“It’s actually a pretty wild shindig. They get a really decent crowd and things can get crazy. Cohen’s brother Enzo got caught last year with a hottie in one of the Hebrew school rooms. All she was wearing was her Shavuot wreath. Enzo had to do all the synagogues yard work for the rest of the summer, but he said it was worth every pulled weed and insecticide fume.”
He whips around the back of a large cream building and parks in a “synagogue members only” designated spot.
“Deo, the sign?” I point and he reaches behind the seat and grabs a case labeled “Yarden.”
“Turn that frown upside down, kid. No one’s gonna boot the guy who bartered a surfboard for a case of Israel’s finest Kosher wine.” He nudges the driver’s door open with his elbow and nods for me to follow him. “C’mon. You’ll never have to refill your own glass if Rabbi Haas knows you’re with me.”
“So you’re saying I’ll get the celebrity treatment if I’m with you?” I try to keep my voice slickly sarcastic, but I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out.
Deo hefts the case on his one shoulder and puts his free arm around mine. “Always. You will always get the celeb experience if you hang close to me. At any area synagogue, anyway.”
My eyes are mid-roll when an older man with a salt and pepper beard rushes out the back door. “Deo! Is that Yarden?”
“Rabbi, I’m not knocking the Manischewitz, but this place needed a little splash from the Holy Land today. Am I right?” He pulls his arm from my shoulders to shake hands with the rabbi, but the older man yanks him into a full-on hug, making me very worried about the fate of all that wine they’re mooning over.
“You’re a true mensch, Deo.” The rabbi smacks Deo on the shoulder and grins.
“Let’s get this inside so I can crack a bottle open and get you a glass. Quality control and all that. Chag Sameach!” Deo’s smile is like a lasso thrown down from the sun: warm and inescapable.
“Chag Sameach!” The rabbi suddenly seems to notice me. “Deo, is this your lovely sister? Dinah mentioned she might come by.”
I feel shy as I nod and smile, but I remember my east coast brass and stick my hand out for a shake. “I’m Hattie Beckett, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for inviting us to your place of worship.”
He turns my shake into a tight hug. Rabbi Haas smells like garlic and a slightly sweet aftershave, and it’s a strangely comforting combination. “Of course. In my synagogue, the Becketts are family.”
We walk into a kitchen area that’s offset from the synagogue itself, and it’s a crazy hive of activity. I’m immediately pulled over by Genevieve, who asks if I can help her with the siete cielos, which she tells me is a layer cake that’s name translates to ‘seven heavens.’
“But it’s going to be siete sheol in about two minutes,” she gripes as she points to what I guess is an old recipe scrawled on a brown-edged index card. “It probably doesn’t help that my Yiddish is worse than my Spanish. I suck.”
“You don’t suck. Isn’t sheol like hell?” I ask, and Genevieve’s lips quirk into a grin.
“Sorry Jewish pun. See, I knew I loved you. You even get my whiny ethnic jokes.”
I look at the honey and filo dough, the cloves and cinnamon, and it’s all totally exotic to me.
“I’m not really all that great in the kitchen,” I admit. “And my mom cooks Filipino almost exclusively, so I don’t have a good range.”
Genevieve presses both hands back in her shiny black hair. A gorgeous purple ring shines on her left ring-finger.
“I knew I was biting off more than I could chew. This is Adam’s mother’s great-grandmother’s recipe, and she was from Libya. So this isn’t something anyone I know has any idea how to make. And everyone is all excited for me to roll this out, Adam especially. I know, it’s so dumb, but I want this holiday to feel like home for him. You know?”
I don’t.
I can’t imagine making a holiday feel “like home” for anyone. For the briefest flash of a second, I wonder what Ryan’s holidays are like. But then I let that thought go. Holidays are for family or friends so close they might as well be. Or, of course, for outsiders you love so much, you make them family with vows.
Holidays and flings are oil and vinegar.
“Why don’t you read the card? I’ll do exactly what you read. That way you’re only concentrating on one thing at a time. I’d offer to read, but my Hebrew is worse than my Tagalog.”
