Chapter Thirteen
“Hi, Caleb.” I gulp. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Caleb takes in the scene before him: Lieber crying on the couch and me on my knees attempting to soothe him. After a pause, he says, “Am I interrupting something?”
Lieber stands up and swipes at the remnants of his tears. “No, we were just finishing up. Thank you so much,” he says, turning to me.
“Of course. Miri can give you my number,” I say, getting to my feet too. “Feel free to call me anytime.”
“Thanks.” He nods. Caleb steps back and the three of us make our way out of the office and head to Caleb’s bedroom door, trying very hard to pretend that this isn’t weird.
I’m about to follow Lieber out through the doorway when Caleb steps in front of me, blocking my exit. “Stairs are down the hall, to the left,” he tells Lieber. Then he closes the door and leans against it, crossing his arms.
I gaze at him nervously. He doesn’t look like he’s in a festive holiday mood. In fact, he seems quite unhappy.
“Is this about me using your office without permission?” I ask.
“No. It’s about you bringing a man into my bedroom without permission.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “Well, technically, it was your office, so . . .”
“Which is technically attached to my bedroom.”
“Such a great room by the way,” I say with enthusiasm, gesturing a wide arc with my hand. “Ten out of ten.”
“Glad you like it.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the bed. “Sit.”
I scratch my neck. “I don’t think that’s particularly appropriate given that it’s you know, a bed, and we’re alone in a closed room and—”
“Sit.”
“I suppose I could rest for a minute, sure, why not?”
I kick off my heels and sit cross-legged on the bed while Caleb begins to pace and deliver a long lecture on everything he’s had to suffer, starting with hosting this party.
“But it’s a big mitzvah,” I interject. “And you’re so great at mitzvahs,” I add, unabashedly trying to butter him up, but he ignores me and keeps going.
“Twenty minutes ago, I had to physically break up a fight between two drunk guys trying to beat each other with wooden cue sticks.”
I consider that. “But on the plus side, good cardio?”
He throws me a death glare. “Then I had to calm Zevi down after he got worked up because he thought Jack was flirting with someone.”
Knowing Jack, he probably was. Although to be fair, I’ve caught my brother-in-law flirting with inanimate objects on more than one occasion. Once it was a naked bronze sculpture and he’d had a bit too much to drink.
“Then a woman threw herself at me,” he continues, waving his hands as he paces. “And then cried when I finally pried her off.”
“Poor thing,” I say.
He stops pacing to glare and point his finger at me. “I’m the poor thing.”
I try not to laugh, but his outraged expression coupled with his deep voice saying that he’s the poor thing proves too much for me and I burst into giggles.
“Glad you find this amusing,” he says, crossing his arms.
And so help me, I do. I know I shouldn’t, but the more I try to stop, the more I laugh. My unprofessionalism continues to grow in leaps and bounds.
“I—” I clutch my stomach as I laugh—“I’m sorry—”
“You don’t look sorry,” Caleb says, sinking down on the end of the bed.
My stomach flutters at seeing him on the bed—with me on it, no less—that it only increases my nervous laughter.
“Sorry,” I manage to eke out between snorts. I take a pillow to use as a sound buffer, but he grabs it from me. I try to swipe it back, but he’s too fast, and I end up swatting the air instead.
“Reel it in, Tinsel. I know you’re capable of having a mature conversation.”
“Normally,” I agree, pushing back some flyaway hair. “But apparently not tonight.”
There’s a loud crashing sound from downstairs. I cringe.
“I should go and see what happened,” Caleb says, shifting his head to gaze at his bedroom door. “But I don’t want to.”
“I really am sorry, Caleb.” I chew on my bottom lip. “I didn’t realize it would be this rowdy. Or that I wouldn’t even be around to help because I’d have to give emergency therapy to Miri’s cousin.”
“It’s okay.” He rubs his forehead. “You did the right thing. It’s why we love you,” he sighs.
“Who’s ‘we’?” I tease, flopping down onto my side to face him. “Because I only see one person here.”
“You know what I mean.”
I laugh and wag my finger at him. “Admit it. You loooove me.”
“We—your friends—love you.”
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head and grin. “You love me. Say it again, but with proper grammar this time.”
He rolls his eyes. “I tolerate you, Wernick.”
“Oh, you tolerate me?” I say, deepening my voice to imitate his.
“I think it’s a bit more than that.” I shouldn’t be doing this.
I shouldn’t be in Caleb’s bedroom and on his bed.
And I definitely shouldn’t be toying with him like this.
But I’m having too much fun to stop. Even if it does feel a bit like playing with fire.
I should head back to the party.
And I will. In a minute.
“Repeat after me.” I clear my throat and put my hand over my heart. “I, Caleb Hersch Kahn, pledge allegiance to Ashira from this day forth. I admit that she’s a mad genius, brilliant in every way, and declare my undying loyalty forever and ever.”
He tries to hide his smile behind his hand, but I can see it in the crinkles around his eyes. Knowing that I’m the one that put it there makes me feel inordinately proud.
