Chapter 9
Shira
I’ve missed my friends every day I’ve been in Azalea, but tonight is the first night I’ve missed one of our treasured traditions.
It started during our first year at Indiana University: Maya and I were roommates, and we met Talia, Naomi, and Anya at one of the monthly Shabbat dinners the Hillel on campus hosted.
Our friendship was forged on those Friday nights, and we’ve managed to keep the tradition going even after we graduated and all moved to Chicago.
Once a month on a Friday night, the five of us—four since Anya got married, and now three since I got sent to Texas—meet at someone’s apartment for a home-cooked (or home-delivered) meal.
We light the candles, we eat, we gossip, and we drink a bottle of wine or three.
It’s one of my favorite nights each month.
And tonight, I’m missing it. At least in person.
“Please tell me why you haven’t boned this guy yet,” Talia is saying. We’re FaceTiming while we both cook in our separate kitchens, almost a thousand miles apart.
“We’ve kissed,” I say in my defense.
“Over a week ago,” Naomi chimes in. “If you were lesbians, he would have moved in already.”
Talia nods solemnly in agreement. “Seriously, girl—what have you been doing?”
“A lot of things,” I say. “He still comes by the bookstore every day, and we drove into Fort Worth to go ice skating on Tuesday night—my butt is bruised from falling so much—then we went out for dinner and ice cream on Wednesday, and last night we volunteered as Santa’s Helpers, wrapping gifts that were donated for families in need. ”
“That’s cute,” Naomi says, but Talia does not look impressed.
“Holy shit,” Maya says, stepping into the frame. “I know what’s going on—it’s obvious. You guys are dating!”
“YES!” Talia shouts. “That’s it, that’s your problem, Shir! You don’t date a fling, you fuck them!”
“Easier said than done,” I say. My memory from the bar last Friday is still a little fuzzy thanks to all those ranch waters, but I have an unfortunately clear memory of Jonny standing in my bedroom, looking at me before walking away.
That makes two separate occasions where I put myself out there only to be shut down.
I’m clearly not very good at being this other person, whoever she’s supposed to be.
“Babe,” Talia says. “It doesn’t have to be that complicated. You’re hot, he’s hot. You’re horny, he’s a man…”
“Maybe he likes you too much to sleep with you,” Maya suggests.
“Men are so weird,” Naomi says, shaking her head.
“I’m serious,” Maya says. “You’ve heard of the box theory. He’s putting you in the relationship box.”
“Now you’ve just got to get yourself back into the hook-up box,” Talia says. “No more date nights out—invite him over to your place.”
“He’s coming over tonight,” I tell them.
“Atta girl!” Talia says.
“Did you invite him over for Shabbat?” Maya asks. Her voice is softer now; she knows how hard the last few weeks have been for me. That as much as I love how jolly and Christmassy everyone and everything is, it’s been hard knowing that I’m a square peg who doesn’t fit into this town’s round hole.
“Well,” I say, drawing out the word. “Kind of. I made a brisket and challah—but he doesn’t know it’s for Shabbat. I haven’t actually told him I’m Jewish.”
Or my real name. I don’t mention that to girls, though—I’m a little embarrassed at how long this has gone on. But I’m going to tell him tonight. No matter what.
Talia laughs. “I’m sorry—I just can’t remember the last time I had to tell anyone I was Jewish.”
“Come to Texas,” I tell her. “The state isn’t just red; this month, it’s red and green. And I haven’t been avoiding it; it hasn’t come up.”
It’s mostly true. I mean, I could’ve brought it up any of the many times we talked about Christmas, or when he asked about my family or my friends.
But I’ve been trying to blend in here, to keep my head down and make it through the month.
Does a hook-up even need to know that much information about me?
Plus, it feels tied to my real name, which he also doesn’t know.
“He’ll find out when he takes your top off later,” Talia laughs. “Is that a Star of David around your neck, or are you just happy to see me?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Naomi says, rolling her eyes.
“Thank you, Naomi—at least I can count on one of you to have my back.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Naomi says. “I agree with the what, just not the how. If this guy likes you, he’ll like all of you. Let him get to know you and see who you are. Your whole self.”
“Your whole naked self,” Talia says, raising a glass of wine toward the camera.
I sigh and shake my head, torn between the instinct to protect myself and the desire to be brave, to let Jonny see the real me. But more than anything, I hope that tonight, we can get back to where we left things on the dance floor last weekend.
