Match Me If You Can, page 21
He’s fastening his watch when he sees me. His lips curve up into the smallest hint of a smile and I blush at the realization that he caught me staring.
To be fair, it’s been over a week since I’ve seen him. He only came back from his trip to Washington this morning, and when I got here half an hour ago, Jack had let me in saying Caleb was in the shower. He definitely smells nice from where I’m standing. Although I also thought he smelled good when he was sweaty and had me in a headlock, so maybe I’m not the best judge.
Even though we haven’t seen each other, we’ve been texting here and there. Just little stupid things like funny memes and cat videos, and him holding me accountable to working out and eating better. I’ve always liked to dance, so I started including that in my daily routine, and if Bernice happens to be over, I make her join me. That woman can shake her tuchus like nobody’s business.
“Hey.”
“Hello you!” I grin a little too enthusiastically to disguise the fact that I feel intensely awkward. After all, the last time we’d been in the same room, we were sweaty and had our hands all over each other. And now we’re supposed to go back to not touching? Even though I know he gives the best hugs in the world? What kind of cruel and unusual punishment is that?
“I didn’t know you were here,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pant pockets.
“Jack let me in. You were in the shower.” Don’t you dare picture him in the shower! And stop blushing!!! Aaarrgghh.
“Ah.” He clears his throat.
“It’s a great shower,” I add because the silence is killing me. As is the fact that I’m still not touching him. “I gave myself a tour of it once.” Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“I . . .” He shakes his head and laughs. “I’m not surprised.”
“Yeah.” I swallow and grip the banister as a ridiculous thought crosses my mind. It’s the kind that should not be shared under any circumstances, not even under threat of death, because it is strange and bizarre and only the weirdest type of person would think it. So, I will keep it to myself and no one will be the wiser.
“What’s got you so quiet?” Caleb says, moving closer to the top of the stairs.
His close proximity makes me feel slightly off-balance, which given that we’re standing at the top of a long staircase, is not a good thing. And because I’ve never been great at multitasking, the thought slips out. “Do you think being un-shomer is like double jeopardy?”
His eyebrows lift in twin peaks of confusion. “What?”
I should’ve let myself fall and break my neck.
“I’m not following,” he adds, tilting his head at me.
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. If I act confident, everything will be okay. “Double jeopardy is when the constitution protects a citizen’s right from being tried for the same crime twice.”
“Right.” He looks at me strangely, so I don’t think he’s falling for the pseudo-confidence. “But what does that have to do with being un-shomer?”
Sissel appears in the hallway, causing my nervousness to ratch up a notch. This is just what I need. “E-excellent question,” I stammer.
“What are you guys talking about?” she says, sidling up to us.
“Nothing,” I reply at the exact same time that Caleb says, “The American judicial system.”
“But I heard the word shomer.” Sissel wiggles her eyebrows and gazes between us, and I close my eyes in despair.
“Who said what about being shomer?” Zevi jogs down the hall from the other direction.
“These two—” Sissel waves her hand between Caleb and me “—were whispering about it.”
OMFG. Shoot me now.
“We were not whispering,” I say quickly. How did this turn on me so fast?
Zevi’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You and Caleb were whispering about being shomer?”
Sissel nods. “Yes.”
“No!” I scowl at her.
Caleb darts me a look that says, Don’t worry, I’ll cover for you. Even though I have no idea what I’m covering for. “We were talking about double jeopardy.”
“Double Jeopardy?” Dr. Kahn peeks her head out of an open bedroom which I can only assume means that she heard our entire conversation and probably knows that I was imagining her son naked in the shower. So that’s great.
“That was an excellent movie. Did you see it?” She gazes at her son expectantly.
Caleb shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
Sissel scrunches her face. “But what does that have to do with being shomer?”
Everyone turns to me, and I sigh in defeat. Keeping my eyes on the huge chandelier that runs adjacent to the sweeping staircase, I say, “I was just wondering whether—in theory—if someone had already been un-shomer with someone, if touching the same person again would be considered another sin. Or would you get a pass?”
