Chapter Fourteen
The following morning finds me jogging to Bruce’s bodega.
Caleb texted this morning that he couldn’t join me for today’s run, so I went solo.
I’ve been putting in a good faith effort to eat healthier and work out.
I’ve discovered exercise helps turn my anxiety down a few notches.
Although I’m still unable to stop thinking about the disaster that was yesterday’s Chanukah party.
The whole thing was a catastrophe of the highest order.
Caleb was in a terrible mood the rest of the night, standing in a dark corner and glowering at anyone who so much as dared to glance his way.
I tried to stay behind after everyone left to help him clean up, but he kicked me out along with the others.
Which I get. First, I discovered the printout. Secondly, I ran away when he was seconds away from kissing me.
I can’t believe I almost kissed him. I almost kissed Caleb Kahn.
I put a hand over my pounding heart. This is bad. As in, really, seriously, life-changingly bad.
Okay, let’s not panic. So what if there is an attraction between us? It’s just a small, harmless crush. And it makes sense. We have a childhood bond and we’re already integrated into each other’s families. There’s no denying that he has a soft spot for me.
My mind starts to wander into dangerous territory.
Could I be with Caleb? He’s a decent man, after all.
I can’t imagine him being anything other than a devoted husband and father.
He’s dependable and honest. The type of person who would show up on time to pick his kids up from school.
The kind who’d never forget his kids’ birthdays or wedding anniversary.
I smile, picturing him running to the grocery store late at night to satisfy his pregnant wife’s cravings.
Caleb is the archetypical hero of every story. A rare breed of human that would immediately put aside his own needs to care for others. He would literally take his shirt off and give it to someone he saw shivering on the side of the road. That’s simply who he is.
I slow my pace to a brisk walk.
If I’m honest—truly, honest—none of it matters, anyway. Because even though Caleb might be all that and a side of chips, I’d never be able to marry him. How could I live with myself knowing I threw away my one shot at saving my mother’s legacy?
No. Absolutely not. I couldn’t do that to her.
Besides, marriage is best reserved for people without trust issues. I’d always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Some people aren’t meant to have it all. I’m not meant to have it all. And there’s not much point in longing for a husband and children when that type of happiness is reserved for people who aren’t like me. People who aren’t broken and still haunted from the ghosts of their pasts.
At least I can help facilitate it for other people. And though that may not be everything, it’s still more than nothing.
Speaking of which, I managed to get ten people to sign up to my newsletter which the Internet stresses is important for continued growth, and two more made appointments to meet with me one-on-one.
Which is huge! Both belong to Reform temples so thankfully they run in a different crowd to Mrs. Schwartz.
I arrive at the bodega, rosy-cheeked and out of breath. There’s a small line ahead of me and I wait patiently near the end of the counter. “Good morning, Bruce,” I say cheerily. “How are you?”
He looks up from sifting coffee beans and smiles. “I’m good, Baruch Hashem. Still windy out there?”
“How’d you guess?” I laugh, pushing strands of hair out of my face.
He taps the side of his head. “I’m clever like that. One coffee and a cream cheese and lox bagel to go?”
“You got it.” It’s Bernice’s favorite, and her face lights up every time I give it to her.
Since discovering the bodega three weeks ago, I’ve gotten into the habit of stopping by on my bi-weekly journey to collect Bernice’s dry-cleaning, and not just because the coffee is fantastic.
I’m determined to get Bruce to join my database because he’s a total catch.
Who doesn’t want a hot single guy who knows his way around a kitchen?
Which immediately makes me think of Caleb.
This is getting ridiculous. He’s taking up way too much of my mental real estate.
Focus, girl.
“Do you have plans for Friday night dinner this week?” I say to Bruce, all casual, peering into the glass display case.
“Yeah, but nothing too exciting,” he says, leaning back. “Just eating with my family.”
I nod, trying to play it cool and not overly eager. “If you want, you could come to my sister’s house. She makes a mean chicken and matzah ball soup. You’ll love it.” That wasn’t too desperate sounding, was it?
