Chapter 3
3
The rest of the meeting goes smoothly, and Claire signs a contract before she even leaves the office. By the time I’m on I-83, heading north toward my parents’ house, I’m positively jubilant for the first time in months.
Moving back home has not been the easiest of transitions. I left behind not only my career and the life I’d built for myself in New York, but also my two best friends, Lexi and Chloe. Although if I’m honest, things were changing for all three of us even before I left. After two miserable years of working on the line, Lexi ditched restaurant life to start her own business selling comfort-food care packages with another chef friend, Mia. When she’s not working, she’s traveling the globe with her rock star fiancé, Jake. My other best friend Chloe met Riley, a fellow celebrity publicist, at Polo Bar a few months back when they both took over their clients’ reservations, and now she spends half her time visiting her in L.A. The three of us have gone from talking every day and getting together for happy hour once a week to hosting bimonthly FaceTime calls and sending each other Reels. But I guess this is the nature of friendship when you are on the cusp of turning thirty. Life is changing and everyone is in different places, literally and figuratively.
But now, with the promise of a new job on the horizon, I’m finally starting to feel settled. The whole family will be coming over tonight for Friday night dinner, making it the perfect opportunity to announce my big news.
Sarah’s minivan is already parked in the driveway when I turn down our parents’ court. I don’t even have to look through the windows to know that the interior is immaculate, despite the fact that my sister uses it to shuttle around her four kids. Everything about Sarah is always immaculate.
My sister is ten years older than me and fits the firstborn personality profile to a T. After graduating top of her class at Penn, she married Jordan, her high school sweetheart, earned a CPA, and popped out her first kid—all before her twenty-fifth birthday. She worked in finance for a few years, but once she had the twins, she needed more flexible hours. So, she repurposed her business skills to start a home organizing business. She now staffs half a dozen employees and has become a social media influencer, best known for posting videos of her serial killer–level organized home on TikTok.
At twenty-eight, the only thing I’ve managed to create is an exorbitant amount of student debt.
When I push open the front door and step into the foyer, I’m hit with the familiar smells of freshly baked challah and spiced chicken, followed by screams of “Aunt Ali’s here!”
I miss a lot of things about living in New York, but it’s impossible to deny how nice it is to be close to family. And there’s something genuinely comforting about returning to the house I grew up in. Because no matter how many other things change, this place is frozen in time. The family portraits of us clad in matching denim still trim the staircase, and the same faded entryway rug awaits guests at the front door. Our elementary school artwork is still adhered to the fridge with magnetic photos of me and my sister, toothless and donning ill-fitting softball uniforms. The outside world is fast and ever evolving, but a childhood home, if you’re lucky, is eternally steady.
Olive and Emme come barreling toward me, still dressed in their crisp day school polos and matching plaid skirts. Their little brother, Benny, toddles behind them, a giraffe pacifier dangling from his mouth as he drags his tattered gray blanket behind him. Jackson, the oldest, is nowhere in sight, but I feel reasonably confident he’s made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, locked in a Roblox battle.
The girls tackle me, and I pull them close, inhaling the sweet scent of their shampoo. Sarah comes up behind them. Per usual, she’s dressed like a model for a Suburban Mom Starter Kit. Knit pullover? Check. Lululemon leggings? Check. Lifestyle sneakers that retail for more than my paycheck? You know it. The only thing she’s missing is a fanny pack and a Stanley tumbler.
“Hey, lady!” she says, before pulling me into a hug. As much as I adore my sister, the sight of her reminds me once again that our differences extend far beyond our personalities. Everything about Sarah is tidy, from her narrow, toned frame to her naturally pin-straight blond hair. I’m a head shorter, curvy with big boobs, and in possession of the type of dark, frizzy curls that are constantly serving the Ashkenazi special. Despite coming from the same gene pool, she looks like a shiksa goddess while I perpetually look like a buxom Mia Thermopolis ( before her makeover sequence).
I make my way into the kitchen, where the rest of my family is gathered. My mom, Barbara, stands behind the island, carefully arranging a platter of appetizers, while my dad, Howard, puts ice cubes into glasses. Bubbie, my maternal grandma, is perched on a barstool, doing what she does best: supervising and giving unsolicited feedback. She’s dressed in one of her favorite velour tracksuits, her platinum blond hair teased and hairsprayed to within an inch of its life.