Sissel breaks the silence that follows with, “I’m going to need a lot more details before I can answer that.”
Zevi glances at me, displeased. “Is there something I should know?”
“No,” I laugh nervously, touching my throat. “It’s just a question I have. In case a client asks me.”
“There’s no concept of double jeopardy in the Torah,” Caleb says, his face giving nothing away. “So should a client ask, the answer would be that it’s still breaking Jewish law, whether or not it’s the same person.”
“Good. Wonderful.” I feel my face turn a bright tomato red. “Knowledge is power.”
“But,” Caleb continues thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip, “if it was me in that situation, and I really liked a woman—if say, I wanted to marry her . . .” He pauses and shrugs. “I’d probably follow her lead.”
There are somersaults in my stomach. I keep my eyes on the banister and say, “Even though it’s a sin?”
“That’s what Yom Kippur is for,” he replies, and everyone laughs. Personally, that’s my least favorite Jewish holiday, but I bet Caleb and the other health nuts love the idea of a twenty-five hour fast.
I glance up and see that Caleb is studying me. I swallow and turn away. My question was for non-sexual touching, like a platonic hug, but I guess I hadn’t made that clear.
Was that Caleb’s way of sending me a message? Or was he just answering my question without any underlying subtext? And is there a store that sells human muzzles?
“I think it’s time to light candles,” I announce, then hurry down the stairs. But as soon as I reach the bottom, I wish I hadn’t because I make eye contact with Caleb’s grandmother who’s perched on a bench in the front hall.
“Well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”
“Hello, Mrs. Kahn.” I paste on a bright smile. “It’s so nice to see you.” The ninety-three-year-old puts my nerves on edge like nothing else. She lives in an assisted living home on Ocean Parkway, but often stays at Caleb’s parents’ for Shabbos. “Happy Birthday! How are you doing?”
“A lot better than you. You look like a Prom Queen reject,” she says, pointing one long leopard-print painted nail at my pink dress. “I heard your business is in the toilet and your life is falling apart.”
“Bubby,” Caleb warns, coming down the stairs. My relief is instant.
“What?” she says, the picture of innocence. “It’s not like she doesn’t know.”
“It’s okay.” I smile and try to shrug it off. “Every business has its ups and downs.”
“Yeah, but what business turns their home into a brothel?”
I blink. “What?”
Mrs. Kahn nods. “I heard you expanded your business into prostitution, and that you give a Friday night discount as long as the customers pay ahead of time, so it’s not breaking Shabbos. And don’t say ‘what’,” she adds. “It makes you sound stupid. And trust me, child, you don’t need people referring to you as the dumb matchmaker and a whore.”
My jaw drops, and I find myself unable to form words. Caleb seems equally stunned.
#Schwartzstrikesagain. #Rightonschedule #Getthewomanarealjob
“Code Friday25,” she continues blithely. “Oh, my friend Eugene wants me to ask you if you give group discounts.”
Someone makes a strangling gasping sound and I realize that it’s me.
“You’re running a brothel?” Sissel says, gazing at me with what looks like a new level of respect. I glance up and see not only Sissel on the staircase, but also my brother and both of Caleb’s parents. “No wonder you were asking about being un-shomer.”
Perfect. Just . . . perfect.
“What—” Caleb shakes his head. “Go back to the beginning, Bubby. Who told you this?”
“You know my friend Marna—she’s the one with the gorgeous granddaughter who’s in medical school—remember? The one who said she was interested in meeting you, but you blew her off? That one?”
“Would that be the one that’s still in her twenties and an atheist?” he says in a pleasant voice. “Or did those things change since you last brought her up a month ago?”
“You’ll never get married if you keep this ridiculously high bar of yours—”
“I’m sorry,” I cut in, arranging my hands in a timeout signal. “Could we go back to the part where Marna told you I was running a brothel?”
