Chapter Nine
The next ten days go from bad to worse to OMFG, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Not only does Caleb show up at my house every morning at five freaking am for a run that leaves me dripping in sweat, but the matchmaking is one dead end after another.
I finally get a client by introducing myself to a new woman at shul, only to find out that I have no one to set her up with because my matchmaking colleagues—women that I’ve worked with for years—will no longer talk to me.
Matchmakers that I thought of as friends are suddenly ignoring my calls and texts, and others have literally crossed the street when they saw me coming.
A few had the grace to apologize and explain that they’ve got kids to feed and a mortgage to pay.
While no one was explicitly threatened, no one had to be.
No one wants to risk having a Schwartz as an enemy.
In this industry, exchanging names and information is everything. I’ve gone from being, if not at the top of the matchmaking game, at least somewhere in the middle, to a lowly bottom feeder. My chances of saving Blue Moon Basherts become slimmer with each passing day.
Which is why so much is riding on tonight.
Not only have I signed up for a speed dating event to recruit men for my database—and I’m taking Sissel with me to double our chances—but it’s also the first blind date that I’ve set up for Caleb.
It feels almost too serendipitous to be true.
Miri’s new roommate, Nayma Berliner, seems to have it all—looks, intellect, and charm.
She’s Sephardi and follows Persian Jewish traditions, is petite with sultry dark eyes and olive skin, and a law school student.
But the best part is that she’s been in love with Caleb from the moment she caught a glimpse of him at her cousin’s bar mitzvah twenty years ago.
She once paid her cousin thirty-five dollars to pass on a love letter she wrote, although she thinks he trashed the letter because she never heard back.
“How do I look?” Nayma asks, stepping back from the phone so I can see the full effect. But walking and FaceTiming in heels is trickier than it sounds and I catch myself moments before tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
“Stunning,” I reply. “That’s a ‘love at first sight’ kind of dress.”
“Right?” Miri says, circling Nayma with the critical gaze of a true fashionista. “Few people can wear this shade of red, but it looks amazing against your eyes and hair.”
Sissel peers at the screen over my shoulder. “Are those zippers functional?”
“No,” Nayma laughs. “They’re just part of the design.”
Sissel shakes her head in disapproval. “If I designed clothes, there would be pockets and zippers and no scratchy fabric. And no tags. I loathe the tags,” she adds in an ominous tone.
“They’re the worst,” I say, patting her arm.
I’m a little nervous about taking Sissel with me because .
. . well, she’s Sissel. She has no filter and can come off as rude.
But Miri couldn’t come, and hopefully Sissel will be better than nothing.
I’ve made her promise not to insult anyone tonight, but we’ll see how long that lasts.
“I’ve got to run to finish my hair and makeup,” Nayma says, blowing a kiss. “Thanks again for arranging this, Ashira.”
“My pleasure.” I smile. “Have fun and good luck tonight!”
“Who needs luck when you look this good?” Miri says.
“Poor Caleb might have a heart attack when he sees her,” I add.
“Why?” Sissel says, taking my phone and gazing at the screen. “Has he never seen a hooker before?”
“Sissel,” I breathe, horrified, and she looks at me, like, what?
“Sorry, sorry, calm down,” she says, moving her hands in an up-and-down motion. “I meant a high-class one. It’s a compliment,” she adds when she sees my face.
“You’re done,” I hiss.
“Uh, thanks?” Nayma says, not looking all that flattered. “I’ve never been told that before.”
“Is this your first time in a slutty dress?”
“O-kay then,” I say, grabbing my phone back. “We’re going to hang up now. Have fun and I expect a full report by the end of the night.”
“Do you think it’s slutty?” I overhear Nayma ask Miri as I hang up.
“Sissel,” I say. “What did we talk about not doing earlier?”
“Not insulting the people at the singles’ event.”
“Well, yes, that’s true. But could you also try not to insult anyone in general? Anywhere at any time?”
“That’s a big ask.”
“It really isn’t.”
“I’m like a parking meter, Ashira. I can only do a few hours at a time.”
I sigh. “Let’s aim for four, then.”
“Fine. I’ll try,” she says, glancing my way. “But only because I pity you and what’s become of your sad, pathetic life.”
“How do I start the meter? Is there a button I can press?”
“It starts when I’m ready. Also, you look weird,” she adds.
I glare up at the sky where I image G-d is smirking down at me. “First of all, Sissel,” I say, “my life isn’t sad. I’m just having a small bump in the road.”