“You loooove me,” I singsong. “I know it and you know it.”
“I know that I’m a lot happier in here with you than I am out there,” he says, dipping his chin in the direction of the door.
“Same,” I say, and he turns to me with a raised eyebrow.
“Really?” he says doubtfully.
“Are you kidding?” I gesture around the bedroom. “This is the best room ever. If I lived here, I’d never want to leave. I’d order room service and happily work from this bed forever. You’ve got this movie theatre screen TV—hey,” I say, gazing around. “Where do you keep the remote anyway?”
He points to the nightstand and I open the drawer. The remote lies on top of some papers and as I reach for it, my eyes catch my name on one of them.
“What’s this?” I say, pulling it out.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. He tries to grab it, but I jump off the bed and race to the bathroom and lock the door.
“Ashira,” he says from the other side, “this is a huge invasion of my privacy.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry.” I unfold it all the way. It’s a printout of one of our text conversations, the one where I thanked him for getting me groceries. My eyebrows furrow. Why would he print this out and then hide it in his drawer? And why is he so embarrassed about it?
I slowly unlock the door and open it. Caleb is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. I stare at him for a moment and he stares back, the air thick with tension.
“Uh, Caleb?” I say, and hold up the paper. “Why did you print this out?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—but—” I stutter.
“Let’s go back to the party. I think Miri needs you.”
“Yeah, but wait,” I say to his turned back, and rush to block his exit. “I don’t understand—”
“I like reading it, all right?” He puts his hands on his hips and gives me a death glare.
“This?” I say doubtfully, holding up the paper, just to confirm.
“It was a nice conversation,” he says defensively.
“This?” I say again, glancing down at it to see if I missed something.
“Yes, this.” He grabs it from me and folds it up again, then puts it in his back pocket. “Can we go back to the party now?”
“Uhm, well . . .” I tilt my head and study him. I don’t understand what was so special about our conversation, but the fact that he printed it out and likes to read it makes my heart swell with warmth. “Did you print it so you could read it on Shabbos?”
He neither confirms nor denies it.
“What if I want to keep it?” I ask, mostly as a social experiment.
“You don’t deserve it.”
I bite back a smile. “But I want it.”
He shakes his head and wags his finger at me. “Don’t do the cute thing. I’m too mad at you right now.”
“I do a cute thing?” My eyes light up. “What is it?”
“Stop it.”
“Talking?”
“The talking, the big blue eyes, the way you move, the everything,” he says, waving at me.
My heart skips a beat.
“Don’t do the silent cute thing either,” he warns. “I’m not in the mood.”
I have a silent cute thing too? Butterflies dance in my stomach.
“No smiling either,” he adds.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask innocently.
“No.”
I lift my hand. “Can I just say one tiny thing?”
He heaves a sigh. “What?”
“I think it’s sweet,” I say earnestly. “And I’m glad you have it, and that you like to read it.”
We gaze at each other for a long moment and my pulse starts to quicken. A charge buzzes in the air and my heart hammers against my ribs. I don’t know what this silent energy between us is, but it’s impossible to turn away. I’m stuck, paralyzed by the pull in his eyes.
I always knew they were a dark brown, but I’ve never noticed the slightly darker ring around them before.
They’re mesmerizing, like two shiny onyx gems glimmering against a dark sky.
For the first time in my life, I understand why they say eyes are the windows to the soul.
His are like endless tunnels that if I gazed at long enough, I might uncover his secrets. His innermost desires. His heart.
I don’t know if he moved closer or if it was me, but suddenly the distance between us has shrunk. My mouth goes dry.
“Ashira,” Caleb murmurs.
The heat in the room turns up, and his half-lidded gaze drops to my lips. I swallow, suddenly terrified. Because the fact that I want him to kiss me right now with a desire bordering on desperation is absolutely horrifying.
Yet sexy too, a devil on my shoulder whispers.
But then my conscious rears its ugly head. This is Caleb! The man who dropped both Judaism and you overnight. Do you really think he wouldn’t do it again? He’s the definition of unstable. And what about Blue Moon Basherts? Is it worth ruining your one chance to save it for a kiss?
The devil on my shoulder shrugs. Maybe? Try it and see?
But then I think of my mother and the company we built together—her very legacy. And I take a step back.
“I think someone’s calling me.”
He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
“I have to go,” I add, ducking under his arm.
“Chicken,” he says softly.
He’s right, of course. I am a chicken. And the worst kind, too. The kind that runs away and digs its face in the sand rather than confront reality. As much as I try to help other people heal their hearts, I’m unable to heal my own.
Because I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared that I don’t even want to go to therapy.
I don’t want to heal. The pain is what protects me.
It’s the reminder not to trust anyone, to not allow myself to be in a position where I might get hurt again.
Life isn’t predictable and people certainly aren’t.
I’d much rather play it safe and continue nursing a broken heart than have to start from scratch.
I’m an imposter. No matter how easily I dispense wisdom and guidance, and how much I promote love and marriage from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed, I can’t follow my own advice.
I hurry out of the room without a backwards glance.