Chapter Eleven
“Hey.” Caleb’s smooth, relaxed voice comes across the line. “What’s up?”
“Oooh, nothing much. Just calling to see how your date went.”
“It was fine.”
“Oh?” I say, in a neutral voice, although my head is screaming WTF. “Fine, huh?”
“Yep.”
Silence. At the thirty-second mark, I say, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Look,” I sigh, feeling my neck muscles twitch. “I’m going to need more feedback from you than one word that’s more neutral than Switzerland itself.”
“She didn’t do it for me.”
I stand up and start to pace. “Were you not attracted to her?”
“It wasn’t that.”
“Was it her personality?”
“Maybe,” he says after a slight pause.
Maybe? “Was she too . . .” I trail off, hoping he’ll fill in the blank. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. “Perfect?”
“She talked a lot.”
I roll my eyes. “Could that have been because you didn’t talk enough?”
“I spoke,” he says, though not with much conviction.
“Really? What about?”
A pause. “The lack of spice in the soup.”
I bite down on my inner cheek. “Anything else?”
“I asked if she liked the steak. And at one point, we discussed carbonated beverages.”
I rub the pinch in my forehead. “Caleb, did you think she was dressed inappropriately?”
“No.” A pause. “Why? Was she?”
I lift my hand in the air, then let it drop at my side. It’s as if he wasn’t even there. “What was wrong then? Physically, she everything you asked for, and she’s brilliant, too.”
“There was nothing wrong with her, I just . . . wasn’t feeling it.”
I tilt my head back and rub my eyes. I know he’s withholding information from me but it’s not as though I can wave a magic wand and get him to confess whatever the problem is.
I frown as a thought occurs to me—he wouldn’t intentionally sabotage the date, would he?
“Can you do me a favor next time,” I say, “and force yourself to talk, even if you aren’t feeling it?”
His sigh carries the oppression of every put-upon man in the history of mankind. “I’ll try.”
“That would be amazing.” Look at me, being all patient with a client struggling to do the bare minimum of what’s required of him.
I flick on my bedroom light and start to wrap up the conversation. “Okay, I’ll head back to the drawing board and we’ll be in touch.”
“How was your speed dating event?”
I pause. “You knew about that?”
“When will you learn, Tinsel, that I know everything?”
Zevi. It’s always Zevi. Telling him anything is like taking out a billboard in Times Square.
“How was it?” he repeats.
I flop onto my bed and close my eyes. “Traumatic.”
“That bad?”
“Yes. And stop smiling.”
“How do you know I’m smiling?”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “How’s this?”
I grin. “Much better.”
“Any eligible guys?” he asks.
“Aren’t you more curious to know if there were eligible women?”
A pause. “Sure. Of course.”
“I wish I could tell you, but we got there too late to mingle so I didn’t have time to speak to any of them.”
“And the men?”
I groan. “No, don’t make me talk about it. It’s too soon.”
“That bad, huh?” he says, the grin creeping back into his voice.
“Let’s just say that I’m going to need a lot of time—and chocolate—before I can open up about it.”
He chuckles.
I shake my head. “Anyway, don’t worry. I’m going to find you someone who will Blow. Your. Mind.”
I hear him exhale. “No rush.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one trying to save a business and running precariously low on cash.
Soon I’ll have no choice but to get a real nine-to-five job, unless I decide to stop eating and using electricity and water.
I wonder how awkward it would be on the scale of awkwardness if I were to ask Bruce for a job at the new bodega. I’m thinking around nine point eight.
As if Caleb can read my worried mind, he says, “Do you need money, Tinsel? Because I can—”
“Stop right there, Daddy Warbucks,” I say, cutting him off. “I’d sooner sell my organs than accept charity.”
“A bribe then.”
I laugh and flip onto my stomach. “As if I’d buy that now. I’d know it was charity in disguise.”
“I worry about you,” he says quietly.
I pause, taken aback by the admission. I can hear the concern in his voice and if I’m completely honest, I’m touched that he cares, and that I take up space in his head.
