Chapter 21
21
The doorbell rings a little after 5 P.M. the following day. I can’t imagine it’s Graham already—dinner doesn’t start for another hour—but when I pull the door open, he’s standing there sheepishly, clutching a bottle of wine.
“Hey,” he says. “I know it’s terrible manners to show up early. But I went to buy kosher wine and then I was worried that if I went back downtown, I’d just have to turn back around as soon as I got there.”
“It’s fine,” I reassure him, taking the wine out of his hand to inspect it. “Wow, nicely done. I’m very impressed that you didn’t show up with a box of matzah or those watermelon jellies.”
“Matzah?” Graham looks perplexed. “Isn’t that for Passover?”
“Sure is. But it doesn’t stop grocery stores from trotting it out for every Jewish holiday. Anyway, come in.”
I take Graham’s coat (only sniffing it the slightest amount) and hang it in the hall closet before leading him into the kitchen.
“Wow, it smells amazing in here,” Graham says. My mom looks up from her own project, where she’s assembling marshmallows and Hershey kisses to look like dreidels, and grins.
“That would be Ali’s brisket,” she says with a grin. “You’re in for a treat.”
“Not only that,” I say, sweeping a hand across my various workspaces. “I’m rolling out a rainbow latke platter this year. I’ve got zucchini, beet, and carrot varieties, plus I’m debuting a sweet potato version with a maple syrup dipping sauce.” Graham’s eyes go wide as they sweep over my makeshift latke factory.
“Wow, these all look amazing.”
“Thank you. I do believe ‘looks amazing’ will be the key phrase here, since my family will exclusively eat the regular potato ones.”
“What can I say? Our family appreciates tradition,” my mom says.
Graham beams at me as she leans in to kiss him on the cheek. She inspects the bottle of wine he’s brought and nods approvingly.
“Excellent,” she says. “This kind doesn’t make Howard fart.”
Graham bites back a grin. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Here,” I say, extracting a maroon box from the freezer and handing it to him. “You can make these pizza bagels for Sarah’s kids. Despite those bento box lunches she’s so fond of posting on social media, they’re just as picky as every other kid I know.”
“Pizza bagels?” Graham asks, inspecting the package. “Are they like pizza rolls?”
“They’re a hundred times better than pizza rolls,” I say, setting them down on the cooktop. “Pizza rolls could never.”
“And what, pray tell, makes a pizza bagel superior to a pizza roll?” Graham asks.
“I’m so glad you asked,” I reply. “Allow me to enumerate the reasons.”
I hold up a finger. “First, they are open-faced, which means they don’t get too hot on the inside the way pizza rolls do. So, you get all the flavors without burning off your taste buds.”
Graham nods sagely. “That is the risk one runs with pizza rolls.”
I stick up a second finger. “Two, they are delicious at every temperature. Fresh out of the oven? Yum. Been sitting on the counter for a while? Even better. Straight from the fridge the next day? Put it in my mouth.”
Graham chuckles.
“Third,” I continue. “They are versatile depending upon your level of hunger. Pizza rolls are always a snack, but pizza bagels can be either a snack or a meal, depending on how many you make.”
Graham purses his lips. “You have convinced me. But I think I’ll need to taste test, just to be certain.”
By the time Bubbie, Sarah, Jordan, and their kids arrive forty-five minutes later, our feast is ready.
“Hanukkah sangria?” my mom asks, offering Sarah a glass of the Manischewitz-based punch that she makes every year.
Sarah wrinkles her nose. “No thank you,” she says. “I’m off sugar.”
“A perfect holiday for that,” I deadpan.
“I’ll have a glass,” Graham volunteers. My mom beams as she hands him the gold-trimmed plastic cup.
“I know what you’re thinking. How will you ever drink wine that isn’t seventy-five percent corn syrup again?” I whisper in his ear.
Graham snorts before taking a hearty sip. He winces before suddenly handing the cup back to me.
“Is it time to open presents yet?” Olive and Emme suddenly appear side by side, like Generation Alpha’s version of The Shining twins.
“First, dinner,” my mom says firmly. She glances around the room. “Is everyone ready?”
