Match Me If You Can, page 15
“A salad?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Bread?”
“Please leave.”
He sighs the sigh of someone used to dealing with difficult customers, nods once, and leaves. Finally.
But it’s too late, I missed the story, and now they’re in the process of ordering the most expensive items on the menu. A steak for Caleb and lamb chops for Netanya. They’re also getting a bottle of wine to share.
“And you own a security company?” Netanya says, after the waiter leaves.
“Yes.”
“What’s that like?”
“It’s fine,” he replies, sort of brusquely. I take a sip of my soup and cough from the unexpected spiciness. Water glugs down my throat as I desperately try to put out the fire.
“That’s nice,” she says, after a pause. When he doesn’t add to that, she clears her throat and says, “So . . . what do you do when you’re not working, like for fun. Do you have any hobbies?”
He nods. “I have movie nights with my mother.”
What? No, he doesn’t. Dr. Kahn might watch a documentary here and there, but she forces Caleb’s dad to watch them with her, not Caleb.
Netanya laughs, then abruptly stops. “Oh—you’re serious. Oh.”
“Not all the time, of course,” he says, and I can hear her audible breath of relief. “Just three to four times a week.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. That’s . . . nice.”
I close my eyes and force myself not to leap over the table and throttle him. Is he trying to test her? Because so far, I’m the only one rising to the bait.
“I like reality dating shows, even though I know they’re not that real,” she says with a small laugh. “What kinds of movies do you like to watch?”
“Holocaust ones,” he says, and I facepalm. Who does that? Who even says the word Holocaust on a first date?
“So . . .” Netanya is clearly struggling with her next words, “you watch Holocaust movies with your mother three to four times a week?”
“Yes.”
OMFG. I lift my hand and drop it. If that doesn’t make a woman want to go home with you, nothing will.
“Wow. I had no idea there were that many of them,” she responds, sounding bleak.
“We rewatch our favorites, of course,” he says, in case Netanya held any lingering doubts that he was normal. So, that’s great.
“Of course,” she says, after a beat.
“It’s important to make time for your mother as an adult.”
“Right.” A long moment passes. “I talk to my mom once a week.”
“That’s it? I FaceTime mine every morning,” Caleb remarks. “She helps me pick out my outfits.”
Right, that’s it. The only way this man will ever get married is if he meets his bride for the first time under the wedding canopy. Clearly, there are a lot more issues here than simply learning how to take turns talking.
Unless he’s intentionally sabotaging this date. But why would he? I drum my fingers on the table and bite my lip. Could it be because of me? Because of that time we almost, maybe, might have kissed? He was very specific that he wanted someone who was the opposite of me physically.
It’s all so confusing.
“Oh, thank G-d, the wine is here.”
Good luck with that, sister. I doubt there’s enough wine in the world to improve this date.
Wait— I tilt my head. What was that about reptiles? I wish I was sitting in the other chair so I could at least see Caleb’s face. Maybe he thinks he’s being funny?
The waiter approaches with their food and I use the distraction to switch seats. This is much better. Now I can see their profiles at least.
“You want to know how I am with reptiles?” she says, then gulps down her wine.
“Specifically, snakes,” he says, and I cough as my water goes down the wrong way. Caleb glances at me for a moment, and then turns back and glances again. I pretend there’s something on the floor that I need, and duck my head under the table while simultaneously trying to stop coughing.
“What an interesting question,” Netanya says, refilling her wine glass. “I’m not much a fan. Why do you ask?”
“I’m thinking of getting a cobra. And naming it Bubbles.”
My head hits the side of the table as I resurface and I moan in pain. Caleb lifts an eyebrow at me and I frown in return. Does he— does he know it’s me? How could he possibly have recognized me in this genius disguise?
“As in . . . a real one?”
Caleb nods. “King cobra are eighteen feet. Can you imagine?”
“No,” she says, pouring herself a third glass. “I really can’t.”
“I found a company in Florida who will bring him straight to my door.”
This isn’t true, it can’t be. Caleb likes animals, but an eighteen-foot cobra isn’t a real animal. If it doesn’t have fur, then it should be in its own category of species called scary as hell.
“What do you think of our matchmaker?” Caleb says suddenly, swirling his wine glass.
Yup, he knows it’s me. Not only does he know it’s me, but he’s going to show me that he knows it’s me. I lean back and cross my arms. This should be fun.
“Ashira?” she repeats, slightly surprised. “Oh, I love her. Why?” she asks when he doesn’t respond. “Don’t you?”
“She’s okay,” he says after a pause. A very lengthy pause. “But do you ever wonder if she has control issues?”
I give a mental shrug. That’s fine. He can have his fun. I’ll wait it out until he gets tired of playing.
“Control issues?” Netanya purses her rosy lips. “I don’t know about that.”
“I bet she wishes she could be on our date right now, for example,” Caleb says, “and feeding us lines.”
It’d be going a lot better if I did. That much is for sure.
Netanya shakes her head and laughs. “She’s only ever been great with me.”
