Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“A cascade of pink sugar roses to match your bouquet is a lovely idea,” Libby said sweetly into the phone, sketching a classic snoozer on her pad.
“I know you had your heart set on white on white piping, but this design would look stunning with shades of pink frosting in a subtle ombre effect, with the darkest color on the bottom tier and the lightest shade on the top.” She’d been dying to sell that design ever since she’d sketched it in Palm Beach.
The bride blasted in her ear.
“Never mind—white on white it is, got it.” Libby pumped cheer into her tone. “How do you feel about shimmer? Maybe some airbrushing?”
“Tacky.” The bride sniffed. “My cousin’s best friend’s cake looked like somebody puked glitter on it.”
Libby cut her off. “Flat-white it is. Your cake will look as elegant as the bare walls of an art gallery, waiting for its next exhibit.” The comparison popped out of her mouth before she registered she’d been thinking about Micah again. “The flowers will be the star of the show.”
“But I want the guests to ooh and aah. You’re the pastry chef. What do you think?”
I think you should have hired a different pastry chef.
“Your cake will be stunning,” she forced herself to say. “Have you thought about a cake topper?” Wire and flowers had been bending themselves in her brain for a week now. She couldn’t get Micah’s sketches out of her mind, and she was dying to try something new.
The bride burst out laughing. “That’s a joke, right? Are we in the nineteen-fifties?”
“Just making sure,” Libby murmured. “I think I’ve got enough information to bring your dream cake to life. Let’s talk about flavors now—”
By the time Libby ended the call, she was ready to jam a piping tip into her eyeball. She dropped her pencil and slumped over her stainless steel work table, glaring at the utterly uninspiring cake on her sketchpad.
Why had she come to work today? She always took the day off after the Matzo Baller.
Oh, right. Because every square inch of her apartment reminded her of Micah now. It was a small space, and they’d done it in every room, except the bedroom Nora had vacated last year, of course. Maybe she would sleep there tonight.
Her phone buzzed again, lighting up with another FaceTime call from Sylvie.
Libby stabbed “Decline.”
Again.
A text popped up immediately.
Sylvie
Answer your fucking phone. Do not make me get on a plane and hunt your ass down.
God, she missed her wingwoman, her ride or die, the friend of her heart. Would Sylvie actually come home if she didn’t answer? It was tempting to find out, but it wouldn’t be fair. Sylvie deserved all the time she needed to heal her heart.
Fine
When her phone rang again, she answered. “What?”
Sylvie filled the screen, flawless even in messy hair and an oversized hoodie. “Don’t ‘what’ me. You’ve been sending me one-word texts all day. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Libby’s eyes filled with tears and then overflowed, forcing her to grab a clean side towel and mop her face.
“Yep—that looks like nothing.”
“It’s…fine,” she croaked. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I didn’t believe you the first time, but you can keep trying if it makes you feel better. Or you can actually tell me what’s wrong.” Sylvie’s hand disappeared off-screen and then reappeared holding a glass with pineapple on the rim.
“Must be nice.”
Sylvie smirked. “Hawaii doesn’t suck at all.”
A deep voice sounded in the background. “Eli says hi. And goodbye.” She made a shooing motion. “He’s gone now. Spill it.”
So Libby did.
The whole humiliating, heart-splitting story poured out—starting with the Palm Beach safe call and ending with the fight this morning.
“I know I’m better off without him, but I can’t stop thinking about him.
And I’ll probably have to move because my apartment reminds me of—well, you know.
” She was also going to have to take cutout cookies off her menu.
The scent of cookie frosting made her boobs—and her heart—ache. “Anyway, onward and upward.”
“Sure.” Sylvie didn’t sound convinced.
Libby squinted at the screen, trying to read her expression. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Noooo,” Sylvie dragged the word out. “But I’m trying to think of how I can sound supportive while also gently pointing out that you told a man mid-crisis that you would only be there for him if he gave you a good reason.”
“Hey!” She flinched, stung. “Did you miss the part where he lied to me? And wimped out. And then left me?”
“No, but I’m curious. Did you actually hit him with the door? Or did you just slam it in his face?”
“I told you he shut the door. I didn’t touch it.”
“I’m talking about your metaphorical door. You’re so used to protecting your independence that the second anyone tries to lean in, you slam the door.”
“I don’t slam doors,” Libby said hotly. “I set boundaries.”
“Um—yes. But your boundaries are more like trip wires. Sounds like you blew him right out of your life.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sylvie was the last person she’d expected to call her out for protecting her peace—she’d left the damn country to guard hers.
“It means the minute someone gets too close to you, you make damn sure they know they’ll always come second—and I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.
Your career is important. Not every schmuck deserves your time.
But I’m just wondering if it’s your heart talking this time—or simply your habits?
Like, Micah isn’t a schmuck. He’s a brilliant artist you’ve been following for years.
