Chapter 14
chapter
fourteen
“We work well together,” Eitan says, poking me in the ribs as he drives down Sheridan Road. The sound of the word ‘together’ coming out of his mouth in this confined space is too much.
“No, we don’t!” I say, like a madwoman.
“Sheesh, okay. We’re horrible together. That better?” He laughs. The sound fills up the car.
“Yes,” I mutter. I shift in my seat, leaning as far away from him as possible.
This part of Sheridan is quiet and verdant and positively steeped in privilege.
I want to take a bath in it. The rain is making it difficult to see more than ten feet ahead and we’re about to hit the part that winds through small bluffs, so Eitan slows to fifteen miles per hour.
This drive already feels ten hours long.
“So…” Eitan taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you going to ask out Andres?”
I flick an invisible speck of dust off my leg. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you clearly liked him.”
“I liked him…” The aftershocks of my daydream about Andres flash through me. Picturesque and idyllic and utterly preposterous. “From afar.”
“Only way to find out if you like him from close up is to ask him on a date.”
I can’t help the bark of laughter at the prospect of me, Ruby Hirsch, asking out someone like Andres. The only dates I’ve been on have been from the dating app Found, all squarely fueled by someone else making the first move.
I’ve asked out one person in my life—Grant—after three Long Island iced teas made me brave, and we all know how that turned out.
“Why don’t you ask him out?” I deflect.
“He’s not my type,” Eitan says, calm as he navigates streets half flooded with rain.
“What is your type?” I ask, trying to sound dry and sardonic. It comes out more desperately curious.
His attention flits for a second from the road to me. “I like…people who are nerdy.”
I hum, caught off guard by his use of the words ‘people’ and ‘nerdy.’ Do I qualify as nerdy? a shit-stirring voice inquires.
“But back to the subject at hand. It’s not that wild of an idea. Asking him out. I mean, you’ve been on dates.”
I nod non-committally.
“Ruby?”
“Hmm?”
“You have dated before. I know you and Grant were together for at least a year.”
I throw a sidelong glance at him. Has he been asking around about me? “How exactly would you know how long Grant and I were together?”
Eitan squints out the front windshield. “I had to do my research.” He puts a hand over his heart. “I take my role as your coach very seriously.”
That’s a yes. I hide my thrill behind my hand.
“You’re really milking this coach thing,” I tell him. “I used to date more. I just haven’t gotten back into the swing of it since…you know.”
“What’s stopping you?” he asks.
He glances at me, and I see in his eyes he’s completely serious. “Where do I begin?”
Eitan shrugs.
I sigh and throw my hands up. “I don’t have tits.”
“You do. I’m looking at them right now.” His glance only lasts a second, but the thought of Eitan staring at—admiring, perhaps?—my chest is blush-inducing.
I barrel on. “I have no estrogen in my body. I’m menopausal.”
“And the relevance is…?”
“My—” I huff. How do I explain vaginal elasticity to a normie? “Equipment is different.”
“Different how?” He tilts his head.
Well, he asked for it. “The tissue down there changes. Less blood flow. Less lubrication. Less…everything.”
“Isn’t there something called lube?”
I growl. How dare he take every issue I name and offer mitigation? “I’m—bald!”
“You literally have a full head of hair.”
I’m about to rip out said hair. “I’m just not ready!”
“That’s fair.” He nods. “I just don’t see how you’re going to become ready if you don’t try.”
I knead my temples. “I’ll be ready when my life sucks less.” The hangover of oversharing about my vaginal tissue’s blood flow is catching up to me.
“Your life doesn’t suck,” Eitan says calmly.
“My life does suck! The Universe is out to get me,” I insist, feeling and sounding like a teenager. I take a deep breath and re-center myself. “My life is not a tragedy, to be clear.”
Eitan holds up a placating hand. “Never said it was.”
“And why do you even care!” I mean this as a question but it comes out more like a scream.
“I’m supposed to help you get back into your groove. Dating feels like an important part of your groove.”
“If that’s the case, why are you still single, oh great and powerful maestro of dating?”
He clears his throat. “Maybe I just haven’t found the right person yet.”
“Hooking up in bathrooms doesn’t count as dating,” I mutter.