Genevieve’s eyes soften and she clasps her hands together and repeats her thanks a dozen times as I wash my hands and roll up the sleeves of my cardigan.
Twenty minutes and one very full glass of sweet but delicious Yarden wine later, and Genevieve and I are putting the last drizzles of honey over the neatly sliced filo diamonds. I don’t know for sure how it will taste, but it looks amazing and it smells even better. I flip the oven door open and slide the dish in. When I stand up, Genevieve crushes me close with floury hands.
“Thank you. So much.” She pulls back and her gray eyes are glittery with tears. “I know we’re not, like, really related, but I just want you to know we’ve all loved Deo since he was a little kid, and it feels like you’re family now too. Is that cheesy? Ugh, blame this wine. I’m so sorry.”
It does feel cheesy, but I like it anyway.
“Thank you, Genevieve. That means a lot to me.
Genevieve hops up on the counter to take a mental break, and I answer Cece’s frantic call for costume aid. I’m helping pin her Ruth robe when Adam walks into the kitchen and takes a long, deep breath. Cece yelps when I poke her with a pin.
“So sorry,” I apologize.
“No worries.” She looks over her shoulder, following my gaze, and grins. “They’re so adorable, right? That’s what true love looks like right there. I love those two. They’re my reason for not giving up on love completely.”
I put a few more pins in my mouth and snap my eyes back to the hem in my hands, refusing to look at the way Adam’s eyes light up when he sees Genevieve. I felt like a voyeur watching them wrap their arms around each other, watching him nuzzle his nose in her hair.
If I was braver, I’d tell Genevieve that she could have served a lump of overcooked filo dough or a box of Dunkin Donuts, because that man does not associate ‘home’ with whatever’s baking in the oven.
I’ve never seen anyone look more at home than he does when he takes her in his arms.
It’s a beautiful sentiment, and I have no clue why it makes me feel itchy and stung. I drown the rest of my wine and don’t shake my head or pull my glass back when Mrs. Rodriguez waltzes by with glowing cheeks and pours me a refill.
I’m slightly off balance when I head up the stairs to the rec center attached to the synagogue where the festival is already in full swing. Little girls with flowers wreathed in their hair dart past me, a band heavy on the accordion is playing a song that’s getting a very frisky group of seniors on the floor to break out some shocking, hip-thrusting moves.
I don’t see Deo or Whit and Marigold, who were bringing several trays of blintzes that Whit cooked and dozens of floral wreaths that Marigold wove.
I fade into the back, sitting with my glass of wine, keeping an easy eye roving for my people, and enjoying all the cheerful, foreign-but-familiar elements of a big cultural gathering. When I turn and realize there’s someone standing just behind me, I jump slightly.
When I realize who it is, I feel way more flustered than surprised.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, sloshing a little wine out of my glass as I gesture with it.
“Uh, maybe you could keep it down with the swearing? We are in a synagogue.” Ryan’s eyes flash with annoyance, and I drop my gaze to the rim of my wineglass, feeling a strong blush heat my neck and cheeks.
“I--um, I’m sorry. You caught me off guard,” I argue lamely, double-checking to see if anyone who would be pissed to see us together is around. I think we’re hidden well enough in this corner that no one
will notice us. I’m desperate to flip the subject, but I’m afraid I’ll come off sounding like even more of an ass. “Are you even Jewish?”
Ryan crosses his arms, which bulges the scarred, tanned skin that looks so warm and soft over all those hard muscles. He raises his dark eyebrows at me.
“No, I’m not. You?”
“My family is strict Roman Catholic,” I admit, wondering what happens to my fully functioning brain when he’s around. My theory is that it melts and warps the second I see him, leaving me with nothing but a pile of goo to work with. Which, obviously, leaves me an incoherent half-wit. “One of my uncles who still lives in the Philippines does this whole real crucifixion thing ever year.”
If I could somehow disconnect my vocal chords when I was around him, I might be able to curb my silent pleas for giant holes to open under my feet and swallow me.