He’s Jewish. He’s a rabbi, so I’m willing to bet he’s a pretty good guy under all those issues, but you didn’t exactly offer him any hope. ”
Libby sat stunned, staring at her best friend’s face, feeling more than a little betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”
“I’m always on your side,no matter what, but that means I’m not going to let you gaslight yourself into terrible decisions.”
“I’m not gaslighting myself! I’m making smart decisions about who I let into my life—”
“But are you? Really?” Sylvie cut her off.
“Because you clearly care about him, or you wouldn’t be this upset.
Seems like the smart decision would have been to say you’d stick by him—even if his parents disowned him, his temple fired him, and his online community made him a joke. So why didn’t you?”
Reasons piled up inside her heart and mind, but none of them made sense until she finally snapped, “Because I don’t do relationships! I’ve been down that road, and it always ends the same way.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Sylvie smirked, her hazel eyes dancing. Then a wide grin curved her lips. “Or I’d still be hooking up with Avi.”
Libby’s jaw dropped. What the actual fuck? An Avi joke after a year of avoidance? “Who are you? And what did you do with Sylvie Shapiro?”
“I’m still here,” she waved cheerfully. “But you need to get moving, or you’ll be late. Call me after the housewarming. I want to know if they liked my gift.”
Libby spluttered, “What gift?”
“You’ll see. And think about why you didn’t say yes.
Because if you care about him…if you see any kind of a future with him, then you might need to open up a little—and by a little, I mean a lot.
” She spread her arms wide. “I say that with love, as someone on the inside of your circle, who knows how lucky Micah would be to earn your trust. And I do mean earn. I’m not saying you shouldn’t make him work for it—just that maybe you should open your door. ” Sylvie blew her a kiss. “Love you.”
Libby returned the kiss, shaking her head. Sylvie-logic, as always, was beautiful and baffling. “Love you, too.”
She ended the call.
As she gathered her things to head for the train, she thought hard about Sylvie’s question—and she didn’t like the answer.
Micah stared at the painting in front of him.
He’d grabbed the first canvas in the box that had arrived from Palm Beach. It had been bare, black lines, a simple profile of Libby as she’d gazed at his beach series with wonder in her expression, but as he painted, it had turned into something else entirely.
Now she gazed at a menorah, one candle lit, the shamash still flaming in her hand.
She wore the rainbow-colored dress she’d worn when they met at Sol’s gallery.
Light shined from the flames, her eyes, and the golden highlights he’d painted in her hair.
It limned the edges of the canvas, where he’d painted an elaborate, interlocking border of flowers and Hebrew letters, the ones traditionally found on dreidels everywhere but in Israel, nun, gimmel, hay, and shin.
Flowers twined around her legs and climbed the laces of her gladiator sandals. They patterned the menorah, her earrings, and the simple bracelet on her wrist.
His heart pounded.
It was almost done. It just needed…
His name.
He added it with a flourish, the same stylized initials he’d used to sign all of his other paintings and the caricatures he’d done last night.
A giant yawn cracked his jaw. He blinked the moisture from his eyes. He wasn’t done yet. Almost but not quite.
He reached for his camera, taking a minute to adjust the light, and snapped a shot. It was good. Except for the subject matter, it looked a lot like every other photo he’d posted—but it didn’t reveal what he was trying to bring across.
He picked up the canvas, mindful of the wet paint, and carried it into his guest bathroom, where he usually painted. He set it up on the easel facing the big mirror over the sink. Then he stood behind it and took a mirror selfie.
Perfect.
Now the image told the whole story: artist and rabbi, revealed.
Now he just needed to find the right words.
His heart jackhammered in his chest as he opened his Instagram profile and hit edit. Typing slowly and deliberated, he changed his display name to Rabbi Micah Wasserman.
Then he saved it.
It felt good. Really good.
Blowing out a huge breath, he added the image and began typing.
My name is MICAH WASSERMAN. Some of you know me as Rabbi Wasserman.
Some of you know me as M. Waterman. Today, I am choosing to be both.
For years, I kept my art private. Out of fear.
Out of self-judgement. Out of the belief that I couldn’t be a spiritual leader and an artist who celebrates the human form.
Last night, that separation collapsed in a very public way. I didn’t choose the timing, but I am choosing what comes next.
Thank you to everyone who reached out with kindness. I’m grateful for your support as I step forward into my full self—rabbi, artist, and human.
To my community: thank you for your grace.
To my family: I love you.
To the woman who inspired this painting: I’m working on being the man you believed I could be.
More to come.
#MWaterman #teshuvah #artist #rabbi #hanukkahmiracles
It was a little long, but he meant every word.
He paused, his thumb over the post button, feeling the joy of clarity, of his teshuvah, his return to God, his true self, and his purpose.
And hopefully, soon, to Libby
He hit post, closed the app, and put his phone in his back pocket.
He’d missed sundown while he painted, but that was okay.
He returned to the living room and set his favorite menorah next to his easel, his next painting already taking shape in his mind.
I’m on fire now.
He lit the candles, said the prayers, and grabbed a paintbrush.