Chapter Seventeen
There’s an expression in my community that says bringing two soulmates together is more miraculous than the parting of the Red Sea.
While I like a challenge as much as the next person, I don’t see why it has to be this hard.
I know that on the scale of things that need to be fixed in this world, meeting your soulmate is low on the totem pole, but it’s still messed up.
You know what else is messed up? People. They may not realize they are, but I do. For one thing, they lie all the time. They say all they want in a spouse is a kind, salt-of-the-earth, good person, but it’s a lie. In the eight years I’ve been in this business, this is what they’re really after:
What Men Want in a Wife (in order of importance)
Gorgeous.
Isn’t crazy.
Cooks like their mom.
What Women Want in a Husband (in order of importance)
Money/status.
Isn’t a jerk.
At least two inches taller than they claim to be.
And if uniting two soulmates is considered a bigger miracle than the parting of the Red Sea, then in Caleb’s case, it’s like trying to part the Red Sea without G-d’s help.
Not only without G-d’s help, but while Caleb stands there saying that it’s never going to part because the science says so, and you might as well just give up already, over and over again, until you lose your mind and take a rock and either smash it over his head or your own.
Which is probably how tonight will end.
As a general rule, I don’t like to deceive people.
It’s rude and it’s a sin. But there are always exceptions that need to be made, and Caleb Kahn—bless his soul—is one big helluva exception.
Which is why I refuse to feel guilty about spying on his date tonight.
It’s in both our interests to see how he handles himself, and to observe whether there’s chemistry between them.
That way, if he tries to tell me it didn’t work, I can try to figure out why he thinks that.
I’ll be able to see and hear the big picture.
“Are you ready to order?”
I glance up from the trifold menu and into the smiling face of a waitress.
“I already did, thanks.” Why aren’t they here yet?
It’s ten minutes past the reservation time—I know because I’m the one that made it.
He was so moody about the whole thing that I half-expected him to tell me to go on the date myself, then report back.
Which, in all honesty, would probably work better.
But then, it is a Saturday night and the traffic is awful.
“I can take that from you then,” the waitress says, starting to pluck the menu out of my hands.
“No,” I nearly yell, my fingers tightening around the leather.
Does she not recognize a shield when she sees one?
“No, thank you,” I say, trying to appear calm and soften my voice.
“I like looking at it. In case I want to order more,” I improvise.
“And could you please tell the other wait staff that as well so they don’t try to take it from me? ”
She stares at me for a moment, like she’s thinking about arguing but decides against it in case I’m one of those weirdos that leave generous tips, as opposed to one of those weirdos who is just a weirdo. “Yeah, sure.”
Sadly, for both of us, the appetizers here are more expensive than my usual weekly food budget. I’ve ordered a soup that apparently Chef recommends, as though we’re buddies and he knows what I like. I also made sure to say I’m vegan because protein doesn’t come cheap.
A few minutes later, I hear a woman’s flirty laugh, and I immediately know that they’ve arrived.
I quickly use the camera on my phone to check my disguise is still in place. I have to admit that I like it. Wearing a midnight black wig makes me feel like a sexy siren. A mysterious vixen. And with the cat-eye glasses and red lipstick, I look like a hotter-than-hot librarian.
Zevi thought the brown contact lenses and the faint lines of facial hair I drew above my lip was unnecessary (regarding the former) and frightening (regarding the latter).
Admittedly, it does lessen the sexy vibe, but the smallest details can make the best disguise.
And aside from the facial hair, I think I might do this look more often.
I take a quick peek. They’re sitting too far away for me to hear anything, but that’s fine.
Mainly I’m here to make sure that Caleb keeps his promise and stays for an hour minimum.
Since his longest date on record has been half of that, and because there’s a severe lack of trust between us, I feel the need to watch him. Like a hawk.
I had bumped into Netanya Li a few weeks ago at shul.
She and I used to babysit for the same family as teenagers, and our hours overlapped enough that we became friends.
Our paths separated when she went to college and last I heard, she was working for NASA as a rocket scientist—literally—but I had no idea that she never married.
As I stood in shul that day, getting hissed at for talking too loudly, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that finally, I had met Caleb’s bashert.