“I assume she’s also single based on your enthusiasm?”
“Hah!” I say, feeling smug. “She’s married.”
“Then you must be planning on having single women there.”
I try not to look guilty because dammit, that had been my plan.
“I won’t be able to make it. Sorry,” he adds, not looking sorry at all.
“But you just said you don’t have any exciting plans this week.”
He fiddles with the coffee machine. “Yes, but they’re still plans. It’s rude to cancel.”
“But it’s your family, they’ll understand. I bet they’d be happy to hear that you’re spending Shabbos with new friends,” I add. Perhaps I’m laying it on a bit too thick at this point.
“Listen,” he says, turning toward me. “I know what you’re up to and I’m not taking the bait.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, gazing at him as innocently as one can when lying. “I just happen to think you’d have a great time if you came. Providing you removed the stick out of your tuchus first.”
“Okay, one,” he says, pulling out the container of whipped cream from the fridge. “Our friendship has not yet reached the stage where we can comfortably talk about objects up our tuchuses.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“And two,” he continues, “despite what you said, I’m sure there would just happen to be a single woman or two at this Shabbos meal who you think would be perfect for me.”
I picture my two closest friends—asexual Sissel, and Miri, whose specifications are so precise that it’s as likely to find this person as a needle in a haystack. “There might be two women there,” I allow, “but neither of them would work for you.”
“Is this some reverse psychology trick?”
“I don’t know.” I tilt my head and smile. “Is it working?”
“No.” He laughs. “But I give you credit for trying.”
“Please.” I put my hands together and give him puppy eyes. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t want help, thank you very much. Aren’t there other people you can harass?”
“I’m not harassing you,” I say, arching an eyebrow.
“And this is a tough business, for your information. It relies heavily on word-of-mouth referrals, and lately the only mouth talking about me is Mrs. Schwartz’s.
And as you know, the speed dating event didn’t work out,” I say diplomatically, choosing not to point fingers at anyone.
Ahem, me. “Plus the Chanukah singles mixer last night was a complete disaster.”
“What happened?” Bruce looks up from running a spoon under water.
“Broken cue sticks. Battery and assault. A bookshelf crashed when someone tried to climb it.”
Bruce blinks. “Why would someone try to climb it?”
“There might’ve been more alcohol than food,” I say, scratching my head. “Or at least, edible food,” I add, thinking of the burnt latkes. “Turns out that’s a bad idea.”
He laughs.
“So, you’ll come for Friday night dinner?” I ask, batting my eyelashes.
“No.” He frowns. “Look, Ashira. I’m happy being single.”
“Nobody’s happy being single,” I say, like a good matchmaker would.
“Aren’t you happy and single?”
I open my mouth and then shut it. Am I happy being single?
I think it helps that my two closest friends are.
But I’m sure one day Miri will find her needle in the haystack.
Zevi and Jack want children and have mentioned the possibility of using a surrogate or adopting.
Sissel eventually wants to move to San Diego for the weather.
Which leaves Bernice and me watching reruns of 1980s’ sitcoms.
“This isn’t about me,” I say.
“Hey, if I throw in a free muffin will you stop pestering me?”
“I do love a good bribe.” I gaze at the muffins in baskets on display. “But it depends on the flavor.”
“Naturally.”
“A blueberry one will get you one week,” I say, tapping my chin.
“And the chocolate chip?”
“Two weeks.”
His eyes light up. “What about the flaxseed?”
“I’d consider that an act of vengeance.”
“What—why?”
“Are you kidding? Nobody likes flaxseed.”
“I like flaxseed,” he says. “I’ve loved it since I was a kid.”
I give him a sympathetic look. “Some would call that child abuse.”
He rolls his eyes and using a pair of tongs, holds up a chocolate chip muffin. “You can have this if I get three weeks.”
“Two weeks.”
“Two and a half.”
“Sold!” I smile and roll my eyes.
