Chapter Ten
When the bell rings, everyone switches. The next man sits down and introduces himself as Mordechai. He’s not the most attractive man in the room, but hopefully his personality will be more pleasant than my last guy.
“So, Mordechai,” I smile. “Tell me what you’re looking for in a wife.”
“I’m not too picky,” he says with an easy smile. “All I need is someone nice and loving. But I can’t handle a jealous woman, and there are a lot of them out there. I couldn’t go anywhere with my ex-wife without her accusing me of checking everyone out.”
His eyes dip down to my chest and linger for a solid three seconds. I scribble an X next to Mordechai’s name.
“And I want someone who will support me for who I am,” Mordechai continues, oblivious to my X mark. “I don’t want anyone trying to change me. Why is that so hard for people?” His eyes drop back to my chest, and I glance down too just to make sure there isn’t a big stain.
“Do you think your ex-wife had a point?” I say, dipping my head down to get him to look at me. “Do you think you have, say, wandering eyes?”
“No. She was paranoid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” He crosses his arms and scowls.
Apparently, bringing so many business cards might have been overly optimistic.
“Are you the jealous type?” he asks. “Because it seems like you might be.”
“No,” I say firmly. “But I do notice when someone’s eyes drift to places other than a woman’s face.” I give him a meaningful look.
He rolls his eyes. “You sound just like my ex-wife.”
“I never met her, but I’m betting she had a point.”
“Great,” he replies and stands up. “Maybe she’s your bashert.”
I snort. “Well, between the two of you, I know who I’d pick.”
I watch him leave. Unfortunately, he heads straight to the organizer and although I can’t hear what he’s saying, I can definitely guess based on his wild hand gestures in my direction.
Uh-oh.
“What on earth are you saying to these men?” Sissel asks as the bell rings.
“Nothing,” I say, all innocent.
“Yeah, right,” she scoffs. “Looks like I should’ve given you a speech.”
“It’s not my fault I’m getting jerks,” I grumble. Am I being extra testy tonight, or are the pickings really that slim?
“Do your best not to insult the next one,” Sissel adds in a lofty tone of voice. “It might be hard, but I believe in you.”
“Shuddup,” I mutter, biting back my smile.
The next guy is small and sweet and brings out my nurturing instincts.
We discuss his hay fever, his allergies to penicillin and sulfa drugs, and whether the Mayo Clinic website or WebMD is better for self-diagnosis.
At the two-minute mark, I mention that I’m a matchmaker and surreptitiously hand him my business card when no one is looking.
His face slightly falls, but he takes the card and promises to be in touch. My first win!
The next man spends the entire ten minutes describing the first stage of his childhood after I ask where he’s from, but I still slide him a card because A) he might just be overly chatty because he’s nervous or B) learning to pause and pose questions to your date is something that I’ve successfully coached people on before.
If that doesn’t work, there are women out there who are hard of hearing.
As every matchmaker worth her salt knows, sometimes you’ve got to think outside the box, or even within spitting distance of it.
“Hi, I’m Lior,” says the next one. “You look familiar,” he pauses and squints at my nametag, “Sissel Miri.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I clear my throat and touch my gold locket that holds a picture of my mother inside. “I think I just have one of those faces.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Have we dated?”
“No,” I say, trying not to be offended that I’d be that forgettable. “Anyway,” I nod, glancing at the timer, “tell me about yourself.”
“Okay, sure.” He nods and smiles. “I’m a third-year medical student.”
I smile. All right, now we’re talking. “What area of medicine do you want to go into?”
“Hopefully dermatology, but it’s very competitive, so we’ll see.”
“Why dermatology?”
“It’s convenient for family life. You don’t get paged a lot, and I plan on being as hands-on as possible helping my wife with our babies in the middle of the night.”
“That’s sweet.” A doctor who’s committed to helping his wife. If I can sign this guy on as a client, it’ll be a huge win. He might even have other doctor friends he could recommend me to.
“And the money is good, especially if I want to partner with a plastic surgeon. Insurance has been detrimental to private practices—” He stop and snaps his fingers.
“Wait—were you one of those contestants on that reality TV show? The ones where they take unattractive people and give them a bunch of cosmetic surgeries and then viewers vote who had the biggest transformation? My ex-girlfriend made me watch it with her.”
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.
“You look kind of plasticky,” he adds as if I was too dumb to catch his meaning the first time around. Maybe it’s my disguise? Although I don’t think my wig and glasses and heavy eyeliner make me look “plasticky”.
“Not in a bad way,” he says, taking in the look of horror on my face. “Although you might want to use less filler in your lips.”
“Can I get a refill?” I call to the bartender, holding up my empty glass.
Unfortunately, the bartender is busy chatting up the waitress.
And for the record, my lips are one hundred percent natural, but because I don’t believe in shaming women who do use filler, I don’t correct him.
Because it’s about the sisterhood, dammit.
“Hey, wait a minute.” His eyes suddenly light up and I get bad juju in my gut. “You’re that matchmaker, aren’t you? The one that Mrs. Schwartz hates.”
“What? No,” I say a little too quickly, eyes darting around anxiously in case anyone heard him. “And lower your voice please.”
“You looked better as a blonde, in my opinion,” he says.
Buddy, I don’t remember asking.
He leans forward. “Did you really insult Mrs. Schwartz to her face?”
