Chapter Seven
My body understood what was happening before I did.
My pulse fluttered. My stomach fluttered.
A minute later my brain caught on, and then it fluttered too.
Then my eyes dropped to Caleb’s lips. I couldn’t help imagining how it would feel to have them pressed against my own.
More shockingly, I realized that I wanted to.
“I—” I swallowed, suddenly confused by my body’s reaction to having Caleb this close. Was I having a hypersexual crisis? Was that even a thing?
“I don’t know,” I murmured, as my cheeks burned with heat.
His eyes pooled with intensity. My back was pressed against the sink and he put a hand on either side of me, effectively trapping me. My breathing quickened with excitement. Then he tilted his head and whispered in my ear, “When you figure it out, let me know.”
But my hormones had already figured it out and were busy shouting step-by-step instructions. Find the nearest room with a lock. Tear off his shirt Tarzan-style. Dance naked to Meghan Trainor’s ‘All About That Bass’.
Such a good song.
But then the Judge Judy in my head banged her gavel and barked, “Unless you suddenly changed your mind about marriage, maintain a minimum of fifty feet from his Royal Hotness at all times.”
Had I changed my decision to never get married?
No, I definitely hadn’t. I’d long since decided heartbreak wasn’t worth the risk, not now and not ever.
I’d seen how my father’s abandonment destroyed our once happy home.
I spent countless nights in bed, unable to fall asleep, worried that I’d wake up and discover that my mother had vanished too.
I remember watching Zevi pretend to be sick so he wouldn’t have to go to shul on Shabbos and sit alone in the men’s section.
I saw how matchmakers treated Leah differently because she came from a broken home—it was another reason why my mother wanted to become a matchmaker.
She wanted to help level the playing field for those with extenuating circumstances.
And if the fairytales my father read to me were true, that love was always the answer, then what did that say about my father? Had he lied all those times he said he loved me? Or was love not always the answer?
I didn’t know. But I knew that the girl who was abandoned by her father grew into the woman who didn’t trust men to stick around.
Which meant no nude dancing to ‘All About That Bass’.
Caleb drew back and searched my face. He’d always been perceptive and all the more so when it came to me. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes, but he cleared his throat and stepped back.
And that was that.
The rustling of the chip bag snaps me back to the present.
I watch him chow down like there’s no tomorrow and it makes me feel guilty by association. “Do you want some Vitamin C with that?” I ask, getting up. “I think I have orange juice in the fridge.”
“Orange juice is nothing but glorified soda.”
“I guess I won’t offer you a Coke then.” I fill up a glass of water and hand it to him. “Gotta keep hydrated in this weather,” I joke, gesturing to the window where the wind howls against the pane.
“Are we back to discussing the weather?”
I shake my head and smile.
My mind drifts to the years that have passed since the night of that anniversary dinner.
I know he asked Zevi about me over the years.
But I was back to being annoyed with him, and couldn’t help but wonder if he saw that night as some cheap opportunity to mess around with a virgin.
I didn’t trust him, and I was grateful that I had the sense not to listen to my hormones and lunge myself at him the way I wanted to.
But I think about that night more often than I’d like.
And sometimes I find myself wondering if he does too.
I clear my throat. Time to put on my matchmaker hat. “I’ll try to keep this process as pain-free as possible.”
“Considerate of you.”
I smile. “So,” I say, “what are you looking for in a woman?”
He reaches for more chips. “I don’t know.”
I give him a long, hard stare. If he thinks he’s going to get away without answering this question, he should think again. “You must have a general idea.”
“Not really.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well,” he taps his fingers against the tabletop, “I’d prefer someone who doesn’t hate football.”
I look at him funny, wondering if that’s supposed to be a dig at me. I hate football. It’s stupid and violent and shortens the players’ lifespans. Not to mention the fans whose blood pressure spikes when their team loses. “O-kay.” I paste on a bright smile. “Anything else?”
“I don’t want to be dragged around malls.” I force my eyes not to circle upwards. As a pre-teen, I used to beg Caleb to take my friends and me to the mall. He hated every minute of it. “And,” he adds, pointing at me, “I don’t want to have to fight with her about eating vegetables.”
Message received.
“Let me see if I have this straight—you want someone who enjoys football, hates shopping, and loves vegetables. Is that right?”
He nods. “That about sums it up.”
“So, basically,” I say, “you want to marry yourself.”
He chokes on a potato chip as he starts to laugh.
“Look, Caleb. Those are all great. Obviously.” Even though they seem suspiciously the exact opposite of me. “But what about more substantial things?”
“I prefer women with darker skin and hair,” he says, his eyes traveling to my light-skinned face and blonde hair. “The shorter the better.”
Well, that felt personal.
“When I said substantial, Caleb, I wasn’t referring to skin or hair color, or the length of her legs,” I bristle.
“I didn’t realize I’d be judged on what I was looking for.”
I gaze at his neck and picture squeezing it. Is he trying to irritate me? Because it very much feels like he is. “What about her personality? Or Hashkafa?”
I’ve seen plenty of divorces happen because of philosophical differences and how best to observe the Torah and commandments, especially once couples start raising their children.
“I’d like her to be accepting and non-judgmental.”