“ Bubbeleh! ” she calls when she sees me, her eyes lighting up behind her enormous glasses. The left lens is perpetually fogged over, and one of the great family mysteries is whether she can actually see out of it. She slides carefully off the stool and wraps me in an embrace. Then she licks her thumb and rubs it against my cheek.
“Hang on, honey, I schmeared you,” she says, swiping at what is undoubtedly a raspberry-colored stain in the shape of her lips.
My mom circles the counter to hug me, and it’s like looking into a mirror thirty-five years in the future, only her own dark curls have been flat-ironed into submission and shaped into a shoulder-length cut.
“Hi baby. Glad you’re finally here,” she says, pulling me in for a hug.
“‘Finally’ seems a bit aggressive,” I counter. “I’m only five minutes late.”
She tilts her head to one side as she scans my empty hands. “Did you forget the wine?”
Shit.
She gives a tiny smile. “Don’t worry. I keep an extra bottle on hand just in case.” Just in case you forgot is what she really means, though she kindly omits that part. And true to form, I am living up to her expectations. Perfect.
I know my family loves me, but sometimes it feels like they’ll seize any opportunity to remind me that I’m the messy one, the flighty youngest child who can never truly be counted on. In their defense, I’ve never done much to negate it. There’s something strangely comforting about leaning into your preset family role. But I’m older now, back from the Big City, and about to embark on a new phase of my life. And I’m ready to change the way they see me.
I shrug it off as I grab an egg roll off a silver-trimmed platter, delighted that my mom’s gone with an Asian-themed menu this evening. My favorite. I dip the roll in the orange sauce in the coordinating dish and chew thoughtfully.
“Remind me to send you my recipe for spicy duck sauce,” I tell my mom. “The addition of chili flakes adds so much to the flavor profile.”
“Ooh, yes please,” she replies.
There are so many beautiful rituals tied to Shabbat, but our family has never been particularly religious. When it comes to our Friday night dinners, and every Jewish holiday for that matter, the Rubin family is all about The Food. It’s really no wonder that I’ve pursued careers in cooking and entertaining.
I grab a knife and cutting board before heading over to the fridge. I extract a handful of green onions, giving them a quick mince before sprinkling them over the egg rolls. My mom smiles appreciatively. Food is one of our mutual passions. And when it comes to presentation, it’s all in the details.
A few minutes later, my mom shoos everyone into the dining room, and I take my usual seat at the table between Olive and Emme. Jackson trails into the living room last, eyes glued to the phone he’s holding inches from his face. Sarah clears her throat. He smiles sheepishly before shoving the phone in his back pocket and taking a seat next to his mom.
“How’s it going on the apps?” I ask him. “Swipe right on any matches who’ve recently gotten their braces removed?”
He smirks. “Have you ?”
“Tragically, most of my matches have graduated to Invisalign.”
My sister presses her manicured fingertips into her forehead and groans.
“Anyway, I don’t need dating apps,” Jackson declares, with the unearned bravado of a thirteen-year-old whose voice shifted an octave over the summer. “I’ve got rizz on the Roblox chat.”
“I thought I told you to disable that,” Sarah whisper-hisses to her husband, Jordan. He freezes, water glass hovering halfway to his mouth. There is truly no one on earth more surprised than a man whose wife is saying something for the second time.
My mom is wide-eyed as she glances between us, clearly desperate to rein the conversation back in. With all the grace and subtlety of a linebacker on ice skates, she interrupts loudly, “Let’s do Roses, Buds, and Thorns!” effectively drowning out Jordan’s half-hearted attempt at an apology.
“Oooh, I’ll start.” Sarah takes the bait as she accepts the basket of challah my mom is passing around the table. “Let’s see. My rose is that I got two new clients this week and a brand sponsorship with an up-and-coming, nontoxic countertop cleaner. My thorn is… hmm.” She furrows her brow. “I actually don’t think anything bad happened this week.”
“Of course it didn’t,” I mumble. I tear a slice of challah in half, spraying crumbs across my dinner plate before shoving it into my mouth.
“And my bud is that tomorrow is exactly two months until Jackson’s Bar Mitzvah!” she finishes, turning to beam at her son.
The table cheers, and Jackson gives a little fist pump.
