Chapter Twenty-Two
“Um, all right,” Caleb says, staring at the ceiling. “You can tell me to stop at any point if you feel uncomf—”
“Do you feel uncomfortable?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says, still gazing up at the ceiling.
“Because you’re not looking at me,” I add.
“Did you want me to?”
“Well, not in a creepy way,” I say quickly. “But basic eye contact would be nice.”
He tears his gaze away from the ceiling and looks at me, oh so slowly.
“Good.” I nod. “Now just don’t look at my legs.”
“Don’t look at mine either,” he says, and I laugh.
“Do we need a safe word?”
He blinks. “A safe word?”
“Or a safe gesture?” I shrug. “That way, if you start to tap out, you can give me the signal and I’ll release you. And then no one has to die.”
“I’m not too worried, Tinsel.” The corners of his lips twist into a crooked smile as he pulls off his henley, leaving his white undershirt on. My mouth goes dry as I see how it clings to his broad shoulders and chest. “Take off your shoes.”
“I knew you had a foot fetish,” I say, unzipping my ankle boots. “You are so the type.”
He points a finger at me. “I do not have a foot fetish. And no flirting in my classroom.”
I laugh again. It feels so good to live in the moment and have fun, instead of worrying about my dwindling bank account, and whether I’ll be able to save my mother’s business, all while wondering what Mrs. Schwartz will do to me next.
Aside from the social media post, she’s scared away prospective clients by intimidating other matchmakers from networking with me.
In a business that relies heavily on word-of-mouth, upsetting the wrong person can mean the end of your career.
Being here with Caleb is exactly what I need to decompress. Out of the hustle and bustle of the city, it’s easy to pretend that it’s just the two of us in another dimension, far away from the real world.
Caleb’s undershirt bunches and flexes as he moves furniture out of the way. I lean against the wall and admire the scenery.
Finally, he puts his hands on his hips and looks at me. “Ready?”
“Bring it,” I say confidently. But when he takes a step toward me, I squeal, “Wait—maybe . . . we should shake hands first.”
Caleb’s eyebrow lifts. “Shake hands?”
I nod. “It’ll be less awkward that way—us touching for the first time.”
“We’ve touched before,” he says, but he’s scrunching his face in that way people do when they’re not certain of something.
“When?”
“I don’t know. When we were kids.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure you crashed into me on rollerblades more than once.”
“But that was years ago. Decades. We were children.”
“I still have the scars.”
“Really?” I seem to have given him a lot of scars. My eyes rove over his body curiously. “Where?”
“You want to play Show and Tell?”
I cover my embarrassment by laughing hysterically into my hands and collapsing onto the floor. “Sorry,” I gasp, between peals of laughter, “I think I’m nervous.”
“It’s natural to be nervous your first time,” he says in a husky voice.
“Stop that,” I squeal, clutching my stomach.
“Stop what?” he says, trying to look all innocent. But then he snorts a laugh.
“Come on.” He holds his hand out to me. “Let me help you up.”
My laughter dies down as I gaze at his hand. You can do this. You can touch a man. “Okay.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he adds as the seconds tick by.
“I think I’m more than just nervous,” I say quietly. “I think I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“No.” I shake my head. Caleb has never made me feel scared, quite the opposite in fact.
So, what is my problem? Am I worried that G-d will be mad at me?
Disappointed? Maybe a mixture of the two?
Although if I’m perfectly honestly, I’ve long suspected that G-d set the bar so low for me that it’s practically non-existent.
Is it about Caleb, then? Am I nervous that touching him will lead to something that might spin out of control? Will us doing a simple self-defense class cause a tornado-like effect that tosses everything stable into the air, and leaves only devastation in its wake? Is that it?
“Honestly,” I say, blinking up at him. “I don’t even know.”
“Hey,” he murmurs, and a flash of tenderness crosses his eyes. “It’s just me, okay?”