“Can you believe this girl?” Mrs. Kahn says to Caleb. “She can’t handle not being the center of attention for two seconds.”
I hadn’t realized I was grinding my teeth until Caleb whispers in my ear to relax.
“Bubby,” he says sternly. “What did Marna say about Ashira?”
She sighs, clearly put out from having to stay on task. “Marna said that someone saw a man follow you into your house late one Friday night and that he was there for about half an hour, and then he left—”
“What?” I shake my head. “That is absolutely the biggest lie I’ve ever heard. Never in my life have I invited a man into my house late on a Friday night—”
“Or,” Caleb cuts in, giving me a pointed look, “did you once insist on a man coming into your house late at night so you could interrogate him on what he was looking for in a wife? Even though he was concerned that this situation might be misinterpreted if someone were to see it?”
“Oh.” Well, shit. My shoulders slump and I frown. “Yeah, that might’ve happened. But it was only once,” I add, steeling my voice. “And whoever saw us has—”
“Us?” Miri says. I whip around and see that Miri and Jack have joined us too. “Do you mean . . .” She trails off and waves her finger between Caleb and me.
I nod. “It was that night we ate at Leah’s house and Caleb stayed behind to walk me home.”
“Is that all he did?” Zevi says. He narrows his eyes at Caleb, as though he’s considering trying out some boxing moves on him.
“Zevi.” Caleb puts his hands on his hips. “Come on. You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I knew it,” his grandmother says. “I had a feeling this was going to happen. You’ve gone and gotten the wench pregnant, haven’t you?” she says to Caleb, gesturing at me.
Everyone’s eyes swivel to my stomach, including mine.
“Now I’m not saying that you need to get rid of it,” Mrs. Kahn continues with a sigh. “But I will say that I’m too old to help raise anybody’s child at this point in my life.” She turns to Caleb and adds, “Had you chosen the atheist doctor instead, well . . .” She lifts the palm that isn’t grasping her cane. “Who knows? But it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
“All right, Ma,” Caleb’s father says after his wife whispers something to him. He comes down the stairs and hooks his arm around his mother’s. “Time for a nap.”
“I don’t need a nap, I just woke up from one,” she grumbles. “Why is everybody always trying to get me to nap anyway?”
“I’ll bring you a nice hot cocoa—”
“That stuff always puts me to sleep!”
“A drop of Benadryl,” Caleb’s mother whispers to our questioning faces. “It’s harmless.”
“I was in the middle of an important conversation in case you hadn’t noticed,” Mrs. Kahn says to her son.
“How about I’ll bring you one of those romance books you love with the naked men on the cover,” Caleb’s father says.
A long pause follows. “Get me the one with the sexy pirate. He’s got an eye patch and an earring in his pupik.”
He winces. “Yes, Mother.”
“Ash,” Zevi says, after they left. His eyes peer into mine. “I’m going to ask you this once and I want the truth—did Caleb take advantage of you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I start to sweat. If my own brother doesn’t believe me, then who will? “I’m not even his type,” I add in exasperation.
“What are you talking about? You’re exactly his type.” Zevi waves his finger accusingly at Caleb. “Every girlfriend he’s ever had looks just like you.”
Caleb’s jaw drops, and he gazes at his friend in shock.
“No . . .” I shake my head. “That can’t be true. He told me he’s attracted to the opposite of—”
“Are we in counting time?” Caleb cuts in sharply. The eighteen-minute period before sunset is the most stressful of all because it’s your last chance to do any last-minute fixes, while also needing to keep an eye on the clock because if you go over time, then you’ve lost your chance to light candles.
Jack, the Catholic in the room, nods. “You have three minutes left.”
“Thanks for not telling us earlier,” Sissel exclaims, running past him.
“It’s not my job to babysit grown women,” Jack shouts back.