An hour later, my little cottage smells good enough to eat. It takes me back to all the Friday nights I spent over at Bubbe’s house—except I decided not to make her recipe. As nostalgic as her brisket makes me, I’m on a mission to impress this man, and Anya’s brisket is the best I’ve ever tasted.
I texted her yesterday to get the recipe—apparently, her secret is real onions, coconut aminos, and ketchup.
She knew I was gone for the month because she still follows me on Instagram, and she seemed happy to hear from me, although she didn’t say anything about getting together when I’m back in town.
I’m checking on the potatoes for the seventeenth time when I hear Jonny’s big blue truck coming down the long driveway.
I give my hair a quick fluff and smooth out my top before walking to the door.
At the last second, I slip my necklace out so the gold Star of David shines against the royal blue of my shirt.
It’s a small gesture, but it feels good to be taking a little step toward reclaiming myself. When I first used my “Starbucks” name, I never imagined I’d be getting to know these people, that I’d want them to get to know me.
I open the door before Jonny can knock, and whatever anxiety or pressure I was feeling dissipates at the sight of him. He’s wearing the red flannel shirt he had on the night we met—the one that looked so soft I wanted to rub my face against the fabric. Only now, I can.
His face lights up when he sees me, and even though he’s got a bottle of wine in one hand and a foil-covered dish in the other, I step toward him and give him a half hug, pressing my cheek against his sturdy chest. He smells like fresh air and spearmint, and the shirt is just as soft as I thought it would be.
“Well, hello there,” he says, wrapping an arm around me to complete our quasi-hug.
“Hi,” I say, stepping back. “Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, I’ll always take an opportunity to have a pretty girl’s hands on me,” he says, eyes twinkling as he hands me the bottle of wine. “This is from me, but the pie’s from my mama.”
“Thank you both,” I say, closing the door behind him.
“What smells so good?” he asks, walking toward the kitchen. He seems to know his way around, and I remember he was here the other night, tucking me into bed like a little girl and getting me a glass of water to help curb my hangover since I apparently can’t handle my alcohol.
A good reminder to stick to one glass of wine tonight, two at the most. I’ve got to strike the balance between liquid courage and staying in control so I can complete both of my missions tonight: tell Jonny my name and finally get his pants off.
“I hope you like brisket,” I say.
“Like it?” Jonny says. “I’m from Texas. I love it!”
“Good—if you didn’t, I was going to throw it in a tortilla and call it a taco.” I slip on floral oven mitts that are decidedly not sexy, but neither are third-degree burns. And I have big plans for these hands later tonight.
“What can I do to help?” Jonny asks.
“Open the wine?” I point him toward the drawer with the corkscrew.
A few minutes later, we’re sitting around the kitchen table, a Jewish feast before us: the aforementioned brisket, roasted potatoes seasoned with Lipton onion soup mix, green beans, and fresh challah.
“Whoa,” Jonny says after his first bite. “This doesn’t taste like any brisket I’ve ever had before.”
“I hope that’s not a bad thing?”
Jonny shakes his head emphatically. “Are you kidding? It’s amazing.” He takes another bite and groans in pleasure. The sound stirs something inside of me; I want to hear it again later and be the reason he makes it.
“It’s a friend’s recipe,” I tell him. “How do you make it in Texas?”
“We smoke it. All of the seasonings give it a bark, like a crust on the outside.” Jonny’s face lights up. “Want to come and try it? My brother’s smoking one this weekend, and my mom’s been bugging me to bring you over for dinner. She doesn’t think you’re eating enough.”
“What? Why?” I may be short, but no one would ever accuse me of looking like I missed a meal.
Jonny shrugs. “Feeding people is her love language, and she’d love it if you came. I would, too. Will you?”
“Okay,” I say. The idea of spending another evening in the company of Jonny and his loud and boisterous family sounds perfect. “When?”
“Sunday. Around four-thirty.”
My stomach sinks.
Sunday is the first night of Hanukkah. The girls and I always spend the first night together doing a white elephant gift exchange. This year, they sent me a package to open, and we’re planning to FaceTime before they go to a Shamash Bash a local bar is hosting.
“This Sunday?” I ask, stalling. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to explain this, to tell Jonny why it’s important to me. My mind whirls, searching for some other excuse. I can’t exactly tell him I’m busy or that I have other plans—Jonny knows he’s the only person I hang out with in town.