Chapter Twenty-One
The following day finds me riding buckled and blindfolded in an unmarked white van on my way to Caleb’s workplace. I was considering having Caleb’s next date take place at work—that being his most natural element—but not if this is the only mode of transport.
“This all seems a bit excessive,” I say to the driver, the legendary Casanova himself. “Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“What exactly is the point of blindfolding me?”
“I tell you how many times already, this compound is secret location.”
“And you think some bad guy will discover I’ve been there and then do what exactly? Torture me to find out where it’s located?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “And honestly, it’s a little hurtful that you don’t trust me not to buckle under pressure.” I would so buckle under pressure. “It must be hard not to trust anyone.”
“Who said anyone?” he replies. “Just you I not trust.”
“Again, hurtful.”
“I trust Caleb.” I hear the tick-tick of the signal and I grab onto the door handle as the car takes a sharp turn. “And Allah.”
“In that order?” I joke.
“You make me want to put mouth gag on you.”
I laugh and roll my eyes, though it’s a wasted effort since he can’t see. The car jerks to a stop and I nearly fly through the dashboard. Casanova’s driving style is in perfect sync with his personality—abrupt and aggressive.
“So, what is it about Caleb that makes you trust him?” I ask, mostly to distract him from his road rage.
He’s spent the whole journey shouting how everyone is an idiot, that this guy drives too slow, that idiot too fast, and that other one must be on meth.
Did I not see how he cut right in front of us?
At which point I had to remind him that some jerk blindfolded me.
He found that hilarious.
“Tell me about you and Caleb. Why do you trust him so much?” I try again. I know they met a long time ago at one of the annual training events between the U.S. Navy SEALs and the Israeli IDF’s equivalent Shayetet 13, but I have no idea how they formed such a close bond.
“Listen, little civilian,” he says. “People in special forces, no matter what country we serve, we are the same people. Same personality traits. Same stubbornness, same high intensity, same ego. Always out to prove who is fittest and smartest. But during an operation, there is no I, there is only we.”
I have to admit, that sounds exactly like Caleb. He’s competitive and stubborn, but when it comes down to it, he always puts other people’s needs above his own.
“Many years ago, we were in Croatia, teaching their commandos skills because they idiots over there and know nothing.”
Yep. There’s that ego he was just talking about.
“One night, we get free tickets to go to the Serbia-Croatia world cup qualifier.” He stops and sighs. “We could smell the players’ armpits, that’s how close our seats were.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”
“Yes, it was wonderful,” he says. “But then some psycho started shooting at people. And you know what Caleb did? He covered me with his body to save my life. He didn’t have to, but he did.”
“Wow,” I say softly. I imagine the scene. The chaos and the fear that they must’ve felt. It’s one thing to train for a battle, but quite another to live it—especially when it wasn’t a battle, but a football match.
“But, neither of you got hurt, right?”
“Not me, but Caleb, yes. That Yehudi took three bullets for me—a Sunni Muslim. And in that moment, he became more than just my friend. He became my brother,” he says in a thick voice.
“That’s really beautiful,” I say, even though the thought of Caleb getting shot makes me feel ill.
It makes me wonder what else he’s been through as a soldier, or how many other injuries he’s sustained.
There’s an entire fifteen-year period of his life that I don’t know much about. I feel unexpectedly choked up.
That is, until Casanova starts to lecture.
“You civilians,” Casanova continues, “can never understand what it’s like to be feet in boots.”
I blink. “Feet in boots?”
“Boots in feet?” he tries. “Boots on floor?”
“Ooooh.” I laugh. “Boots on the ground.”
“Yes, yes, whatever,” he says in an impatient voice. “You live in different world. You cannot understand what it’s like.”
I’ve noticed the way Caleb always changes the subject when someone broaches the topic of his service.
He seems to act as if the fifteen years he spent in the military was a bad vacation he never wants to remember.
Now though I wonder if it had more to do with the audience.
Maybe Casanova has a point, maybe I can’t understand what it’s like.
But I’d still listen. And I’m surprised to realize that I want to.
I would want to hear about Caleb’s time in the military, and more about Caleb in general.
For matchmaking purposes. Strictly professional.
“Does he talk about that stuff with you?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
At least he has someone he can talk to. And hopefully, he’d be able to share those things with his wife, whoever she ends up being.
Casanova turns on the radio, signaling that our heart-to-heart has come to a close.
