Chapter Thirty
There’s something about weddings that spreads romance in the air. Everywhere I look, couples are laughing and talking, and a few teenagers are off to the side flirting. Even the old people in wheelchairs are holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.
I accept a champagne flute from a waiter dressed as a horse, and order myself not to glance at Caleb even as my eyes keep finding him. His hip is pressed into a wall, hands tucked in his pant pockets, as he nods to whatever it is a woman and her twenty-something daughter are saying.
I take a sip of the bubbly drink and notice a handsome man watching me from across the room.
He lifts his flute and grins at me in acknowledgement, and I smile a little back.
He’s older, probably in his early forties, but he’s got a full head of hair and a strong build.
Biceps like that were made to hold onto baby carriers. Come to Mama.
Bruce is right—maybe I do need chemical castration.
I’m about to take out my phone and do a Google search about it, when a completely outrageous idea pops into my head.
It’s absurd but also has some merit—what if I marry a heterosexual man who I have sexual chemistry with, but don’t love?
The idea feels safe to me, much less risky in terms of possible heartbreak.
Perhaps a man who would be an average dad, someone present, but not overly amazing.
That way the kids wouldn’t miss him too much either.
Caleb is too much like my own dad, too nice, too kind.
Too good to be true. I know that he’s going to be the type of dad who’s going to play catch and read bedtime stories and kiss scrapes and boo-boos and check for monsters under the bed, exactly the way my dad did.
And when something is too good to be true, it usually is.
The man starts making his way toward me and I swallow. This is the first time in my life that I actually might be interested in a future with someone—I just have to make sure that he isn’t too nice, but not a jerk either.
“Hi there.” The handsome man gazes down at me with a friendly grin. I swallow back. He’s even more dazzling close up with big blue eyes and jet-black hair. “You looked hungry, so I got you this.”
“I looked hungry?” I laugh, shaking my head in wonder at the plate in his outstretched hand, filled with steak and mini meat-filled pastries and chicken salad.
“Definitely. You were giving off starving vibes from all the way across the room. I’ll bring you dessert after you’re done.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You’re lucky I’m not a vegetarian.”
He chuckles. “You’re funny. I like that.”
“I’m Ashira Wernick, by the way,” I say, accepting the plate of food. No ring on his finger, mentally checking that off. “I’m a friend of Esty’s.”
“Nice to meet you, Ashira. I’m Alex Rabinowitz, friend of the groom’s father.”
Okay. Definitely older. “Nice to meet you.”
“Trust me,” he smiles, tilting his head, “the pleasure is all mine.”
The flirtatiousness in his voice is so over the top that it makes me laugh, and I choke a little as the food goes down the wrong way.
“I have that effect on women,” he says, after I get my coughing under control. “My mother likes to say I should come with a warning label.”
“Your mother is right.” I laugh. I put down my fork because I don’t think I can eat and not choke while talking to this man. “So, where are you from, Alex?”
“Originally Denver, but I recently moved to Brooklyn.”
I nod. “Any particular reason?”
“I got a job offer from Mount Sinai,” he replies, putting his hands in his pant pockets. “I’m a general surgeon.”
“So you’re good with your hands,” I say, then immediately feel my face heat up when I realize how that sounds.
“That’s what they keep telling me.” He winks.
I shake my head and giggle. This man. He’s hot, but also hard to imagine having a serious conversation with. I could see us having chemistry in bed, but not falling for each other out of it. We could be roommates with benefits. And have kids together.
“Are you here with someone?” Alex asks.
“Not . . . exactly?”
“There you are,” Caleb says, suddenly at my side. He reaches for my flute. “Do you mind if I try some?” He tastes it before I even have a chance to protest and then nods, like he’s decided it isn’t poisonous and hands it back to me. “Hi, I’m Caleb Kahn,” he says, putting his hand out to Alex.
“Alex Rabinowitz.”
Neither one smiles. The two of them shake hands like two MMA fighters silently sizing the other one up.
“Alex was just telling me that he’s recently moved to Brooklyn,” I say, jumping to fill the silence.
“Is that so,” Caleb drawls.