Ryan’s tight lips relax into a warm smile. “Crucifixion, huh? Your family doesn’t mess around. My uncle Billy and my uncle Tommy had a fist fight at the funeral mass for my uncle Patrick, but that was the extent of the violence.”
I pat the chair next to me. He’s been standing since my insanely rude greeting, and I decide I’ve reached my quotient for knee-jerk social faux pas today.
“It sounds like our uncles may be the root of all our family violence.” I sit up straighter in my chair when he settles next to me. I want to know why he’s here, and I wonder if it has anything to do with me.
Though that seems like a leap. And I’m not sure if I like the thought of it or not. But after barking at him the way I did, I can’t just ask anyway, so I put it out of my head.
“Uncles. Can’t take them anywhere. Unless you’re actively looking for bloodshed.” Ryan shifts forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees, and I can see the firm lines of his back through the light cotton of his white button-down. “Do you go to mass?”
Our conversations always end up like this: me revealing more than I truly feel comfortable exposing. It’s always basic, everyday stuff, but it feels so private. Maybe because I can’t remember anyone else asking me about anything I didn’t pointedly offer up. Even Mei, my best friend since middle school, has complete respect for my sometimes irrational need for privacy.
“As far as my mother knows, I’ve never missed a Sunday mass in my life.” I lift the wine glass to my mouth, even though my stomach feels a little acidic. Ryan’s body is so close to mine, his warmth is warding off the air-conditioned chill in the air. “When I’m away at college, I don’t go. I like going with my mother though. I love watching her practice, if that makes sense. She’s so into it, so devout. I sometimes wish I could be that way.”
I clamp my mouth shut. On my long list of things I don’t like talking about, my feelings about religion cut right to the top. But here I am, spilling my guts.
“I hear you.” Ryan’s voice is soft as he looks over the kids tumbling in a circle, squealing with laughter, and picking themselves back up off the linoleum. “I had a few pretty messed-up years. I can’t say I’m ashamed of them, because I honestly believe you go through what you go through for a reason. But I’m not proud. Not at all. So part of me feels like I have no business sitting in that pew, especially because I never even considered confession. There’s no chance I’m saying anything that might get back to my mother. Not a chance.”
I look at him and narrow my eyes.
“How bad are we talking about here? Because if you’re some kind of mass murderer or something, I have extensive training in martial arts. I used to spar with the uncle who crucifies himself, so I’m pretty badass.”
“Thanks for the fair warning.” His mouth is serious, but his eyes light up and seem to beckon me closer. “I’m talking more sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll debauchery. I’m a lover, not a fighter, definitely.”
“Oh.”
And I’m a virgin who’s never done a drug in her life and prefers classical music. If not for the fact that I could take most grown men down in hand-to-hand combat, I’d be a total goody-two shoes Asian girl cliché.
I clear my throat. “I know my church can be pretty big on judgment and guilt, but you have to keep in mind that at its core, it’s all about forgiveness. Or, you know, it’s supposed to be.”
He leans closer to me, and I catch the salty smell of his skin in my nostrils.
“That’s my problem: I don’t want forgiveness. What I did? A ton of it was stupid. But it moved me to right where I am today. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
My mouth goes so dry, my tongue feels wooden. He moves his knees in my direction, and the rough hair on his leg brushes against my smooth calf. That one movement feels so erotic, so like legs tangled on a bed under twisted sheets, that I gulp down the rest of my wine and draw my leg back.
“I think it’s a cop-out,” I hear myself say. I hear it, but I’m not sure why my voice is so loud in my own ears. “I think you should just make decisions. Real ones. Not do whatever you want, and, when whatever happens, happens, just throw your hands up and say, ‘I wouldn’t change it, because now I’m here.’”
I stand on wobbly legs and Ryan shadows my every move, his hand on my elbow.
“Whoa. I think you need something in your stomach to absorb that wine.”
He leads me to a table set up with so much food, I wouldn’t be surprised if the legs buckled. He picks up a plate, points at different dishes, and waits for me to nod or shake my head. I feel too buzzy to really know what I’m choosing.