“Okay, my turn,” my mom says. “My rose is that I’m getting to celebrate Shabbat with my beautiful family.” She glances around the table at each of us, her cheeks pink with joy before her lips turn downward. “Sadly, my thorn is that Mr. Steinberg passed away this week.”
We all let out a murmur of sympathy. My mom is the assistant director of a nursing home. For her, death is an unfortunate daily reality, but some passings hit harder than others. Mr. Steinberg was one of her favorite residents, forever charming staff with photos of his grandchildren and repeated attempts to smuggle in his beloved cat, Knish.
“But my bud, ” she says, her voice taking on a hopeful tone as she winks at me from across the table, “is that Brad Hoffman stopped by the home for funeral preparations, and great news: he is still single!”
“Sorry, who is Brad Hoffman? And why does it matter that he’s single?” Jordan looks genuinely perplexed, and Sarah rolls her eyes in exasperation. Her husband grew up in a central Pennsylvania suburb with a much smaller Jewish community, and even though he’s been part of our family for years, he still hasn’t quite grasped how things work around here.
I grab another slice of challah from the breadbasket and shove it down my gullet before I can make a snarky comment. Luckily, Bubbie can always be counted upon to fill a silence.
“Because!” she crows. “The Hoffman family owns the largest funeral home in the area, and Brad is next in line to inherit it. Imagine marrying into that mishpacha ! Our little Ali would be set.” She puts extra emphasis on the Yiddish word for “family,” but it’s the last sentence that really stings. I know she means well, but it feels like she’s suggesting that I need to marry someone wealthy to be okay. That I can’t take care of myself.
“Sounds like a modern-day fairy tale. That is, if you don’t mind being married to a literal undertaker who looks like a platypus,” I retort.
“I think he’s cute,” my mom protests somewhat unconvincingly. “And he’s rich! Plus, his family has great shul tickets.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything.”
My mom sighs wearily. “I just think it would be nice for you to settle down and meet someone. You’ve been single for ages. You deserve a boyfriend.”
“I already have a boyfriend.” I tip my head toward Benny. He grins at me, the smile extending from his chubby baby cheeks all the way up to his big brown eyes. A dribble of snot escapes his nose, but before it can drip down his chin, his little pink tongue darts out and laps it up.
“His personal hygiene leaves something to be desired, but honestly, I’ve seen worse.”
Mercifully, the conversation moves on. The rest of the family attempts to take turns sharing the highlights of their week, but one person’s bud gets spoken over another’s, my family’s voices quickly devolving into a loud hum of indiscernible chatter, until finally, I’m the last one left.
“Okay, let’s wrap this up,” I say loudly. “My rose is that Mom made sweet-and-sour chicken tonight, which is my personal favorite. My thorn is that on Tuesday, I spilled iced coffee all over my favorite sweatshirt. You know the one with all of Shawn Mendes’s tattoos in their anatomically accurate locations? And my bud…”
I pause here for dramatic effect, making sure all eyes are on me. My new promotion is on the tip of my tongue. But suddenly, that’s not what flashes through my mind. It’s Graham’s face. The slight upturn of his mouth as he studied me from across the table. The sparkle in his eye when he spoke about his grandmother. The way my skin heated beneath his gaze.
My stomach flutters at the prospect of seeing him again tomorrow. More than the promotion, more than anything, this is the bud I’m truly hoping will blossom. And truthfully, the one my family would be most excited to hear about. But I want to keep Graham a secret a little bit longer, to savor this feeling of giddy anticipation. To keep it to myself, safe from my family’s input and speculation. Plus, if I tell them now, I’ll probably return from my date tomorrow to discover a wedding chuppah set up in the backyard. I shake my head to dispel the horrifying thought.
“… is that my boss just put me on a huge account,” I finish. “He says if I nail it, he’s going to make me a full-time planner!”
The table dissolves into murmured congratulations. Across the table, my mom beams at me, looking as proud as she did the day I first announced I’d been accepted into culinary school. Even Sarah looks impressed.
“Mazel tov,” Bubbie says, wrapping her long, hot pink fingernails around my wrist and squeezing it supportively.
“Which means,” I continue, “that I’ll finally be earning enough money to move out and buy a place of my own.”
