Chapter 4
Iread an article today,” my mom says the next night, addressing Sarah and Nina even though we’re all bustling around the kitchen. “And it says you should find one friend or family member to call every day and tell them you’re thankful for them.”
“If you called me out of the blue to say you were thankful for me, I’d assume you were being murdered,” I mumble as I flip over sizzling latkes (after my mom not-so-subtly shoved the ingredients my way again).
But of course, no one hears me. My mom and sisters chatter on about the aforementioned article, debating and dissecting, never looking my way.
It bothers me less with Cal here because he’s looking my way.
Already tonight he’s helped me peel the potatoes.
He checked in on me even as Ethan dragged him to the other side of the room to show him a new book.
He snuck me an encouraging smile as he set the table with my dad.
He popped a slice of cheese in my mouth when my hands were too covered in potato starch from the latkes.
I’m sad Hanukkah is over tonight and that this ephemeral routine I’ve gotten used to is going to disappear.
I know it’s not the end of my time with Cal—we have Christmas Eve and Day.
But I get the sense that my family brings out the open and loose version of Cal that I’ve become so enamored with.
From what little I’ve gathered about his family, he boards himself back up around them.
I’m more than ready to step up for Cal after everything he’s done for me this week.
But the thought of seeing him reserved and unsure breaks my heart a little, even if I am incredibly curious about what they could possibly be like to make him that way.
My daydream is interrupted, though, by Cara zooming her way haphazardly through the kitchen and knocking me sideways in the process.
“Oh . . . shit!” I say as my index finger hits the hot oil of the latke frying pan, searing pain shooting up at the contact.
“Language, Miriam!” my sister Sarah shouts at me without even looking, typically unaware.
But I can’t focus on anything except the pain.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, shaking my hand as though I can flick off the burn as easily as it started.
I tumble to the sink, turning on the cold water and whimpering as I stick my finger under it.
Time has slowed as my mind fuzzes with the acutely sharp sting.
But before I can even process that, Cal has barreled up next to me, eyes wide, my teenage nieces Libby and Lyla toppled over in his wake.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and I wince as he lifts up my hand, careful not to touch my finger, which is already welting.
“A little bit,” I admit.
“I saw on TikTok that saliva and a compress helps,” Libby interjects. I look over at her incredulously, and am about to explain that TikTok medical advice is usually not sound, but I’m distracted by Cal lifting my hand and putting my finger in his mouth.
I don’t believe Libby and her bullshit about saliva and compresses, but I’m so distracted that for a moment it does help.
Everything else fades away, and all I can feel is my heartbeat pulsing in my finger and the warmth of Cal’s mouth on me and the concern in his expression that makes me want to melt.
That determination, focused on me, is like the most delicious painkiller, making my burn obsolete.
“Uh, that’s not going to fix this,” my sister-in-law Jenny pipes up from across the room.
Everyone turns to look at her. To be fair, I might be the most ignored member of the family, but I guess we also all forget sometimes that Jenny’s a doctor.
“The ‘saliva on burns’ thing is sort of a misconception, because epidermal growth factor isn’t as relevant as the potential for bacteria, and it’s not as effective as just regular over-the-counter things.
So I’d get some ibuprofen and a cold bowl of water. ”
I shouldn’t be so devastated when Cal releases my finger and instead apologizes as he moves my hand back under the cold running water. But he doesn’t let go.
“This is why social media’s going to rot your brain,” Sarah lobs at Libby.
“Just because something’s unproven—”
“I heard butter helps,” Lyla pipes up unhelpfully.
“Your aunt actually knows what she’s doing,” Sarah points out.
“I didn’t say she didn’t.”
“Well, Cal certainly didn’t hesitate,” my dad chuckles.
“Maybe he saw the TikTok!”
“You don’t just suck on a burn because you saw it on TikTok. It’s like the ‘peeing on jellyfish stings’ thing all over again,” Jenny retorts.
My mom gasps. “That’s not real?!”
“Can’t blame him,” Jeremy adds. “If my wife died in an accident, I’d probably be quick to jump to my new girlfriend’s rescue in whatever way I could too.”
The squawking of the room silences, and everyone turns to look at Jeremy.
The pounding of my heartbeat that’s been in my finger has gone straight to my head.
I try to steel my expression, because as shocked as I am, I still know that whatever Jeremy’s saying is something I would know if I was actually Cal’s girlfriend. But oh my god.
“Jeremy!?” Sarah says, smacking her husband.
“Sorry!” he yelps, rubbing his forearm like she actually might’ve gotten him pretty hard. “I mean, it’s not a secret. It was like, a major news story.”
“I know, but . . . read the room.”
“I think it’s sweet!”
“Talking about someone’s deceased wife is not sweet,” my mom dryly notes.
“No, I meant, how he wanted to help,” Jeremy clarifies.
“Your wife died?” Ethan asks Cal quietly.
“It was a long time ago,” Jeremy says to his son, as though that’ll solve it.
“I, um . . .” For the first time, I look over at Cal, who’s completely unreadable.
I’m frozen with indecision over what to do.
All my id wants to do is scream at everyone, pull Cal out of the room, and hug him until he smiles again.
But the rational side of me knows that I have to let Cal decide for himself how to answer—besides, he’s apparently dealt with this for however long Jeremy’s definition of “a long time” is.
But instead of saying anything to any of the adults in the room, Cal kneels down to Ethan’s height, just as he did yesterday at the festival. “She did,” he says softly. “Four years ago. She had a skiing accident.”
“And it was a news story because you play football?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s not like if you married Miriam she could die too?”
He chuckles, finally figuring out where the questions are coming from. He puts a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “No, nothing’s going to happen to Miriam, I promise.”
Ethan nods with all the confidence of a child getting a promise they can’t possibly know is bullshit on so many levels.
Cal stands up, his gaze now back on me, intent. “How’s your finger?”
“I think it, um . . .” I pause. I know my entire family is watching me—something I would’ve begged for at any other time—but now all I want is to get Cal a moment away to himself. “I think it needs some air.” I raise my eyebrows.
“Great, let’s take a walk,” he replies immediately, grabbing my uninjured hand and leading me outside.