He leads me back to our chairs, and all I can think as I trip over my heels is that I’m glad no one has noticed me talking to him yet, because I don’t want to stop.
He didn’t grab a fork. I hate eating without one, but I know I need sustenance, so I use my fingers to pick up bites of things that fill my mouth with sweet, cheesy, fluffy, crackling tastes, each somehow more amazing than the last.
“Better?” he asks, his eyes scanning me like he’s conducting some kind of exam.
My brain puts the pieces together too slowly, and I assume he’s asking about the little blintz I’m nibbling.
Before I can process, I hold it out to him and gush, “The best.”
We both look at my fingers, shiny with butter, covered with flecks of pastry, holding out this bite of perfection, and I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked. Ryan leans forward, locks eyes with me, opens his mouth, and slides it over my fingers.
His tongue is smooth and slow, licking the butter away like his one job on this earth is to suck my fingers clean. My heart jumps in time with the quick motions of his tongue, and he drags his mouth back slowly. I don’t breath until the second his mouth pulls back from my fingertips.
“Delicious,” he murmurs in a voice that’s more invitation than assessment. “The best.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I stutter, something cold and barbed bursting through this moment of hot and exquisite. “You’ve tasted so much.”
It’s a clumsy metaphor, and very uncalled for. He opened up to me about his apprehensions concerning judgment, and here I am with my scales and scowl.
“Experience isn’t a bad thing. Do you really think anyone can have a master plan without a substantial amount of real life experience?” he asks, and I stare at his mouth, flattened and serious. I want it pressing against my lips. Badly. “You think you can just draw up schematics for your life and follow them through without any hiccups?”
If his voice was an invitation before, he’s upped the ante.
Now it’s a bet.
A dare.
“I absolutely do. I’m not a moron, Ryan. I know no one can account for every variable, but do I believe you can have a vision, a solid set of goals, even for things you don’t have much experience with? Yes. Do I do that in my life? Yes. Has it worked for me? Yes.”
I lean forward without realizing it and almost tip the plate.
Ryan catches it and holds the warm, honeyed food between us like a tiny bridge while I try my hardest
to blow any connection between the two of us sky high.
“You’ve never been out on the ocean before, have you?” he asks, and I bristle.
“No. But the ocean isn’t life, Ryan,” I point out.
He jerks back like I pulled out a dagger and stabbed him with it.
“The ocean? Isn’t life?”
The words twist out of his mouth so slowly, I want to put my lips on his and draw them out faster.
Or maybe I just want to put my lips on his.
“Don’t get all Greenpeace, Gaia, hippie-crazy on me,” I threaten, pointing at him. “You can’t have sex, drugs, and rock n’roll on one hand and then flip to argue about the freaking unpredictable cosmic beauty of the ocean on the other.”
I’m breathing so hard, I can feel my chest rise and fall under the lace of my dress.
“That’s exactly what you can do.” He yanks the food from my hands and puts it aside, grabbing my fingers and knotting his through, like he’s trying to prove his point kinetically. “Sex? Drugs? Rock n’roll? They’re all primal. Urge based. Unpredictable, unfettered. It’s exactly the way you feel when you’re out there, in the middle of this huge, swelling, life-filled ocean that might let you float and dream for hours, but could just as easily whip up a storm and sink you without leaving a single trace.”
I tug my hands back, but, instead of freeing me from his embrace, it’s like I’ve tightened the knots our interlocked fingers make. “So the ocean can be unpredictable. Sure. But it’s also so completely rule-based. Tides come in and out in a way that can be measured and plotted. Storms muster and can be tracked. Life fluctuates according to rules. Just because you don’t know the rules or don’t pay attention doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“We can argue with words for hours, but you need to experience it. You need to feel it. I want to take you on my boat so badly,” Ryan says, his pupils liquid black.
“I don’t know if I like sailing,” I return.
“Do you like sex?” He must see the blood drain from my face, because he laughs. “I’m not asking you to have sex on my boat. Yet. I’m saying it’s like sex: wild, but rhythmic. Huge and gorgeous, but easy to get lost in.”
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