I smile. Hah! Thank you, Netanya.
“But I guess she can be a bit pushy,” she adds. My mouth drops open. What is she talking about? I’m not pushy!
Caleb nods. “It’s impossible to say no to her.”
Is it my fault that I happen to know better than everyone else? And plenty of people say no to me all the time! Most of the time, in fact. That’s how I ended up in this position in the first place.
“But she means well,” Netanya says, taking a bite of food.
Gee, thanks.
“It’s kind of you to give her the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “I’m not sure I would.”
Okay, that’s it. I take out my phone and start to type him a text.
I AM NOT CONTROLLING!!!! OR PUSHY!!! And what were you thinking, talking about Holocaust movies with your mom and 18 ft pet cobras??!!! Are you INSANE?
“Sorry,” he says to Netanya, pulling his phone out from his pocket. “I have to make sure this isn’t a work emergency.”
I watch the corners of his lips twitch as he reads my message.
“Everything okay?” Netanya asks.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, glancing up at her. “It’s just a text from the crazy lady who sometimes stalks me.”
I hang my head. Great, Caleb. Just . . . great.
“You have a stalker?”
He finishes swallowing before replying, “Yes, but she’s mostly harmless. I’d block her number, but I don’t want her to lash out.”
“What does the ‘mostly’ part mean?”
“I found her in my bedroom a few weeks ago.”
It was his office, I nearly shout.
Netanya gasps, and I’ve decided I’ve had enough. I throw my napkin on the table and stand up, then jerk my head to signal for him to follow me.
It’s time for this “controlling” matchmaker to inform the hottest bachelor of Brooklyn that he is a complete and utter dating disaster.
Chapter Eighteen
Caleb saunters into the darkened hallway a minute later. I open the restroom door and gesture for him to go inside. “Want to tell me why you’re spying on my date?” he says, all casual innocence as he leans his back against the wall.
“Isn’t it obvious? Look at you,” I say, spreading my arms, only to knock my hand against the hand dryer. I wince and tuck it under my armpit. “You’re the hottest of hot messes.”
He props the back of his shoe against the wall and tilts his head. “This coming from the woman with red lipstick and facial hair.”
I put my hands on my hips to restrain myself from strangling him. “Tell me the truth—are you intentionally sabotaging these dates?”
“No,” he says, but I remain unconvinced.
“No? So you’re saying that you actually have Holocaust Mommy-and-Me playdates and have plans to get an eighteen-foot cobra?”
He crosses his arms. “Do you cross-examine all of your clients?”
“Just the most difficult ones.”
He shakes his head wordlessly.
My mind flashes back to the night of the Chanukah party when we almost kissed, the printout of our conversation, and the way he looked at me the other week when he said I’d never been alone. The password to his phone coinciding with my birthday. And then I understand all too easily why.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m overthinking everything. It is something of a talent of mine. And sure, Caleb is kind and supportive, but that’s what friends do. In fact, he’s gone above and beyond what many friends do. He shows up at my house most mornings and runs with me in cold, bitter weather. He delivers groceries so I no longer have to shop for food. He even noticed my tennis shoes were starting to get worn, and the very next day he casually handed me a pair of top-of-the-line sneakers. Statistically speaking, there are probably tons of platonic friends who made out, or at least wanted to at some point in their friendship. Call it science, call it curiosity, I don’t know. Maybe people get bored and figure it’s a good way to kill time.
Ever since the anniversary dinner five years earlier, when that spark between us first ignited, there’s been a pull lingering behind our interactions. A very small, very tiny pull. So miniscule that it’s not even worth thinking about.
Then again, maybe I’m the only one who had an itch.
“Because you’ve said you want to get married and have a family,” I continue, then clear my throat. He nods. “Unlike me,” I add, glancing away. “I’m never going to marry anyone.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You think that now, but maybe one day—”
“Noooo.” My blood turns to ice knowing the direction of his thoughts. That I might have a change of heart one day and make a different choice. That life without marriage and children might be too lonely to bear. That maybe I’d overcome my fears of abandonment and determine that love is worth the risk in the end. That love is always the answer.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says, taking a step closer.
My heart starts to pound. All I can think is, I’m not ready for this because once he puts it out there, there’s no going back.
The worst part is, I’m not sure that I’d want it to.
“Why are your eyes brown?”
“Huh?” I blink.
“Your eyes. I know I’ve been out of town for the last two weeks, but I’m pretty sure they were blue when I left,” he says, since I must appear confused. Which I am. How did we go from discussing love and marriage to my eye color?
“I—” I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. My heart slowly returns to its normal pace. “These are contacts.” His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “Yeah, I know,” I say, feeling smug. “I am that good.”
He tries to frown, but it comes out as a twitchy smile. “You’re definitely something.”
I feel a thousand times lighter now that the danger has passed. “You probably want to hire me now to work for you as a super spy or something,” I tease.
“If only that was an actual job title.”
“I’d make a great spy. Admit it.”