When we arrive at the property, which Casanova informs me spans two-hundred-acres, he finally removes my blindfold. I blink against the blinding sunlight.
“Whoa,” I say, gazing around. This place is beyond huge. “Is that the main office?” I ask, pointing to a wide, three-story glass-fronted building straight ahead.
“Yes. Yalla,” he says in Arabic, and motions for me to follow him inside.
A prominent mezuzah in a beautiful wood casing adorns the top right side of the front doorpost and I smile as I reach up to touch it, then kiss my fingers.
“Why you do this?” Casanova asks, mimicking how I kissed my fingers. “Caleb doesn’t.”
“Some Jews have different customs,” I explain, as he holds the door open for me and I walk inside. “Some touch it, without kissing the hand, and some don’t touch it at all.”
He nods, glancing back over his shoulder at the mezuzah. “The Torah words inside—it protects your people, yes?”
“Sort of,” I reply. “But more than anything, it’s a reminder to Jews that G-d is the only one who can protect us.”
“And these,” he smirks, pointing to the metal detectors and the somewhat bored-looking workers attending them. “Go on, then,” he adds, motioning with his hand.
“Seriously? You’re going to scan me?”
“And your purse.”
“And my purse,” I mutter under my breath.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “For you, I do it myself.”
“Great.”
He holds out his hand expectedly and I pass my purse to him with an exaggerated eye roll. At a nearby table, he unzips the purse and turns it upside down. I watch the contents fall out, some crashing to the ground as he gives it several vicious shakes.
He makes a show of putting on gloves and examining every item, like he’s never seen a packet of Tic Tacs or a tampon in his life.
“You mind?” he asks, already inserting a piece of my gum inside his mouth. “Ech.” He makes a face and spit it out. “Why you buy tropical? They have no mint?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll make sure to keep your taste in mind the next time I go shopping.”
Using a tweezers, he lifts up a tissue with red splotches. “This your blood? Or someone else’s?”
“It was my nail polish,” I say, and wiggle my fingers to show him the red color on my nails. “I forgot to throw it out.”
He gazes at my nails and then back at me suspiciously.
“Does he do this to everyone?” I call out to the other guys.
“Only the people he likes,” one of them responds, which causes the others to laugh.
“Are you done yet?” I cross my arms and frown at Casanova.
“Wow. Wow, wow.” He gives me the side-eye over the crumbled receipt in his hand. “Lots of toilet paper. Expensive kind too.”
“Only the best for my neighbor,” I say tightly.
By the time we’re in the elevator, I’m convinced the ambience of this place is not conducive to romance. High blood pressure, yes. But love? Definitely not.
When the elevator doors open on the fourth-floor, Caleb is there, waiting to greet me with a smile. It feels like ages since I last saw him when in fact it had only been some thirty odd hours. We skipped our run this morning since it was a recovery day.
“Hey, you.” He’s in a fitted olive green henley that hugs his muscular body, and I imagine how his skin would feel beneath my fingers.
“You good?” Caleb asks, tilting his head. I was caught staring like a total pervert. OMG, I’m no better than that speed dating Mordechai. Heat crawls up my neck and face, and straight up to my brain.
Be a professional, FFS. I clear my throat. “Never better,” I say with a bright smile.
“She didn’t like my driving,” Casanova reports.
“Or being blindfolded,” I add. “Although now I can cross off being abducted on my bucket list.”
Caleb narrows his eyes at Casanova. “That was not necessary. Don’t do that again.”
“Okay, okay.” He lifts his palms in surrender. “What about mouth gag? Yes or no?”
“Go,” Caleb commands, pointing to the elevator.
Once the elevator doors close with Casanova inside, Caleb dips his head. “C’mon. Let me show you my office.”
His office is more spacious than I had expected. Aside from the desk and two chairs facing it, there’s a punching bag in one corner and a bench press and weights. There’s even a small kitchenette, complete with a mini refrigerator and coffee station.
“You look nice.”
“Oh—thanks.” I smile, inordinately pleased. I’m in a light-blue knit sweater set that matches my eyes. “I’m on a fake date, after all.”
He smiles. “Want something to drink?” he asks as the door clicks shut behind us.
“Gin on the rocks.”
“Sorry, I’m fresh out of that. How about some green tea instead?”
I shudder. “No thanks.”
He sits down on the chair in front of his desk. “Matcha?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s a type of tea. It’s very good for you.”