“Ugh, I’m stuffed,” Jordan laments, glancing around the table.
“For real. I can’t eat another bite,” I say. Bubbie belches loudly before stuffing another latke in her mouth.
My eyes trace over the remnants of our spread: brisket, sufganiyot, sweet noodle kugel, two varieties of homemade applesauce, and of course, the latke platter, which, predictably, is cleared only of the traditional potato ones. And of course, the true star of the show: the pizza bagels.
“Is it time for presents?” Olive asks. There’s a smudge of powdered sugar in the corner of her mouth.
“Yes,” Sarah tells them. “As soon as you help us clear the table. And no more gelt for either of you.”
“Speaking of which,” Graham says. “I know they aren’t made of chocolate, but I thought you might like to receive another type of currency.” Reaching into his pocket, he extracts a handful of coins, handing one each to Olive, Emme, and Jackson.
“Sick. Is this British money?” Jackson asks.
“Yup,” Graham says. “See how the Queen is on the front? Ten pence for each of you.”
“So cool,” Emme breathes. “Way better than anything the tooth fairy brings us.”
“If you ever go to England, you’ll be all set to buy something,” Graham says.
The kids are staring at him with equal parts awe and admiration, and I find myself sharing the sentiment. It’s the second time I’ve noticed how smoothly Graham fits into my family. And more so, how much I love the way he does.
But what surprises me most of all when I glance across the table is the soft way in which Sarah is staring at him. Her lips are pressed together as she studies him, in that way she does when she’s evaluating something. I usually see this face when she’s scrutinizing a potential online purchase on her laptop screen, not a human. But before I can thoroughly read her expression, she’s turned her attention to stacking empty plates and carrying them into the kitchen.
I’m not surprised when she approaches me half an hour later, while I’m washing dishes at the kitchen sink.
“So,” Sarah says under her breath, as she grabs a serving platter and douses it with dish soap. “Graham has been spending a lot of time with the family lately. Remind me how you met again? You said you were planning a wedding together?”
The sponge slips through my fingers. Shit. I recognize that tone. It’s the one she always uses when she’s realized I’ve done something wrong and no one else knows yet. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and try to keep my voice calm.
“Mm-hmm. Why do you ask?”
Sarah pointedly clears her throat. “I started following the Black-Eyed Susan on Instagram after the Bar Mitzvah. I’ve seen reels about how the owner’s grandson is getting married there. But there weren’t any pictures of this mysterious groom until yesterday, when he posted a photo of himself in the grand ballroom. And wouldn’t you know it? He looked a lot like that guy.”
We both turn to look at Graham, who’s just set the mostly empty platter of pizza bagels on the counter. He lifts his head to meet my gaze, a guilty smile spreading across his face as he furtively pops a piece of bagel into his mouth.
“You were right,” he says with a shrug. “They’re perfect at every temperature.”
He glances back and forth between the two of us. Then, seeming to sense he’s interrupted something, excuses himself to finish clearing the table.
“You didn’t know Graham was Mrs. Dyson’s grandson?” I whisper once he’s left the kitchen.
“I thought he was just the events manager,” she whispers back. “How was I supposed to know? They have different last names. And don’t change the subject. What the hell is going on?”
I clear my throat. “It’s kind of a funny story,” I say. “You’re going to laugh when I tell you.”
Despite the prickle of anxiety in my chest, there’s also an immediate sense of relief the moment the words leave my mouth. I’ve been keeping this secret for so long and the prospect of telling my big sister the truth feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
Sarah, on the other hand, seems less amused. “Tell me you’re joking, Ali. That you’re not having an affair with a man who’s engaged!”
“No! It’s not like that,” I say, attempting to recalibrate. The metaphorical weight drops again, crushing me beneath it like a Looney Tunes character.