“The thing about spies, especially ‘super spies’,” he says, making quotation marks with his fingers, “is that they have to be able to blend into a crowd. They have to be forgettable.”
“Easy.” I nod. “I can totally do that.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing about you is forgettable, Tinsel.”
I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy.
“Also,” he adds, stepping back to open the bathroom door, “red lipstick and facial hair are a conspicuous combination.”
And then he’s gone. I’m left all weak-kneed and shaky, and he’s completely unaffected. What if I had thrown myself at him and he had to pry me off, like that woman at the Chanukah party he told me about?
I splash some cold water on my face, remove the contacts, and wipe off my mustache and lipstick. There’s no point in going back to the table, so I decide to flag down the first waiter I see to pay for my meal and leave, but as I open the bathroom door, I see Caleb walking toward me.
“She left,” he says, looking bewildered.
My mouth opens in surprise. “Netanya?”
He nods, and hands me a napkin with scribbled writing:
Sorry, I don’t think we’re a match. Best of luck!
I lean against the wall and groan. There goes another one. Although this time, I have to accept some of the blame. If Caleb hadn’t been gone from the table for so long, she might not have left. Who am I kidding? Even if she had stayed the whole time, it’s not like she was going to want a second date.
I glance at Caleb to see how he’s handling the news. He looks lost in thought. Could he be having a change of heart now that he was stood up? Is he one of those men who loves a good chase? I wish I could crawl inside his brain.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head and sighs. “I hate eating alone in public spaces.”
I give him an odd look. What is he up to? “You could have them pack it up for you.”
“It’s a waste of plastic.”
“You could fix yourself dinner at home.”
“And waste a good rib-eye?” He tsks.
“Caleb,” I say, trying not to laugh, “would you like me to join you for dinner?”
He strokes his thumb against his bottom lip. “I suppose that could work.”
“The sacrifices I make for you,” I tease as we head back to his table.
“I’ll reward you with a rib-eye.”
“I don’t want a steak, I want a hot dog.”
“I doubt there’s a children’s menu.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs and when the waiter comes over, I order a chicken wellington with mushrooms. Halfway through the meal, it occurs to me that there’s a strong possibility that Caleb has dating anxiety or commitment issues because he’s back to being himself again. And when he’s himself, he’s completely delightful. A total catch.
At first glance, you’d never guess that someone like him could have dating anxiety, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. Why else would he still be single at thirty-three?
Something else falls into place, too. Hypothetically, if you wanted to get married and have a family, but had overwhelming dating anxiety, then it makes sense that you might convince yourself that you’re in love with the female friend that you’ve known forever who doesn’t want to get married. How much more convenient would that be than having to put yourself out there and make a fool of yourself?
And a fool, he did.
“Bubbles,” I scoff, shaking my head. “If someone gets a snake—which I’m against because they belong in the wild to slither happy and free—but if someone does, the very least they could do is give them a respectable name.”
He glances at me, amused. “Such as?”
“Danger. Killer.” I shrug, and add, “Fang.”
“What about Dolly?”
“No.”
“Princess?”
“So wrong.”
“Fluffy? Giggles?”
My mind drifts to thinking about wild animals and how sad it is when they’re kept in cages in a zoo or circus. They need to roam and kill each other, the way G-d intended. Anytime someone is made to be in an unnatural environment, including humans, they’re on edge—or worse, depressed. Many animals need to be in their natural habitats in order to thrive.
Humans are like animals in many ways. Some flourish around friends in busy places and some are happiest alone at home for long periods of time.
I study Caleb. Perhaps fancy restaurants aren’t his happy place. And how can he show off his best self when he isn’t comfortable to begin with?
My thoughts are interrupted when our waiter returns with our dessert—a red velvet mini cake for me, and a non-dairy lemon cheesecake mousse for him—and as I close my eyes and savor the heavenly flavors, an idea comes to me.
Chapter Nineteen
“Caleb,” I say, my eyes flying open. He glances away as if he’s embarrassed to be caught staring at me. “Where are you happiest?”
“In the boxing ring.”
I grimace. Maybe I didn’t phrase the question right. “Is there an activity that relaxes you?”
“My morning run. Lifting weights.” His lips wrap around the spoon and for some reason, I can’t look away.
“So, uh, physical things?”
“Mmm hmm.” His tongue licks at a corner of his mouth where a dab of mousse landed. “Want some?” he offers, holding his spoon out.
“I . . .” My cheeks heat up. Aaarrgghh—stop it with the blushing! It’s not like he offered to put the dessert on interesting parts of your body and then lick it off.
“Do you feel okay?” Caleb asks. “You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I say brusquely. I try to focus on what I’d been saying. “Is there anything besides punishing your body that brings you joy?”
“I can think of a few things,” he says in a husky voice, then swirls his tongue against the spoon. The things he’s doing to that spoon is obscene. Borderline illegal.
“Do you mind?” I say.
“What?”
“I’m trying to have a conversation, and meanwhile you’re . . .” I stop and make hand gestures at him.