“Okay, here’s tip number one—don’t offer any weird beverages on the date. You know what you need?” I snap my fingers. “A chilled bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. On a tray. With scattered rose petals.”
He looks confused. “Huh?”
“Too much?” I nod. “Yeah, that’s more of a proposal thing. Do a nice Chardonnay instead. Also,” I add, glancing around the room. “I’m going to have to make some minor tweaks here and there.”
His eyebrows lift. “Like what?”
“Like bring in a velvet loveseat.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You only have office furniture,” I point out.
“Because this is an office.”
“And then there’s the lighting issue,” I continue, pretending not to have heard him. “We’ll need scented candles and tea lights.” I smile as I picture it. “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”
“No, it sounds like a firefighter’s worst nightmare.”
I suck on my bottom lip and consider his point. “It should be fine—as long as no one trips.”
Caleb looks like he’s about to argue when there’s a knock on the door, and he goes to open it.
“Hi, come on in,” he says to an extremely tall woman with a broad, athletic frame and a long blonde braid steps into the room.
She looks like an Icelandic goddess or a Viking warrioress, fresh off the ship and ready to battle the natives.
Definitely over six feet, I decide. And definitely not in my weight class.
Please don’t let this be Gunnilda.
“Ashira, meet Gunnilda,” Caleb says. “Gunnilda, this is Ashira.”
I put on a brave face as we shake hands. Her deadly grip and unflinching eye contact do not put me at ease. Why isn’t she blinking?
“Hello,” she says. Every inch of this woman is terrifying—her thick neck and wide shoulders, muscles bunching and clenching everywhere I look. She cracks her knuckles and adds, “I’m looking forward to our lesson.”
Sweat forms on my temples. I glance at Caleb. Doesn’t he realize how sadistic she sounds? But he seems completely indifferent. And most disturbing of all is that she doesn’t smile. Not even a little. Not even a smidge. What kind of person doesn’t smile?
A psychopath, that’s who.
I turn to Caleb and say accusingly, “I thought I’m here to help you practice dating.”
“I thought we could do both,” he says.
Gunnilda grins and wiggles her eyebrows at me.
“I’m sorry,” I shake my head. “But I’m not comfortable with a female instructor.”
Caleb’s eyebrows reach his forehead. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t feel comfortable touching a woman.”
Gunnilda shrugs and starts heading to the door. “I’ll get Casanova.”
“No!” I yelp. “Sorry,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat off my forehead. “I just . . .” I turn to Caleb. “I’d rather you teach me.”
“Uh—” He scratches his head. Clears his throat. “Even though there will be . . .”
“Touching. I know.”
Gunnilda watches us with interest, like we’re her new favorite sitcom and all she needs is a comfy chair and a bucket of popcorn.
“But, out of curiosity . . .” I trail off and actually think about what this might entail. “What kind of touching?” I’m pretty sure it involves a fair amount of crotch-kicking based on Hollywood action movies. “Like, will it be . . . interesting?”
Gunnilda grins and then turns to watch Caleb for his reaction. I get the distinct feeling that she can’t wait to entertain everyone with this story as soon as she leaves.
Caleb looks very uncomfortable. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing him look so awkward before. “I guess that depends on what you find interesting,” Caleb says, scratching the back of his neck.
“A groin kick?”
“You won’t be doing that,” he says quickly.
“Too bad.” Gunnilda smirks. “I’d like to see it.”
Caleb has apparently had enough of her company because he opens his office door and says, “Thanks for coming by, Gunnilda. I’ll let you know if we need you.”
She gives me a small disturbing smile and then she’s gone. The door clicks shut and the room feels smaller without her here.
“So,” he says, leaning against his desk, “where were we?”
“Wondering how life led me to this point. Because I’m pretty sure I suggested we take a pottery class instead.”
“You did. And then I nixed it. But,” he pauses, “are you sure you want to do this?”
No. Yes. I close my eyes and think. This isn’t casual touching so it’s not really breaking any shomer negiah laws—it’s for life-saving purposes. It’s basically the same thing as going to a male gynecologist.
In fact, it could be argued that touching in this way is a mitzvah. G-d therefore, totally approves.
And if I have to shimmy out of my tight skirt and do this in my leggings, so be it. It’s still way more modest than having a pelvic exam.
“Yes,” I say. And then I whip off my skirt.