The door opens, and a young woman with bouncy brown curls walks inside. She has a huge smile accompanied by a pair of adorable dimples. “Oooh, she’s attractive, don’t you think?” I whisper to Bruce. Maybe I could set these two up!
“That’s my niece.”
“What? Really?” I gaze at him suspiciously.
“Are you sure?” Given that women start having children at an early age and continue until their bodies are no longer fertile, it isn’t uncommon in our circles to have an uncle or aunt of similar age to their niece or nephew, but I have to make sure he isn’t bluffing just to avoid an awkward matchmaking situation.
Which has become my specialty in recent days.
“What are you inferring about my sister-in-law?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, putting up my hands. “I don’t even know the woman.”
“Hi, Uncle Bruce,” the young woman says, approaching the counter. “How are you?”
Bruce turns to me with a smirk. “Did you catch the ‘uncle’ part of that sentence?”
“You got lucky this time,” I say, and he laughs.
“Don’t even think about trying to matchmake me with my customers,” he says, handing me my coffee. “I’ll start losing business.”
“Or gain more,” I suggest, holding my phone up to the scanner.
“Did I miss something?” the young woman says.
“This is Ashira,” Bruce says. “She’s a very persistent matchmaker.”
“Nice to meet you.” She gives me a warm smile. “I’m Rivka.”
“Nice to meet you too.” I give her my most charming, non-desperate smile. “You don’t happen to be single, do you?”
“She’s twenty-one,” Bruce says. “And I’m not letting her date until she’s at least thirty-five.”
“Actually,” Rivka laughs, “I just told Abba last night that I wanted to start dating, and he said it was about time.”
“My brother is an idiot,” Bruce informs me.
“Twenty-one isn’t that young,” I say. After all, I have friends who got married within months of graduating high school.
“She’s still too young to rent a car,” he says.
“You want to know why car companies have that rule? Because the prefrontal cortex isn’t fully formed until twenty-five.
They’re still kids trying to figure out who they are and what they want out of life.
” He shakes his head. “They can’t possibly know who would make a good life partner at that age. ”
“That might be true for some people,” I concede. “But it isn’t for everyone. Lots of people get married young and are still happily married decades later. My great-great grandmother got married at sixteen. I’m told they were very happy together.”
He cringes. “That’s horrible.”
“Actually, the horrible part was that my great-great grandfather had been nine years older. I guess it was common back then.”
Bruce waves his hand. “You’re done.”
“Is he always this cranky?” I stage whisper to Rivka.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No, he’s usually pure sunshine.”
“What can I say? You bring out the worst in me,” Bruce says with a small, nearly imperceptible grin.
“See?” I beam at him. “That’s proof that we’ve reached the highest level of friendship.”
Bruce snorts as he slides a muffin into a small paper bag. He loves me, I know it.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re unreasonably stubborn?” he says, handing me the bag.
“Maybe.” I smile. “But my brain tends to filter those types of comments out.”
Bruce chuckles and shakes his head. “See you later, Ashira.”
“Thanks for the muffin. See you next week!”
“Two and a half weeks!” he shouts as I slip through the door.
I turn around and call back, “Sorry—matchmaker math!”
He pretends to throw a rag at me and I laugh. Rivka calls out her own goodbye and we step outside together.
“Hey, before you go,” I say, and reach into my coat pocket, “take my card. I’d love to meet with you. I’ve got time all this week.”
“Okay, great.” She nods and smiles. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Just don’t tell you-know-who,” I add, dipping my head in the direction of the shop door. She laughs. “Don’t worry. He’ll be on a need-to-know basis.”
“Like when you’re a week away from your wedding,” I joke.
“Exactly.”
In an ideal world, I wouldn’t try to set up a couple with a twelve-year age gap, but I have bills to pay and Rivka seems like the sweetest gir—er, woman.
I give myself a mental smack. Besides, everyone knows that women mature way faster than men, so in a sense, Rivka and Caleb should be about the same age at this point, maturity-wise. She’s also his type physically.
Rivka might very well be the answer to my prayers.