Which isn’t to say that he still couldn’t mess this up. I’ve seen plenty of couples self-sabotage before their eventual reunion and then marriage.
Netanya Li, like Caleb, is also multiracial and the product of immigrants. Her mother’s side of the family has lived in Mexico for as far back as they can remember. They might even have been part of the Jews that settled there in the 1500s after being expelled from Spain.
Her father’s side of the family are descendants of the Jews of Kaifeng, a small subset of Jews that go all the way back to the Song Dynasty.
Netanya, like Caleb, knows the struggle of being different.
She understands the pain that comes from not fitting into a box, and the emotional exhaustion from answering the same questions over and over again—was she adopted?
Did she convert? Did her parents convert?
Both of which are questions that Judaism says you aren’t supposed to ask.
Could she see as well with slanted eyes? Had she ever eaten someone’s dog?
She once told me that even the well-meaning people don’t realize how hurtful their comments can be.
Every time she hears, “You’re so lucky. Multiracial people are the most beautiful,” is a subtle reminder that she’s different.
“Not that being different is a bad thing,” she once said to me. “But it can be lonely.”
Netanya’s laughter cuts into my thoughts, and I sneak a glance at them. They look good together, like they belong with each other. Anyone passing would probably assume that they were any other elite New York City couple.
She laughs again, louder than the first time. Whatever it is Caleb is saying, she’s loving it.
I wish I was sitting closer so I could hear what they’re talking about. But so far, it sounds promising, and they seem to be taking turns.
“Here you are, Chef’s apple and butternut squash soup,” says a new waiter, carefully placing the bowl before me.
“Thank you. By the way, would it be possible to switch to that table over there?” I point toward Caleb and Netanya. “The one that’s two tables away from that couple.”
He glances behind him and frowns. “Unfortunately, tonight we’re expecting a large crowd, so I’m afraid that won’t be possib—very well, then,” he says when he sees me slide two twenty-dollar bills toward him. “Follow me.”
That money was supposed to be for my taxi ride home because I don’t like using the subway at night—train pervs get handsy after twilight, or should I say more handsy. But maybe the facial hair will keep them at a safe distance, though I wouldn’t bet on it.
With the menu acting as my face shield, I follow the waiter to the new table.
“Excuse me,” Caleb says, flagging down the waiter. And then I freeze because Caleb, I slowly come to realize, is looking straight at me.
But in the next moment, he looks away, and I let out a breath.
He says something to the waiter, but my heart is beating much too fast for comfort and I slide into a seat, with my back parallel to Caleb’s.
I set my menu up just in case one of them suddenly gets up to use the restroom. You can never be too careful.
“. . . your poor parents,” I overhear Netanya say with a small giggle. “What happened when they found out it was you?”
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter says, interrupting my eavesdropping. “Some wine, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“A salad?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Bread?”
“Please leave.”
He sighs the sigh of someone used to dealing with difficult customers, nods once, and leaves. Finally.
But it’s too late, I missed the story, and now they’re in the process of ordering the most expensive items on the menu. A steak for Caleb and lamb chops for Netanya. They’re also getting a bottle of wine to share.
“And you own a security company?” Netanya says, after the waiter leaves.
“Yes.”
“What’s that like?”
“It’s fine,” he replies, sort of brusquely. I take a sip of my soup and cough from the unexpected spiciness. Water glugs down my throat as I desperately try to put out the fire.
“That’s nice,” she says, after a pause. When he doesn’t add to that, she clears her throat and says, “So . . . what do you do when you’re not working, like for fun. Do you have any hobbies?”
He nods. “I have movie nights with my mother.”
What? No, he doesn’t. Dr. Kahn might watch a documentary here and there, but she forces Caleb’s dad to watch them with her, not Caleb.
Netanya laughs, then abruptly stops. “Oh—you’re serious. Oh.”
“Not all the time, of course,” he says, and I can hear her audible breath of relief. “Just three to four times a week.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. That’s . . . nice.”
I close my eyes and force myself not to leap over the table and throttle him. Is he trying to test her? Because so far, I’m the only one rising to the bait.