“What did you say?” he asks, laughing.
“I said sneaking into a bathroom to hook up does not a date make.”
“For a second, when I opened that door—” His eyes land on mine as we wait at a red light, something dangerous sparkling in them. “It seemed like you wouldn’t have minded being the person in that bathroom with me.”
Ruby, if I was flirting with you, you’d know, Eitan said at the engagement party. It’s hard to interpret this as anything other than flirting.
His words, and the door they crack open, charge the moment with electricity. My muscles are tense with the disconnect between who I wish I was—someone confident enough to flirt back—and who I am.
Maybe a couple years ago, we would have met in a bar. I’d have taken a couple shots, run my hands through his hair, and pulled his lips to mine beneath the club lights or on a moon-soaked street at two in the morning.
But that’s not who I am. I’ve been leveled, like an 8.
0 earthquake destroyed my very foundation.
I can’t even think about that two-years-past version of myself without entering a guilt spiral.
I am who I am now, and I should just be happy to be alive.
To be cancer free. Pining for someone who no longer exists is a waste of my time.
“That was before I knew what kind of guy you are.” I smooth down the pieces of hair around my face that refuse to behave. “Don’t worry, I’m completely over it.”
“Right,” Eitan says, jaw tight, playfulness gone. A wall smashes down between us. It’s a wall of my own making, but still, disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. “You know, for someone who’s gone through what you’ve gone through, you’re pretty judgmental.”
Again, we’re stuck at a red light.
Again, Eitan’s eyes meet mine, though this time, they’re impenetrable.
There’s something mirrored between us. A deep ocean we’re both swimming in.
“Maybe you’re not the only person in the world who’s healing from something,” he finishes, the words quiet.
“I know,” I say, careful. “I don’t think that.
” I dig my knuckles into my temple and fold in half.
“I’m sorry. Everything in me is upside down,” I explain from between my knees.
“Like I’m twisted in a knot. I don’t know how to get back to the unknotted version of myself.
” These cryptic words are the only explanation I can conjure.
“I think we’re all knotted up, in our own way.” Eitan’s hand touches my shoulder, gentle but sturdy. “C’mon, it’s okay. I forgive you.”
Why am I always making a fool of myself in front of this man? It’s different from my social anxiety. It’s that Eitan makes it impossible to hide.
I sit up, embarrassed.
“Besides—” Eitan purses his lips. “It’s for the best.”
I freeze. It’s exactly what Grant said, when he heralded The End. The words clang through me like I’m hollow.
“Because we need to focus on the wedding,” Eitan explains. “I shouldn’t have—” His nostrils flare. “I don’t want to complicate things.”
“Right,” I say, throat tight. In his words, I hear, You are complicated. And, as we have established, Eitan doesn’t do complicated. Why would you plumb the depths of a damaged psyche like mine when you can skim the surface—keep it easy, breezy, and casual—with anyone else?
I shake my head. It is for the best. This entire arrangement is a straightforward transaction: one perfect wedding in exchange for jumper cables zapping my writing career back to life. Expecting anything more out of it is a dangerous game that only ends in heartbreak.
Eitan’s swift de-escalation in the car is a reminder of what I should be focusing on: breaking the news to Penelope.
I suck on a piece of frozen mango in my kitchen, playing through every possible scenario of telling Penelope exactly what Louise told me.
It’s either the chuppah, or the ceiling.
The worst my mind can calculate is Pen firing me from her wedding, and retracting her offer to share my query with Alice.
Which, I’ll admit, is something I’m not willing to risk.
I compose a carefully worded message. Louise is still unsure about the chuppah and the dance-floor ceiling, so we are still deliberating.
She will give in eventually, Pen writes back immediately. But you can make it up to me in the meantime by covering for me for the next few weeks. Book tour is starting early! We added Boston at the beginning so I’m taking the train directly there next week.
I comb through my message, looking for anything I said that would require needing to ‘make it up’ to Penelope. Before I finish, Pen has sent a picture of a handwritten to-do list, filled with things like Make escort cards (I want calligraphy) and Final tasting and Curate wedding music.
Thanks again, Rubes! Pen says.
I don’t reply.