It doesn’t take long for Caleb to convince Zevi that the very idea of the two of us together is utterly ridiculous, and I feel slightly miffed that Zevi and the others agree so rapidly. It isn’t that preposterous! Especially if it’s true that Caleb’s girlfriends looked like me—but then why did he tell me that he’s attracted to the opposite? Did the brunettes reject him? I highly doubt that.
Meanwhile, everyone else mistakes my quiet for depression over the gossip about me being exchanged in the senior citizen cafeteria on Ocean Parkway. Which although is sad, doesn’t bother me as much as the fact that everyone thinks Caleb and I being a couple is absurd. Everybody except for Miri and Sissel perhaps, who exchange a few knowing glances.
The meal is lovely, full of delicious food, and lively conversation. Caleb’s mother told us how in the villages of Ethiopia, they knew Shabbat was starting when a man’s shadow measured twelve paces under the setting sun, and how their synagogue was a grass hut with a star of David on top. Instead of rabbis, they had priests called kessim. And when Jack asked her for more details about her childhood, she recounted how she’d walked hundreds of miles to Sudan at the age of twelve with her baby brother on her back to escape famine and persecution from the government, and the shock she felt at seeing pale-skinned Jews after she arrived in Israel. She said it was also there that she first heard about the story of Chanukah since her tribe had been expelled before the destruction of the second Temple.
Even though Caleb and I are on opposite ends of the table, I feel his gaze on me often, and I give him a reassuring smile in response to let him know that I’m fine. At one point, merely to show how unaffected and overall cool I am, I even offer to check on his grandmother and see if she wants dessert, but so many people interject that I quickly sit back down.
After the meal, everyone gathers in the den to play cards or read, but I say goodnight and slip upstairs, claiming fatigue. There’s too much on my mind and I need to be alone to sort it out. Except it turns out that I can’t make sense of my feelings at all, and I end up tossing and turning for most of the night.
* * *
“Doing okay?” Jack asks me the following morning at breakfast.
“Yes.” I force myself to smile, determined to stay positive. “Obviously, it’s not ideal that I’m facing allegations of running a brothel, but things could be worse.” I nod. “At least I didn’t die in my sleep last night.”
“That’s some Jewish positivity right there,” Sissel remarks as she pours milk into a bowl of cereal.
“Oh, Ash.” Jack sighs.
“I’m doing great. Really,” I say, and gesture around the room. “I’m warm and fed, and my heart is in peak condition. And hey, if it does come down to me running a brothel one day, Mrs. Schwartz has already done the PR work for me.” I pour myself a cup of coffee. “It’s one way to make introductions, right?” I laugh, lifting my head to gaze at Jack and Sissel. “Better profit margins, too.”
“She’s so far gone, it’s like she doesn’t even know it,” Sissel remarks.
“Maybe you should see someone?” Jack says cautiously, eying me over the rim of his mug.
My eyebrows slant downwards as I take a seat. “What kind of someone?”
“A psychotherapist,” Sissel answers.
I bark in laughter, but then slump in my seat and sigh. “Yeah. I probably should.”
“If you haven’t had therapy, have you even lived?” Jack jokes, clearly trying to make me feel better.
“I’ve lived my entire life without needing therapy,” Sissel says, chewing with her mouth open. “And I’m doing great.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Jack murmurs under his breath.
Sissel points her spoon at him, dripping milk onto the table. “I heard that.”
“How’s it going with Caleb?” Jack says, turning to me. “You guys seem to be getting along a lot better these days.”
“Yes, we are.” Why does the very mention of his name make my pulse speed up?
Jack nods. “And he’s cooperating nicely about the blind dates?”
“Yes. Although I think I do need to coach him on talking to women. It’s a skill that he doesn’t have in his toolbox. Yet,” I add. “It’s something I plan to work on him with before I release him back into the wild.”
“Like the injured beast he is,” Sissel says.
“Er,” I scratch my head, “I guess.”
