Chapter 13 #2
“We could bring dinner to my place?” I suggest. “Except I bet you don’t have delivery around here.”
“We have take out. And I could deliver it.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s how a lot of old pornos start,” I tease, adding a little “bow chicka wow wow.”
“Calm down, Trouble—I’m just talking about tacos.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “If you bring dinner, then I’ll be dessert.”
Before Jonny can reply, his phone buzzes, interrupting us. “Sorry, it’s Kara,” he says.
He answers, and I watch as he talks to his little sister, a patient, loving smile on his face.
Jonny does so much for everyone in his family—fetching pregnancy cravings for Kara, watching his nieces and nephews, running the market for his dad—it’s hard to imagine how the McKays coped so long without him.
Or what they’ll do once he leaves again.
We haven’t talked about what he’s going to do once his dad is back on his feet and his sister has the baby, but I imagine he’ll leave town again. Not much of a market for start-up businesses in Azalea, but maybe in Chicago?
Chill, Shira. This is what Talia warned me about; flings aren’t supposed to involve feelings, just fucking. Except we’re not even doing that.
Maybe the woman at the taqueria was right to warn me all those weeks ago.
While Jonny may not be the town troublemaker anymore, he’s still that restless guy who moves from city to city, trying new ventures, starting things, and moving on before they’ve even settled—the kind of man who refuses to be pinned down.
And as much as I’ve tried to be someone else, deep down, I’m still just a girl who wants to be seen and wanted and chosen for who she really is.
“Sorry about that,” Jonny says to me after hanging up. “I’ve got to bring Kara a jar of olives.”
“No dilly beans?”
“I brought her three jars yesterday,” he says with a crooked grin. “Sunset is around five-thirty, so I’m going to go add a light to the menorah in the town square—I could be at your place by six-thirty?”
“It’s a date,” I say, fully embracing whatever weird and wonderful thing is happening between us.
When I get home a few minutes after six, Jonny is already there, leaning against my door with a big smile on his face and a brown bag full of tacos.
“Special delivery,” he says, holding up the bag. “Did someone order Hanukkah tacos?”
I lift up on my toes to kiss him before letting us in the front door. “How’d you know that’s the traditional meal for the fifth night?”
“Sure it is,” he says, then tilts his head like he’s considering this. “Is there a tradition for the fifth night?”
“Just lighting the candles. Growing up, the first night and the last night were usually the biggest deal—but nothing has ever or will ever top the fourth night this year.”
Jonny shakes his head, way too humble for a man who just grand-gestured the hell out of Hanukkah. After the eleventy-billionth time I thanked him last night, he begged me to stop. He keeps saying it wasn’t a big deal, but it was. It is.
“Well, maybe we can start a new tradition,” Jonny says. “A fifth night fiesta?”
“I like the sound of that.” Both the idea of a fiesta and having a tradition with him. As if this is something we could do together year after year.
Over dinner, I tell Jonny about how many people stopped by to wish me a Happy Hanukkah.
If they weren’t in the town square for the big menorah reveal last night, they’d heard about it and were excited to learn about a new holiday.
Only one person actually said it, but I’m pretty sure I’m the first Jewish person most of the people in this town have ever met.
“Now what?” Jonny asks after we clear the plates. “Dessert or candles?”
“Let’s do the candles first. Wait here, and I’ll get everything ready.”
I leave him at the table, then set out the menorah and get the gift I picked out for him earlier.
I’m excited to give him the book, but I’m a little nervous to share this ritual with him.
It’s different than last night with the big crowd and the party atmosphere.
Here, in the quiet, with just the two of us, it feels more important. More sacred.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Jonny says as he watches me put six candles—one for each night, plus the shamash in the middle—from right to left in the menorah.
“Thanks for being here with me.”
I take a slow and steady breath, then strike the match. I glance over at Jonny. He looks almost reverent, standing with his hands folded together. I bring the match to light the shamash, then use the candle to light the others, starting with the newest candles and ending with the first.
“Baruch atah Adonai,” I sing, “Eloheinu Melech haolam, Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzi’vanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.” Then I turn to him and say, “Happy Hanukkah.”
“Happy Hanukkah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s the part that made me cry the other night,” I admit.
“The prayer?”
I shake my head. “The Happy Hanukkah at the end. It’s something I’ve always said after the blessing, almost like it’s a part of the prayer. But I realized I didn’t have anyone to share it with.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you,” he says, pulling me into his arms.
“You would’ve been if I’d told you,” I say, and I know deep down it’s true. “Besides, you’re here now—and I have something for you.”
I reach behind me and pull out a wrapped gift. Jonny drops his hands. “Wait, I didn’t bring anything for you.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, taking the bow off the present.
I consider sticking it on his crotch and making a joke, but instead, I place it on his chest, right over his heart.
The more time I spend with him, the more attracted I am to that part of him.
“You being here is a gift,” I say. “But open yours.”
We sit down on the couch, the candles from the menorah glowing behind us.
Jonny lays the gift on his lap, looking at it like it’s something precious.
It’s obviously a book, but he opens it with such tender care that I wonder the last time someone did something nice for him instead of the other way around.
“East of Eden,” he says, reading the title out loud.
“Have you read it?” I ask.
He shakes his head and turns the book over to read the back cover copy.
“I was thinking about what you told me the other day,” I say.
“About your professor who said all novels are about learning to be human. This book definitely does that. Technically, it’s a retelling of the Cain and Abel story, but it’s also about a person’s legacy and the struggle between who people think you are and who you choose to be.
How much of the past we have to carry, and—”
Jonny kisses me, cutting me off. His hands slide up to cup my cheek, then into my hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “So much.”
“It’s just a book,” I say, smiling.
“It’s not just a book.” His eyes meet mine, dark blue and intense. “It’s the fact that you noticed. That you were paying attention to what I said.”
My heart stills. “Of course I was.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, as if he’s trying to tell me something with each press of his lips.
It’s like he’s thanking me for seeing him, for hearing him, for recognizing all the pieces of him he usually hides.
It makes me wonder how many people have underestimated him, have only seen the cocky, flirty exterior.
How many have overlooked the kind, loyal, generous man underneath?
I want to be even closer to him, not just to chase a fleeting thrill, but to strip away the layers between us. I want him to know how much he’s starting to mean to me, to show him the parts of myself that most people don’t get to see, either.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything,” he whispers between kisses.
“I have an idea for something you can give me,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him off the couch. “Follow me.”