?
Because this is the easy part. The blind dates are what sucks.
It’s like getting a root canal, but at least then you’re given laughing gas to help ease the pain.
With blind dates, you take so much time getting ready and putting your best self out there, only to either be disappointed by your date or have them reject you.
Unless, of course, it’s a match. Even then it usually collapses by the second or third date.
And dating for marriage comes with high stakes. Everything is forever. Like, is this the person I want to wake up with forever? Is this the person that I want to forever parent my children with? And most importantly, is this the person that I’ll want to have sex with forever?
All of which is hard to determine when there’s no touching of any kind allowed.
Until you’re officially married, at which point, you immediately go from your first kiss to your first time together—once the wedding is over, that is.
Depending on who you talk to, it’s either incredibly romantic or incredibly awkward.
And unless you’re more modern, it’s frowned upon to take too long to decide; the longer you’re together, the more likely you are to find things to fight about. Plus, the temptation to touch each other gets harder the longer you’re around the person.
So, I get where he’s coming from. But still . . .
“Aren’t you concerned about the amount of chemicals in there?” I say, pointing to the bag.
“I’m trying very hard not to think about it.”
“Caleb, stop, you’re better than this,” I say, moving to pull the bag away, but his reflexes are quick and he slides it out of my reach. I frown and watch him take another big handful. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not allowed to eat chips?”
“It’s a sign of a mental breakdown, and I’m afraid it’s because of me.”
He leans back in the chair and crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t call eating chips a sign of a mental breakdown.”
“It is for you.” I watch him pop another few into his mouth, and I add in a warning voice, “Don’t make me tell you how many calories are in one serving.”
“One hundred and forty. And I don’t care.”
“You seem a little . . .” I stop and chew on my lower lip, wondering how to word it. “Don’t you want to get married?” I ask for the second time tonight. Because something isn’t adding up here.
“Of course.” A flash of emotion skitters across his eyes as he lifts them to meet mine.
And then without permission—it’s always without permission—my mind takes me back to a night five years earlier when Caleb’s mom had invited me to her and her husband’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I didn’t want to go, but I also couldn’t not go after I saw the challenge in Caleb’s eyes.
After dinner, I volunteered to do the dishes and Caleb joined me. I reminded myself to keep my distance, that he was nothing but trouble, but before long, we fell into our old rhythm of teasing and chatting.
Although it was different, too. Our eyes caught here and there, lingered an extra beat. There was something in the air.
Everyone else had left by that point, and Caleb’s parents sat on the couch drinking champagne and going through old photo albums.
“I think your parents have the best marriage I’ve ever seen,” I said, passing him a wet plate.
“Yeah.” He stood beside me at the sink, his hip against the counter. “I think it helped they were friends first.”
I nodded. I’d heard the story of how they met countless times.
Caleb’s mother had been one of the thousands of Jewish Ethiopian children rescued in a daring mission called Operation Moses carried out by the Mossad.
She’d met her future husband, Dr. Yishai Kahn, in Israel at the age of twenty when he had taken a gap year and she had been a guest speaker at an event commemorating the operation.
They had a common interest in medicine and ended up becoming friends.
By the time she was offered a scholarship at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine and he’d been accepted into NYU’s Grossman School of Medicine, they were already married and somewhat Orthodox, and raising six-year-old Caleb.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
“I agree,” I said, pumping more soap onto the sponge. “It’s nice to have that strong foundation to start off with.”
“Although,” he said, after a pause. “It can be tricky too.”
I turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“If you cross that line and it doesn’t work out, it’s impossible to go back.”
“True.” I handed him a glass. “Sad, but true.”
“What would you do?”
I tilted my head. A few strands of hair came loose from my ponytail and fell across my face, and I used the back of my sudsy hand to swipe the hair back. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, leaning closer and dabbing some leftover suds off my face with the dish towel, “what would you do if you developed an attraction to a friend?”