I nod. And though I don’t say it out loud, I wonder if that’s the problem. This isn’t about touching any man, it’s about touching this one.
“I’ve got you,” he says, wrapping his hand around mine.
The warmth of his skin feels like getting hugged by the sun.
He pulls me to my feet and wraps me in the warmest, safest embrace I think I’ve ever had.
I close my eyes and lay my head against his chest, inhaling a combination of men’s body wash and fabric softener.
“See,” I say, with my cheek on his shoulder, “I told you there was nothing to be scared of.”
The rumbling vibration of his laughter relaxes me further. I sniff his shirt like a bloodhound tracking a scent. “I love how you smell. What laundry detergent do you use?”
His brown eyes flicker down at me with amusement. “Whichever one happens to be closest to my hand.”
I take a fistful of his shirt and breathe deeply. “Mmm. Spring Breeze with hints of lavender.”
“I swear, Tinsel,” he sighs, tucking my head under his chin, “you get weirder by the day.”
The door suddenly opens and we jump apart like guilty teenagers. Casanova faces us with disapproving eyes, and waves his hand in the space between Caleb and me. “What this is? A new type of self-defense?”
“Uh, no. W-we were just warming up,” I say, turning beet red. I grab my skirt and put it back on. For some inexplicable reason, touching Caleb feels like less of a sin than being caught in leggings by Casanova.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Caleb says to Casanova, his voice containing the merest hint of impatience.
“No. I here to help you. I think you maybe forget about Jewish laws yichud and shomer negiah.”
Caleb scowls at him. “The door wasn’t locked, so we’re good.”
“What about shomer negiah?” Casanova leans against the desk and crosses his arms. “Because I saw negiaaaah.”
“I saw you break your Ramadan fast before sunset on three separate occasions. With liquor.”
“Exactly.” Casanova nods. “What kind of friend does that? You should’ve stopped me, like I do for you now.”
“What did I miss?” Gunnilda says, coming into the room with a bag of pretzels.
“Very immoral touch,” Casanova replies as he takes a few pretzels from Gunnilda. “Not for your innocent ears.”
“It was a hug,” Caleb says, exasperated. “And what the hell are you two doing in my office anyway?”
Gunnilda shrugs. “I was bored.”
Caleb silently points to the door in response. Gunnilda sighs and leaves.
“You too,” Caleb says to Casanova.
“You need me.”
“I don’t.”
“But—”
“Out.”
Casanova gives one last disapproving look before leaving, and Caleb calls out, “Shut the door!”
“So bossy,” Casanova mutters, then shuts the door with a loud bang.
Now that we’re alone again, an awkward silence stretches between us.
“Should we dive into the lesson then?” Caleb says.
I’d rather go back to hugging, but there’s no way to say that without making things weird.
I nod. “I’m ready.”
* * *
On second thought, nobody is ready to face suffocation.
It’s against human nature. I don’t know what I was thinking.
I can’t believe people pay money to practice this.
Just listening to Caleb describe what he’s going to do and how I should respond is making me wonder if being attacked in real time might be less painful.
“I think we should talk about this,” I say, backing away.
“We’ve done nothing but talk about this for twenty minutes.”
“Can’t I be the bad guy instead?”
He places his hands on his hips. He’s clearly trying to rein in his frustration. “And what,” he says slowly, enunciating each word, “would be the point in that?”
“To deepen your empathy,” I say after a moment. “To understand how it feels to be a vulnerable woman.”
“I already have plenty of empathy for vulnerable women,” he says, closing in on me. “That’s why we’re doing this.”
My back hits the wall and I swallow. Caleb is going to make his move any minute and my hands fly instinctively to my throat. “Didn’t you once say I have a fragile neck?”
“A fragile neck?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Me neither,” I say, edging to the right. Unfortunately, he moves to the left. “But I feel like I have one.”