Alex smiles. “And what do you do, Caleb?”
“I own a personal protection company.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Nice?” Caleb shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it nice. It’s hard and dirty work. Occasionally, backhanded, and borderline illegal—”
“He’s kidding,” I cut in, but Caleb talks over me.
“I’ve got contractors operating both here and abroad, and several trained dogs from the military.”
“The bomb-sniffing type?” Alex asks.
“Nope.” Caleb rocks back on his heels. “The killing-on-command type.”
“He means bite, not kill,” I say to Alex, feeling sweat form in my armpits.
“That’s true.” Caleb nods. “The killing is the contractor’s job. So,” Caleb says, “What do you do, Alan?”
“Alex,” I say, but neither one seems to hear me.
“I guess you could say that I cut people for a living.”
“How about that.” Caleb smiles the way he does when he realizes his opponent is a lot better than he first thought, whether it’s a game of Black Jack or in the boxing ring. “Well, you just got a lot more interesting, Alan.”
“Alex is a surgeon,” I say, feeling a headache coming on. “Not an assassin.”
“Definitely not,” Alex agrees with a chuckle. “Although, I do know exactly where and how to cut someone to create ultimate impact and suffering. In fact, you’d be amazed at the type of damage that could be done with a ballpoint pen.”
“Some men don’t need anything but their bare hands,” Caleb counters.
On second thought, I think being a single mom is the way to go.
“True.” Alex flexes his. “Large and steady hands are best.”
I toss down the rest of my champagne.
“Careful now, Alan,” Caleb says with a small chuckle. “You’re starting to sound a little bloodthirsty.”
“Look the wedding is about to start,” I say. But neither of them seem to hear me, and frankly, I’m done watching this ridiculous game. They can go ahead and kill each other for all I care.
I head into the women’s room, the kabbalat panim where the female guests will wish Esty mazel tov and try to give her words of encouragement in case she’s having second thoughts. No one there will be discussing the things one could do with ballpoint pens or large, steady hands.
The band plays joyful music and Esty is seated on her makeshift throne, surrounded by loved ones. A long line of women has already formed to wish her mazel tov, and she’s smiling and laughing. She doesn’t seem at all freaked out by the fact that in an hour from now, she’ll be a married woman.
I carry my plate to a standing table. There’s something so terrifying yet romantic about making a lifetime commitment that this is your forever person; the one you’ll have children with and wake up beside every day.
The one you’ll share your body with and your bathroom too.
What if this person ends up clogging the toilet on a regular basis?
What if their aim is poor? What if they not only squeeze the toothpaste from the wrong part of the tube, but they don’t even put the cap back on afterwards?
Why isn’t it written in the ketubah that a husband must provide a wife with her own separate bathroom if he can’t follow the rules she lays out for him?
Soon enough, a parade of men file into the women’s room, loudly singing and clapping.
The groom’s face lights up like a menorah as he sees his beautiful bride for the first time in all her bridal splendor.
The groom approaches her, both of them blushing and grinning, following the Jewish tradition of ensuring that this is in fact, the correct woman before putting the veil over her head—a direct result of our forefather Jacob’s PTSD after accidentally marrying the wrong sister.
This is the stuff of deep generational trauma.
I catch Caleb’s eye. No matter how crowded a room is, my body always seems to find him, and he seems just as trained to find me. I don’t see Alex anywhere, but I’m sure he’s fine.
Hopefully.
The men file back out, singing and cheering on the groom as everyone except the bridal procession heads toward the large open room for the ceremony.
I take a seat toward the back, figuring the family and closer friends deserve a better view than me.
Even though it appears to be mixed seating, I’m surprised when Alex takes the empty seat next to mine.
I’m starting to realize he’s quite the bold type.
“Hello again,” he says. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am. What about you?”
“Eh. I give it a seven out of ten,” he says.
I laugh. “Do you rate every wedding you go to?”
“Not usually, no.” He sticks a shoe onto the rung of the chair in front of him and cross his arms over his chest. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
“Are you single?”
“Uh, yes . . .?”
“You don’t sound too sure about that.”
“No, it’s . . .” I laugh. “I’m just surprised by the question.”