“More like a catastrophic collision.”
“And second of all,” I continue, “I have to wear a disguise so the organizer of the event doesn’t recognize me.”
“Yeah, but between you and me, that wig makes you look like Miss Muffet.”
“That’s fine.”
“It’s not a compliment,” she adds.
“New rule,” I say sharply. “You can’t insult me either.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Can’t I even—”
“No.”
“You really challenge our friendship sometimes, you know,” she says as we turn a corner.
I pat her arm. “I believe in you.”
We pass a new bodega that I haven’t seen before.
In case the small rectangular-shaped mezuzah affixed to the doorpost didn’t give away that the owner was Jewish, then the name of the store would: Bubbe’s Bagels.
As with many strictly kosher establishments, there’s a list of certifications on the glass front door to reassure Orthodox Jewish customers that they needn’t worry that some items inside aren’t kosher.
“It smells good,” Sissel says, pausing on the sidewalk to peer inside.
“Want to go in?”
She glances at her watch. “Okay, but we’ve only got eight minutes.”
“Noted,” I reply and open the door. It’s smaller than I had expected with a large glass display case swallowing up much of the space.
Inside the case there are all kinds of bagels, along with other classic Ashkenazi fillings like lox, smoked salmon, and liver.
The menu on the wall is written in colorful chalk, including foods like matzah ball soup, knishes, and kugels.
“Hi there,” says a guy with a yarmulke on his head. He’s got a white apron on with a nametag pinned on it that says Bruce. “How can I help you?”
“Do you have any garlic and onion bagels?” Sissel asks.
“No way,” I say, catching her by the arm. “You can’t have bad breath at a speed dating event.”
“I’m not going to eat them now. Besides, you know I’m not actually interested in dating any of them.” She turns to Bruce and says casually, “I’m asexual.”
I rub my temples. I really hope she keeps that information to herself tonight.
But Bruce surprises me by saying, “Cool. What’s that like? And how many of these bad boys do you want?” he asks, holding a bagel with tongs.
“Two,” she replies. “And it’s awesome not being attracted to anyone. It must be such a time-sucker. I’d much rather be with my friends than rubbing against someone else’s genitalia.”
“I’m going to wait outside,” I say weakly.
Bruce meets my eyes and laughs, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s cute. I glance at his ring finger to see if he’s married, even though you can’t always tell because some Orthodox men don’t wear wedding bands. “Any filling or did you want it plain?” he says, turning back to Sissel.
“Plain,” she replies. “And that’s it for me, thanks.”
“All right,” Bruce says, tapping the screen. “Want a receipt?”
“No thanks.” She holds her Apple Watch near the scanner.
Bruce turns to me. “Anything for you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. By the way,” I smile and lean my arm on the counter, “do you happen to be single?”
“Don’t worry, she’s not hitting on you,” Sissel says as two pink circles appear on Bruce’s cheeks. She grabs the small paper bag and tucks it under her arm. “She’s a ruined matchmaker who needs to recruit people for her database.”
“Sissel.”
“What?”
Bruce gazes between us, a polite, but slightly disturbed smile on his face.
“I’m not ruined,” I explain. “I’ve just had a small setback. A tiny one.” I throw Sissel a warning glance to stop her from contradicting me. “Anyway,” I say, turning back to Bruce. “If you’re interested, I can—”
“I appreciate the offer, but . . .” He shakes his head. “I don’t do matchmakers. I mean, I don’t use matchmakers.” He blushes all over again and chuckles. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Let’s go, Ashira,” Sissel says, opening the shop door. “I don’t want to be late. My cortisol levels are already going through the roof.”
“Here,” I say to Bruce, sliding my business card across the counter. “In case you change your mind.”
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I won’t.” He takes a rag and wipes the counter down. “Do you want the card back?”
“No, keep it,” I say, walking backwards. “You never know.”
“Watch out,” Sissel cries just as the back of my legs crash into a chair. I grimace in pain and clutch my leg.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay,” I call out to no one in particular. Bruce gives me a sympathetic look as I limp toward the door.
The door shuts and Sissel grins. “That was funny.”
“It could’ve been worse,” I say, in an attempt to self-soothe.
“I don’t know about that.”
I shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”
“You lost all of yours.”
“Sissel!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“I don’t think I’ll be going back there anytime soon,” I say as we approach a traffic light.
“Well. I’ll let you know when I’ve had my bagels,” she replies as if their quality might be worth a return visit.
I pat her arm. “You do that.”
* * *