“I mean, yes, he’s engaged to someone else, but they aren’t really together. She’s just a friend who needs a green card, which by the way you seriously can not repeat. He’s hoping the wedding will help generate buzz for the hotel, because it’s been struggling recently and needs a boost. And I haven’t even told you the wildest thing. We didn’t just meet. We actually—”
“Oh God, Ali,” Sarah says, cutting me off. “This is just like you.”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you always charge headfirst into a situation without pausing to consider consequences, or the wreckage you’re leaving behind. I mean, have you ever thought about how this will affect his fiancée? What if Jordan had done this to me?”
My face grows hot. “I told you, they aren’t really together,” I say tightly.
Sarah shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it right. This is her wedding you’re planning, and you’re fooling around behind her back. Imagine how humiliating this will be for her when she finds out.”
My stomach roils. I hadn’t really thought about how this would affect Claire. After all, it’s not like Graham is cheating on her. But Sarah is right; there’s more than one way to violate a person’s trust.
“I mean, how do you ever expect to settle down and get married if you keep chasing after unavailable men?” Sarah continues, interrupting my train of thought. “Don’t you want to be happy?”
I give her a pointed look. “You mean as happy as you are?”
She colors at this, but brushes off the comment, refusing to be redirected. “Tell me you haven’t slept with him.”
I cross my arms and smirk, answering the question for her. She shakes her head.
“Seriously, Ali,” she sighs, like this conversation has completely drained her. “When are you going to grow up? You’ve got to get it together.”
Anger starts building inside me. “Yeah, well, guess what? I’m never going to ‘get it together’ to your satisfaction. I’m never going to be able to live up to you, to be as perfect as you are.”
Two pops of color form on Sarah’s expertly contoured cheekbones. “I’m not… I never said I was perfect,” she sputters. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I am happy? Just because my happiness doesn’t look exactly like yours, that doesn’t mean it isn’t valid.”
“So, what? He’s going to call off his wedding and you’re going to ride off into the sunset together?”
“Of course not,” I retort. But suddenly, cold realization is starting to set in. What do I think is going to happen? Graham promised to tell Claire the truth, but they’re still intending to get married. Then what? Our current situation is temporary. And it’s about to come to an end.
“You don’t have to worry,” I mutter. “His wedding is in a few weeks and then he’ll be back in New York, and this whole thing will be over.” It’s not possible for Graham to stay in Baltimore, even if he wanted to. As he mentioned, one of the conditions of his green card marriage is a shared home address.
For the first time since this conversation started, the fight leaves Sarah’s shoulders. The disappointment melts from her face and is slowly replaced by a trace of sympathy. She rinses the platter under the faucet, then slides it in the dishwasher. “Look, you know I’m just trying to protect you.”
“You’re always trying to protect me.” The words come out in a low hiss, much harder than I intended them to. Sarah flinches and I feel a pang of remorse. I take a deep breath, recalibrating.
“Sarah, you’ve always been like a second mom to me. And I love you, but you’ve got to stop babying me. I’m not a little kid anymore. I need to live my own life, make my own mistakes.” The irony of my words is not lost on me, because Sarah doesn’t know how right she is. Graham might be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.
Sarah bites her bottom lip. “I know,” she says slowly. “I know I just said this, but I just want you to be happy.” She sighs. “And honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look as happy as you do with him.”
Her words roil in my stomach like acid. Deep down, I know she’s right. Graham does make me happy. As hard as I’ve tried to deny it, my feelings for the man are growing by the day.
I thought that I’d been in love with Dev. But the way I felt about him doesn’t begin to compare to the way I feel about Graham. If Dev was a candle in the darkness, Graham is the stadium lighting that brightens an entire arena. So isn’t it just my luck that when I’ve finally met someone who makes me feel illuminated, he’s not a man I’ll be able to keep.
After everything’s cleaned up, I take Graham upstairs, making sure to heed my mother’s instruction of keeping the door open a crack. Some things never change, no matter how old you are.
I follow Graham’s eyes as they take in every detail of my room: the turquoise walls covered in cutouts from Teen Vogue and a poster of a prepubescent Justin Bieber, with his swoopy hair and baby face. The faux-fur rug that I was obsessed with and is now stained with nail polish in one corner. The collection of chunky necklaces that I once considered the height of fashion.