Zevi worries about me, as does Leah in her own way, but they have to.
They’re family. Whereas Caleb isn’t and yet .
. . I don’t know. It’s confusing what he is to me.
“That’s sweet, but you don’t need to.” I wait a beat and when there’s no response, I joke, “I have at least two jars of peanut butter in my pantry which could keep me alive for another few weeks, easy.”
“Hilarious,” he says dryly.
I smile. “In all seriousness, I’m good. Really,” I add because I can tell he doesn’t believe me. And I’ve got Zevi for backup. “But thank you,” I add.
“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re right,” I tease. “I take it back.”
He chuffs a laugh, and for a few moments, neither one of us says anything. There’s something nice and comfortable about the silence. But then a loud yawn escapes me.
“Go get some rest. sleeping beauty,” he says. “I’m giving you the morning off tomorrow to give your body time to recover from all its hard work.”
“Thank G-d,” I breathe. I love my recovery days, as Caleb calls them. Although, in a surprising way, I have come to enjoy our runs. Somewhat, at least. “Goodnight, Caleb.”
“Goodnight, Tinsel.”
* * *
The chiming of the doorbell wakes me up the following morning. I sleepily make my way to the door only to discover no one is there. But then I look down and see several bags of groceries on my doorstep. There’s a handwritten note stapled to one of the handles of the bag.
This is for my peace of mind
—C
P.S. Three cans of beans should add another few months to your life. ;)
I feel a small amount of self-indignation at the gift, but another part of me, the one that is touched by the time and effort that went into this, wins out.
I snort with laughter as I reread his note, then bring the groceries inside.
Naturally, everything is healthy and requires washing or chopping.
After I unpack it all, I send Caleb a text:
No Cocoa Pebbles?
His reply comes a few minutes later:
Is there a child in your house?
I laugh.
Only the one currently writing.
He replies with a crazy face emoji.
I chew on my lip and stare at my screen, unsure what to write next.
I type out thank you, but then I delete it because what if he makes a habit of this?
What if I start to expect grocery bags on my doorstep every Monday morning only for them abruptly stop coming once he gets married?
Or what if he takes it upon himself to buy all of my groceries from now on, and before I know it, I’m a kept woman?
What if I start to like being a kept woman?
After a few more minutes of typing and deleting, I finally write thank you and attach a smiley face, then slide the phone across the counter before I try to undo it. But then it dings with an incoming text and I lunge for it.
That’s what took ten minutes of bubbles dancing on the screen? I was expecting a brilliant piece of literature or at the very least, a short sonnet.
My lips spread into a wide grin.
The bigger question is why were you staring at the screen
Casanova is leading a team meeting. He’s been yelling for fifteen minutes straight now though it’s unclear about what.
I laugh, picturing the scene. Casanova, whose real name no one knows except Caleb, is an Arab Israeli and former IDF special-ops whose unit worked in counter-terrorism.
Now he’s the chief of security for the synagogues and temples in the borough, as well as Caleb’s second-in-command.
And although he has the striking good looks of a Hollywood legend, he’s definitely no charmer.
Even the rabbi is scared of him and that’s really saying something since everyone is scared of the rabbi.
And unlike our judicial system, Casanova presumes everyone is guilty until proven innocent, especially when someone he doesn’t know attempts to walk into our synagogue.
I respond with a laughing emoji and set my phone aside.
It’s time to brainstorm ideas on how to recruit more singles to add to my database.
It has to be something different, something big and fun that will attract people—particularly ones who have no connection to the Schwartzs.
I grab a notebook and pen and wait for inspiration to strike. And wait. And then wait some more.
Eventually my phone pings with an invitation to a Chanukah party. Then it hits me—a singles Chanukah mixer! How fun would that be?! What better way to meet your soulmate than bonding over a bloody battle that resulted in regaining our temple in Jerusalem? #GoodTimes #SorryNotSorryGreeks
The only question now is, where to do it? I need a venue that is classy, but also free. Which narrows my options down considerably. In fact, it narrows them down to a big fat zero.
Unless . . .