“I’m surprised by your answer.” He leans a little closer and says, “How is it possible that someone hasn’t snapped you up yet?”
“To be honest, I’ve never been interested in marriage,” I say lightly.
“So you’re a player, then?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Living the life of a bachelorette with no strings?”
“Hardly.” I laugh. “More like the life of a boring old maid who watches too much YouTube.”
He laughs and puts his arm around the back of my chair.
“Hey,” rumbles a familiar masculine voice.
“Uh, hi.” I glance up at Caleb. I steel myself in case they’re about to have a second round of a testosterone tournament.
“I saved a seat for you up front,” Caleb says, nodding his head.
“Really?” I say surprised. “Isn’t that just for family?”
“You are family,” he says firmly.
Funny how three little words have such a strong effect on my heart, how something so small can unfurl such warmth and fill every inch of my body. “Sorry,” I say to Alex as I stand up. “I’m family.”
“No problem,” he replies easily. “We’ll talk later.”
Caleb mutters under his breath, “Don’t count on it.”
“He’s kidding,” I tell Alex. But Alex doesn’t look convinced and neither am I. It’s just as well that I’ve decided to become a single mom because Caleb will undoubtedly scare off any guy I’d be interested in.
I follow Caleb to the second row where the canopy is a tallis held in place by four men holding poles.
“That’s the same tallis that my great-grandparents married under,” Caleb murmurs, pointing to the chuppah. “It’s used for every wedding in the family and has the couples named embroidered on it.”
“That’s so beautiful,” I sigh. Again, I get that tug in my heart, that feeling of wanting. How incredible to marry under a canopy that connects you to your ancestors; to stand under the exact same tallis and perform the exact same rituals that they did on their wedding days.
I wish I knew more about my mother’s side of the family.
As with most Orthodox couples, the wife takes on the husband’s minhagim—traditions—so everything from the prayer book we use, to the foods we eat on Shabbos and holidays, to the shul we attend, have always reflected my father’s family.
Nothing to sneeze at since the Wernicks descend from a long line of impressive rabbis. Until my father came along, that is.
“It is,” he says softly, but he’s looking at me. His face is close and my eyes drop to the shape of his lips, the cupid’s bow so perfectly well formed it might have been created by Michelangelo himself.
I swallow and look down at my hands. It will be okay. I’m sure one day I’ll be able to look at Caleb and not want to climb him like a tree.
A few minutes later, Esty enters the room, flanked by her parents, and all the guests rise from their seats. The singer’s voice rings clear as he begins the opening notes of ‘Boi Kallah’, a song that celebrates the bride as the crown of her husband.
I don’t know if it’s the music or all the built-up emotion of the last few days, but my eyes prickle with tears.
It feels like just yesterday that Esty and I were kids, screaming with terror and jumping out of canoes after seeing a big spider, or sneaking into the kitchen at midnight and spraying whipped cream into our mouths, or waking up at sunrise to be able to take showers before the hot water ran out.
And now, here she is dressed like an Orthodox Jewish medieval princess, and moving on to the next stage in her life.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb whispers to me, concern in his face.
“Nothing,” I say, dabbing the corners of my eyes. “It’s just making me emotional to see her as a bride.”
“I know what you mean.” Caleb’s lips quirk. “A part of me will forever see her as the little cousin that ruined all our games.”
I snort. “That’s very on brand for you,” I whisper, and he chuckles in response. I watch Esty hand her scepter to her sister before joining her groom under the wedding canopy. “But also,” I hear myself add, “I think it makes me feel like I’m being left behind.”
“Because you’re single?”
I nod, then shake my head. “Because of why I’m single.”
“Shh,” someone says from behind us.
We watch the ceremony begin. I stare straight ahead and swallow against the lump in my throat.
“Let’s talk after the ceremony,” he whispers.
I glance at him alarmed. I didn’t mean to spark a discussion about why I’m single. “What for?”
“You’ll see.”
“Shh!” the person behind us hisses. Caleb smiles and puts a finger against his lips. I blow out an exaggerated breath. The ceremony is bound to take twice as long now that I’m anxious for it to end.