“Interesting.” His arm shoots out and he plants his hand on the wall, landing with a soft thump inches away from my face. His entire body is like a portable concrete house that’s closing in on me and I gasp.
“Breathe, Tinsel. It’s just me.”
I’m being ridiculous, I know. But knowing doesn’t make any of this any less scary.
There’s something about being trapped that sends me into an absolute panic.
Maybe it does for most people. All I know is that it’s hard to think.
“I thought self-defense was going to be more like karate,” I whimper.
“If I had known there was going to be choking and being pinned—”
“I’m not going to choke you. I’m going to hold you tightly.”
“Around my neck!”
“Breathe.”
Even without checking a mirror, I know that my eyes are huge and wild, like a terrified animal’s.
“Wouldn’t you rather practice here with me than out in the street with an attacker?”
“I’m not sure.” I gulp. “Which one would end faster?”
“Wrong answer,” he replies, gently fanning his thumbs near my collar bone.
I instinctively put my hands on Caleb’s chest to stop him from coming any closer.
But he pries my hands off his chest and says calmly, “I’m going to trap you soon and it will feel scary—” He pauses as I let out a small whimper.
“But do your best not to panic because if you do you will lose your gross motor skills, your hearing, and you get tunnel vision.”
“I think I had a head start on all three of those.”
“On the count of three. One, two—”
“Wait—what’s my safe word?”
“There is no safe word.”
I gulp. “That sounds really unsafe.”
“The point of this exercise is to work through your anxiety and do the steps we’ve talked about. Panicking in the classroom is good. Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “you’re the first student I’ve had who’s panicked before we started.”
“I have claustrophobia,” I say defensively.
“That is unfortunate.” He nods. “And three.”
In one quick move, Caleb turns me around and has his bicep curled around my neck. He isn’t applying the kind of pressure that deprives me of oxygen, but the vise-like grip has me bucking and yanking at his arm.
“Safe word, safe word!” I shriek.
His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His other hand is now snaked around my waist which makes me feel double-trapped.
“Stay calm,” he says in a gentle, measured voice.
“Fuck calm!”
“Close your eyes and relax your muscles,” he murmurs. “What you’re doing now is a natural instinct, but you’re wasting precious energy and it’s not effective. Take deep breaths through your nose. Remember that you’re okay, you can breathe, that you’re with a friend you trust.”
“Ex-friend,” I grunt and buckle against him.
“Tinsel, honey, relax.”
I’m so caught off-guard by him calling me honey that I actually stop moving.
“Good girl,” he hums. “Now close your eyes and take a minute to center yourself. Deep breaths, in through your nose and then slowly exhale through your mouth.”
I manage to force myself to cooperate and shockingly—it works. I’m relaxed enough now that I no longer consider biting him.
“That’s it,” he says. “Do you remember what I said to do in this situation?”
I concentrate and think back. “Duck my chin to create space.”
“Excellent. And that will do what?”
“Give me room to breathe.”
“Good. Try it.”
I dip my chin and use the front of my head to butt against his arm.
“There you go,” Caleb grins and releases me. “See that? You’re a natural.”
“At panicking maybe.”
“You did great. You survived.”
“Which is easy when someone isn’t actually choking you.”
“You got to start somewhere.” He pulls two water bottles out from his mini fridge and tosses one to me. “The mind is the most powerful tool in your arsenal. When you learn how to rein in fear and discomfort, everything else becomes easy.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay.” He claps. “Let’s run through that again, but this time add the kick.”
“The one that’s aimed at your testicles?”
“Yes, but remember, you don’t actually kick my testicles,” he says, a small wrinkle appearing between his brows. “Just like I didn’t actually choke you. You kick my thigh instead.”
I nod. “I’ll try my best, but I can’t make you any promises.”
“Right, I forgot,” he sighs. “Be right back.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting a groin pillow.”
“What happened to our trust?” I call out to him.
“It’s your aim I don’t trust,” he yells back.
Which, I suppose, is a fair point.