“Can you please lower your voice—”
“I’m not judging,” he says, putting up his hands. “If anything, I admire you. I’d never have the guts to do it knowing how easily she can ruin anyone she wants to with one small snap of her fingers.”
“That’s not— S-she didn’t ruin me,” I sputter, crossing my arms. “I’m fine,” I add firmly. “Everything is fine.”
We gaze at each other in silence. Based off the look on his face, he isn’t buying it. And sadly, neither am I.
“I’m considering taxidermy,” I say, folding my arms. “As a backup plan.”
He blinks. “Taxidermy?”
“I loved stuffed animals as a kid. It’s kind of similar,” I muse. “In a way.”
“Uh . . . ah.” He clears his throat and glances around the room. “Sorry, I just have to . . .” He stands up.
I wait for him to finish his thought, but he’s in such a hurry to leave that he doesn’t seem to realize he left me hanging.
Perhaps I should’ve kept the taxidermy part to myself. Oh well. Easy come, easy go.
By the end of the night, Sissel and I have handed out five cards, which isn’t a huge number, but it’s still five more than at the start of this event. And that’s a win to me.
* * *
Back at home, I curl up on the couch with a thriller as I wait for an update on Nayma and Caleb’s date. Just as the main character discovers the bloody corpse of homicide victim number seven, my phone rings.
“Nayma?” I say, glancing at the time. It’s barely nine o’clock—this is either an incredibly good sign, like she’s calling from a bathroom stall to rave about him, or an incredibly bad one, as in she’s already back at home because the date was just that bad.
And really, how bad could a date be with two hot Jews and amazing Chinese food?
“Hiiiii,” I trill, already imagining the speech I’ll make at the Shabbos party leading up to their wedding. Not that anyone expects me to say something, but I think it’s only appropriate for the matchmaker and childhood friend to give a little speech since—
“I didn’t like him.”
I close the novel and sit up straight. What? Had I misheard her? I must have. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I didn’t like him.” Nayma heaves a long, dramatic sigh. “He’s very different one-on-one than he is in a group setting.”
“I mean, to be fair,” I say, scratching my head, “everyone is. At least, a little?” I add when she doesn’t say anything.
“This was more than a little, Ashira,” she says.
“Whenever I’ve seen him at shul or some other community event, he talks with people.
As in, he responds back. He seems to understand the general concept of having a conversation and what it entails.
But tonight he barely spoke two words. He basically said hello and goodbye. ”
“That—no.” I shake my head. “That doesn’t sound like Caleb. Are you sure you were sitting with the right guy?”
“Yes, Ashira.” She says my name like a teenage daughter says Mother. “I know what Caleb looks like. Maybe your friend was right,” she adds gloomily. “Maybe he thought I looked like a hooker.”
I sigh. “He wouldn’t think that, and you looked lovely.”
“Then why wouldn’t he give me a chance?” Her voice carries a plaintive tone. “The moment we locked eyes, I could feel him closing up.”
“Maybe he had a bad day at work?”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t like me.” She makes a small whining sound. “I mean, he’s still gorgeous and I’m in awe of him, but there was no spark, no connection, you know?”
“It’d be hard to make a connection with anyone if they didn’t talk,” I say, quietly thinking. Caleb can be quiet and he’s been mistaken for being snobby before, but barely scraping two words together? That doesn’t sound like him at all. “Maybe he was nervous?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. “He didn’t seem nervous. He seemed bored. The only time he asked me anything was to see if I wanted dessert.”
I shut my eyes. I’m going to kill him.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to talk to him and see if I can—”
“No,” she interrupts. “We’ve already agreed it wouldn’t work out.”
“Really?” The traditional protocol is for the couple to tell the matchmaker their thoughts rather than each other. “How did that happen?”
“At the end of the date, he said it was nice meeting me, but that he didn’t think we were a match. It was literally the only sentence he spoke the entire night.”
“I’m so sorry, Nayma,” I say flabbergasted. “I totally thought you guys would hit it off.”
“I know. I did too,” she replies sadly. “Oh well. At least I’ve got four other backup husbands.”
“You do?”
“Logan Lerman, Eyal Booker, Bar Brimer, and Noah Schnapp. In that order,” she adds.
“Noah Schnapp from Stranger Things?” I laugh. “Isn’t he a little young for you?”
“He’s twenty. That’s plenty old.”
“Okay,” I say, amused. “So, all your backup husbands are celebrities. And they probably have private security to keep them safe from overzealous Jewish matchmakers like me.”
“Probably. But that’s fine because I’m going to take a break for a little while and focus on my schoolwork.”
And another one bites the dust. “Law school must be incredibly demanding.”
“Yes, but I’m also trying to make it as a novelist. I’m writing a mystery about Bigfoot.”
“A mystery about Bigfoot,” I repeat. “Huh.”
“It’s very good.”
“Right, yes,” I say, although not entirely convincingly. “Is there romance in it?” I ask.
“Initially, yes, but then it results in a murder-suicide.”
“Wow.” I pause and scratch my head. “So, it’s a science fiction thriller?”
“I’d market it as commercial historical fiction, actually.”
“Aah okay,” I reply, confused. “Well, anyway, let me know if you want to start dating again. And good luck with your book.”
“Thanks. Have a good night!”
I hang up, then swiftly dial Caleb’s number. I will be cool, calm, and compassionate. I will treat him with the dignity and respect he deserves, just as if he were any other client of mine. And no matter what he says or how he says it, I will absolutely not, in any shape or form, lose my temper.