At this, the table goes quiet. Bubbie loosens her grip on my wrist. Sarah can’t hide her grimace. Even Jordan looks down at his plate, sensing the mood shift. My mom turns pointedly to my dad, clearing her throat gently. He’s the first one to break the silence. Predictably.
“Well, maybe let’s just see how it goes first,” he says quietly. “No need to rush into anything.”
I cross my arms, already slipping into sulky defense. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The words are spoken purely out of frustration because I know exactly what he’s suggesting as well as what he’ll say next. And he doesn’t disappoint.
“It means that real estate is an investment. One that requires a lot of careful consideration, money, and planning.”
Somehow, I manage to suppress an eye roll. My dad is a CPA and when we were growing up, he never missed an opportunity to lecture us about financial security. The words “safe investments are happy investments” are going to be etched on the man’s tombstone.
“Yes, Dad, I know. That’s why I’m living at home. To save up so that I can afford to make a down payment. I listen when you talk.” Mostly.
“Sure. Until you decide that you’re over this job, and you move on to something else. Again. ”
My face turns hot. It was only a matter of time before I was called out for being a serial career changer. I had just hoped we’d make it to entrées first.
“I think what your father is trying to say,” my mom offers gently, “is that you tend to lose interest in things quickly. I mean, you only lasted a year as a second-grade teacher before deciding to go to culinary school, and then you only worked in that hotel kitchen for a little while before deciding you wanted to be a party planner.”
“People in their twenties change careers all the time,” I protest. “Sarah did, and I don’t see anyone giving her a hard time.”
“You know, I think I’ll start bringing out the soup,” Sarah offers, shooting me a sympathetic glance. Then she turns her attention to her husband. He’s refilling his wine glass and seems oblivious to the hole her eyes are burning into the side of his face until she gives him a hard nudge with her elbow.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll come help you,” he says, shoving back his chair a little too quickly.
“Ali,” my mom continues once the two of them have disappeared into the kitchen. “You have always been a free spirit, and we love that about you. It’s the Aries in you. You’re a true fire sign.”
I roll my eyes. My mom is, at her core, a hippie, and she has a penchant for attributing all human behavior to astrology.
Undeterred by my scowl, she continues. “You’re passionate and spontaneous, and we love the way you embrace all your different creative passions.”
My father grumbles something under his breath about how he’s the one funding these creative passions. Mom continues as if she hasn’t heard him. Not that she’s one to talk about pursuing creative passions. She studied to be a painter but never worked as an artist. Instead, she married my dad, popped out two kids, and got a nine-to-five job in the retirement home. After that, her painting career was relegated to a hobby.
“But you’re also spontaneous, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type of girl. A true bohemian who doesn’t like being tied down.” Her voice is as sweet and cautious as a kindergarten teacher’s—which is somehow worse than the sound of yelling would be. “Buying property is a commitment, and I’d hate to see you dig yourself into a financial hole, only to feel trapped when you’re ready to switch things up again in a few years. That’s the beauty of renting, right?”
I slump back into my chair. I know how my parents see me. How most people probably see me. I’m extroverted and loud and fun. I’m the friend you want at your birthday party, because I’ll be on the dance floor with you all evening and help you shut down the bar at the end of the night. But I’m not someone who’s taken seriously. Not the friend you ask to watch your cat, or the daughter you make executor of the will. Those are the sorts of things that are left to Sarah. Perfect, organized, reliable Sarah.
Honestly, I get it. From the outside, it seems like I’m jumping from career to career. But it’s not just restlessness. I’m looking for the profession best suited to my creativity, and each job has brought me closer. Teaching taught me about crowd control and juggling multiple demands at once. Restaurant work gave me grit and trained me to stay focused in the throes of chaos. I’ll always love cooking, but it was just one piece of the puzzle. This pivot into event planning isn’t starting over. It’s combining all the things I love doing. And sure, I could rent a place in Baltimore, make sure I’m really in it for the long haul, do the sensible thing. But I rented for years in New York. I’m sick of temporary. What I really want is something I can hold on to. Something that’s truly mine.
I sit in silence the rest of the meal, barely tasting the sweet-and-sour chicken. By the time Sarah and her family head home, I’ve excused myself, claiming to be tired. But I’ve also made a resolution. I’m going to nail this account, land this promotion, and prove to my family that I’m not a flake. But first, I’m going to meet up with Graham.