Chapter Eighteen
Caleb saunters into the darkened hallway a minute later. I open the restroom door and gesture for him to go inside. “Want to tell me why you’re spying on my date?” he says, all casual innocence as he leans his back against the wall.
“Isn’t it obvious? Look at you,” I say, spreading my arms, only to knock my hand against the hand dryer. I wince and tuck it under my armpit. “You’re the hottest of hot messes.”
He props the back of his shoe against the wall and tilts his head. “This coming from the woman with red lipstick and facial hair.”
I put my hands on my hips to restrain myself from strangling him. “Tell me the truth—are you intentionally sabotaging these dates?”
“No,” he says, but I remain unconvinced.
“No? So you’re saying that you actually have Holocaust Mommy-and-Me playdates and have plans to get an eighteen-foot cobra?”
He crosses his arms. “Do you cross-examine all of your clients?”
“Just the most difficult ones.”
He shakes his head wordlessly.
My mind flashes back to the night of the Chanukah party when we almost kissed, the printout of our conversation, and the way he looked at me the other week when he said I’d never been alone. The password to his phone coinciding with my birthday. And then I understand all too easily why.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m overthinking everything. It is something of a talent of mine.
And sure, Caleb is kind and supportive, but that’s what friends do.
In fact, he’s gone above and beyond what many friends do.
He shows up at my house most mornings and runs with me in cold, bitter weather.
He delivers groceries so I no longer have to shop for food.
He even noticed my tennis shoes were starting to get worn, and the very next day he casually handed me a pair of top-of-the-line sneakers.
Statistically speaking, there are probably tons of platonic friends who made out, or at least wanted to at some point in their friendship.
Call it science, call it curiosity, I don’t know.
Maybe people get bored and figure it’s a good way to kill time.
Ever since the anniversary dinner five years earlier, when that spark between us first ignited, there’s been a pull lingering behind our interactions. A very small, very tiny pull. So miniscule that it’s not even worth thinking about.
Then again, maybe I’m the only one who had an itch.
“Because you’ve said you want to get married and have a family,” I continue, then clear my throat. He nods. “Unlike me,” I add, glancing away. “I’m never going to marry anyone.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You think that now, but maybe one day—”
“Noooo.” My blood turns to ice knowing the direction of his thoughts.
That I might have a change of heart one day and make a different choice.
That life without marriage and children might be too lonely to bear.
That maybe I’d overcome my fears of abandonment and determine that love is worth the risk in the end. That love is always the answer.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, taking a step closer.
My heart starts to pound. All I can think is, I’m not ready for this because once he puts it out there, there’s no going back.
The worst part is, I’m not sure that I’d want it to.
“Why are your eyes brown?”
“Huh?” I blink.
“Your eyes. I know I’ve been out of town for the last two weeks, but I’m pretty sure they were blue when I left,” he says, since I must appear confused. Which I am. How did we go from discussing love and marriage to my eye color?
“I—” I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. My heart slowly returns to its normal pace. “These are contacts.” His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “Yeah, I know,” I say, feeling smug. “I am that good.”
He tries to frown, but it comes out as a twitchy smile. “You’re definitely something.”
I feel a thousand times lighter now that the danger has passed. “You probably want to hire me now to work for you as a super spy or something,” I tease.
“If only that was an actual job title.”
“I’d make a great spy. Admit it.”
“The thing about spies, especially ‘super spies’,” he says, making quotation marks with his fingers, “is that they have to be able to blend into a crowd. They have to be forgettable.”
“Easy.” I nod. “I can totally do that.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing about you is forgettable, Tinsel.”
I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy.
“Also,” he adds, stepping back to open the bathroom door, “red lipstick and facial hair are a conspicuous combination.”
And then he’s gone. I’m left all weak-kneed and shaky, and he’s completely unaffected. What if I had thrown myself at him and he had to pry me off, like that woman at the Chanukah party he told me about?
I splash some cold water on my face, remove the contacts, and wipe off my mustache and lipstick. There’s no point in going back to the table, so I decide to flag down the first waiter I see to pay for my meal and leave, but as I open the bathroom door, I see Caleb walking toward me.
“She left,” he says, looking bewildered.
My mouth opens in surprise. “Netanya?”
He nods, and hands me a napkin with scribbled writing:
Sorry, I don’t think we’re a match. Best of luck!
I lean against the wall and groan. There goes another one.
Although this time, I have to accept some of the blame.
If Caleb hadn’t been gone from the table for so long, she might not have left.
Who am I kidding? Even if she had stayed the whole time, it’s not like she was going to want a second date.
I glance at Caleb to see how he’s handling the news. He looks lost in thought. Could he be having a change of heart now that he was stood up? Is he one of those men who loves a good chase? I wish I could crawl inside his brain.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head and sighs. “I hate eating alone in public spaces.”
I give him an odd look. What is he up to? “You could have them pack it up for you.”
“It’s a waste of plastic.”
“You could fix yourself dinner at home.”
“And waste a good rib-eye?” He tsks.
“Caleb,” I say, trying not to laugh, “would you like me to join you for dinner?”
He strokes his thumb against his bottom lip. “I suppose that could work.”
“The sacrifices I make for you,” I tease as we head back to his table.
“I’ll reward you with a rib-eye.”
“I don’t want a steak, I want a hot dog.”
“I doubt there’s a children’s menu.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs and when the waiter comes over, I order a chicken wellington with mushrooms. Halfway through the meal, it occurs to me that there’s a strong possibility that Caleb has dating anxiety or commitment issues because he’s back to being himself again.
And when he’s himself, he’s completely delightful. A total catch.
At first glance, you’d never guess that someone like him could have dating anxiety, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. Why else would he still be single at thirty-three?
Something else falls into place, too. Hypothetically, if you wanted to get married and have a family, but had overwhelming dating anxiety, then it makes sense that you might convince yourself that you’re in love with the female friend that you’ve known forever who doesn’t want to get married.
How much more convenient would that be than having to put yourself out there and make a fool of yourself?
And a fool, he did.
“Bubbles,” I scoff, shaking my head. “If someone gets a snake—which I’m against because they belong in the wild to slither happy and free—but if someone does, the very least they could do is give them a respectable name.”
He glances at me, amused. “Such as?”
“Danger. Killer.” I shrug, and add, “Fang.”
“What about Dolly?”
“No.”
“Princess?”
“So wrong.”
“Fluffy? Giggles?”
My mind drifts to thinking about wild animals and how sad it is when they’re kept in cages in a zoo or circus.
They need to roam and kill each other, the way G-d intended.
Anytime someone is made to be in an unnatural environment, including humans, they’re on edge—or worse, depressed.
Many animals need to be in their natural habitats in order to thrive.
Humans are like animals in many ways. Some flourish around friends in busy places and some are happiest alone at home for long periods of time.
I study Caleb. Perhaps fancy restaurants aren’t his happy place. And how can he show off his best self when he isn’t comfortable to begin with?
My thoughts are interrupted when our waiter returns with our dessert—a red velvet mini cake for me, and a non-dairy lemon cheesecake mousse for him—and as I close my eyes and savor the heavenly flavors, an idea comes to me.