I nod. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.
“Do you care about race?” I ask and he shakes his head. “Do you care if she comes from a broken home? Or what about yichus?”
“Good yichus would be nice,” he says. “It would definitely help my kids out.”
I nod. In Judaism, if the mom isn’t Jewish, then the kids aren’t. But having good yichus—coming from a long line of respectable family and Torah scholars that you can trace back all the way to the old country—brings a whole new status.
“I’m assuming that you don’t want someone from a broken home then,” I say lightly, careful to keep my voice absent of emotion. Even someone with good yichus can’t overcome the stain of being a product of divorce.
It isn’t fair, but few things in life are.
You’d never know it now, but at one point, my family was considered prestigious. We had money and decent yichus, not to mention a peaceful home filled with light and laughter. At least, that’s how it seemed in my innocent and childlike mind.
“Really, it’s not that important,” he says, holding my gaze. If I didn’t know any better, I think he was trying to reassure me not to take offense. “I’d rather have someone that I can connect with.”
“Don’t worry,” I say firmly. “I’ll find you someone who can be all that and comes from good yichus.”
He stands up and puts the potato chips away. “Do you think someone like that would be interested in dating someone like me?” he asks, with his back to me.
“Yes. Are you kidding?” I say, taken aback by the question. “How can you even ask that?” Needing something to do, I stand up and start to sweep the crumbs that had fallen onto the floor.
“It’s not as though I come from good yichus.”
Well . . . He does have a point. People of well-respected lineage usually marry into similarly prestigious families.
“Your family is lovely,” I say firmly. “Who cares if your dad is from an irreligious family from the Bronx, or that your mother grew up in poverty in Ethiopia and then Ramat Beit Shemesh?” I say, waving my hands.
“She’s freaking amazing, and your dad is a total sweetheart.
” Needing something to do with my hands, I take his spoon to the sink and run it under soapy water.
“Seriously now. How many people can say that their mother is the director of neurology at Mount Sinai Hospital? Or that their father is an electrophysiologist at NYU?”
“I appreciate what you’re doing here, Tinsel, but that’s not what counts as good yichus.”
“Good yichus can kiss my ass,” I say, pointing my finger at him. “Your family is awesome, full stop.”
But no matter what I think, conventional standards within the greater community might disagree. Caleb’s paternal side consists of agnostic Jews and his maternal side is made up of Ethiopian-Israelis. He isn’t exactly what people think of when yichus comes to mind.
The fact that he moved from Israel to America at seven was another huge adjustment. Kids laughed when he read certain Hebrew letters with the “T” sound rather than the “S”, or pronounced words with “Oh” instead of the Ashkenazi “Oi.”
Caleb nods, then gazes into the distance, lost in thought. “It’s funny, but in some ways, despite all of our success,” he says, “I’m still that scared little boy from Israel with the dark-skinned mom.”
“All of which are things to be proud of,” I say, scowling. I put the broom away and use a rag to scrub at a food stain on the counter. I’m getting pissed off, but I’m not sure at who. All I know is that humans make things so much more complicated than they have to be.
“Agreed. But it doesn’t change the fact that I felt different growing up, or that at times I still—” He stops abruptly and rubs the back of his neck.
“You still feel different?” I say, after a pregnant pause.
“Of course,” he says so quietly that’s almost hard to make out. “But it’s more than that too. It’s this feeling of not belonging. Not fully,” he adds with a shake of his head.
“I’m sorry, Caleb.” They’re empty words that accomplish nothing, yet I feel compelled to say them anyway.
He waves his hand. “Don’t apologize. Your family never questioned the validity of our Judaism or made us feel anything other than loved and accepted. And there were many others too, of course,” he adds. “But,” he shrugs and smiles grimly, “it’s the negative messages that we hear loudest.”
I nod. Why is it that most people can be kind and loving, yet the ones who aren’t carry the greater impact? It’s as if our brains are wired to believe whatever validates our biggest fears rather than what boosts our confidence.
He stands up and does a questionably fake yawn. “Anyway, I better get going. But I think you’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m looking for.”
I try not to show my disappointment. Just when I get a glimpse into the real Caleb, vulnerabilities and all, he runs away.
“Sure. It’s a start anyway.” I glance at his perfect body as I follow him out of the kitchen. “I hope your body survives the chemical warfare you gave it.”
He chuckles and runs his hand down his face. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“You are a very naughty man,” I say. He quirks an eyebrow at me over his shoulder and I blush. How did that come off as dirty when it sounded perfectly innocent in my head?
“Stop overthinking, Wernick,” he says, zipping up his coat. “I know what you meant.”
The rush of relief I feel is admittedly, pathetic.
“Have a good night,” he says, opening the door.
“Caleb—” I stop him, and when he turns around, I have no idea what I meant to say. I only know that I enjoyed his company tonight, and it made me realize how much I regret letting our friendship go for so many years. “I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back.”
He gazes at me, confused. “In Brooklyn?”
“Yes. No.” I shake my head. “I mean, yes, that too, but also, here.” I gesture in the space between us. “With me.”
A slow smiles spreads across his face. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says softly.
And somehow, that small, little statement lights a path straight to my heart.