His eyes settle on my unmade bed, the tie-dye comforter bunched in one corner of the mattress, before traveling to my face, the unspoken question evident in his expression.
“I’m not having sex with you in my childhood bedroom. Besides,” I say, looking pointedly at the cracked door. “No one ordered dinner and a show.”
Graham makes a faux-innocent look. “Who said anything about sex?”
I give him a playful shove and he topples onto the edge of the mattress before pushing back toward the headboard. I slide in beside him and we both lay back against the pillows. We roll onto our sides, facing each other. His fingers drift into my hair, his thumb stroking over the shell of my ear. But as I lean into his touch, it’s impossible to ignore the echo of Sarah’s words rolling around in the back of my head. There’s more than one way to violate a person’s trust.
“Everything okay with your sister?” he asks, as his hand moves down to my cheek. “It looked like you were having a pretty intense conversation in the kitchen.”
“She’s fine,” I say. “It’s just hard for her to sit down due to that giant stick up her ass.”
Graham breathes out a laugh. His hand slides down the back of my neck, pressing his fingertips into the small of my back. My eyes flutter closed as his lips brush against mine and I sigh contentedly into his mouth. I fist his shirt in my hands as I pull him closer, closer. His hardness presses between my legs and he makes a low noise in his throat when I use my other hand to palm him over the fabric of his pants. His growing excitement beneath my touch melts away my lingering hesitation. Maybe Graham and I don’t have a future together. But it doesn’t mean we can’t have fun right now.
Graham’s eyes darken.
“I thought you said no sex,” he rasps.
“I was referring to penetrative sex. Obviously.”
Then I unhook his belt and slide my hand inside his jeans. His kisses turn harder, sloppier, as I take him in my grip, sliding my palm over his length as my thumb grazes the tip of him. His hand skims down my collarbone and over my breast, pausing to shape it in his hand before moving down to the waistband of my pants. His fingers travel languidly inside my underwear, brushing lightly over my skin, and I clamp my hand down on his wrist, digging my nails into his skin. A smirk spreads across his mouth.
“Can I help you?” he whispers.
“I certainly hope so,” I whisper back, as I position his hand exactly where I want it. He cups me gently, his movements slow and teasing, until I let out a groan of frustration. Graham lets out a low breath of laughter as his finger slides into me.
Graham’s hips press into me, his tongue following the same beat as his fingers as they slide into me over and over. I move my own rhythm over his shaft, matching his pace as we start to move faster, our foreheads pressing together, until he lets out a strangled noise and pulls back.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I just… I want to concentrate on you first. I’m going fuzzy.”
His eyes are burning into mine, his blown-out pupils like two dark embers as he fixes me with his full concentration. The pressure in my center builds and I start to ride his hand, his thumb circling my clit as his rhythm quickens.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice low and breathy against my ear. “Come for me, Ali.”
His words push me over the edge of the cliff. I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my cry as my thighs tighten around him. He bites my bottom lip as he slowly extracts his fingers. When I lift my head, I see that he’s wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly. I cover his hand with mine, mimicking his rhythm before taking over completely.
Graham’s eyes flutter shut, his breath coming out in short, labored bursts and I find myself unable to look away. There’s something unbearably sexy about watching him come undone. Of witnessing this tightly wound man unravel at my touch.
I want to give him more, so I slide my lips around him. He lets out a half moan, half gasp of surprise before weaving his fingers through my hair, gripping it tightly as his body tightens and then releases with a soft expletive. His head drops back, and I lift my eyes to drink in the sight of him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then he dips his head forward, kissing me deeply, urgently, and I know now for sure that what I’m feeling for him at this moment extends beyond the physical, beyond lust. And I’m worried it’s too late to turn back now.
Graham rolls onto his side again to face me. His brows pinch as his eyes drift over my face.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
“I’m starting to feel guilty,” I admit. “You promise you’ll talk to Claire? When is she coming back?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I promise I’ll talk to her. We’ll figure this out, Ali. Together.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod. Graham leans forward, pressing his lips against my forehead. And I close my eyes, allowing myself to soak up the moment, not knowing how many more we will have.