“You know, you think you’re funny, but calling us ‘germs’ might just be mean, actually,” my little niece Cara says.
“You’re a lady in this scenario,” my dad responds seriously.
“Us boys are the germs,” Cal whispers to Cara, and she giggles.
“Dinner is served,” my dad continues. “I made the brisket, so apologies on that front. But for the latkes, I bought them with my own hands, so they should be good.” He holds up the potato pancakes he’s been banned from making because he truly is an atrocious cook and sets them next to the dry-looking brisket. Everyone grabs plates and starts serving themselves. When I take a few latkes, my dad dollops applesauce and sour cream on top, as though I’m incapable of doing it for myself.
Cal and I sit down last, squished together, as everyone is when twelve people are crammed around a table made for ten. My leg is against his, warm and solid, and I feel my pulse speeding up again.
“So, Cal,” my dad says, turning to my fake boyfriend and putting him on the spot. “How much do you know about Hanukkah?”
“Oh.” I’m surprised how confident Cal looks. “It celebrates the victory of the Maccabees, a small group standing up to a large army that tried to outlaw Judaism. When they got their temple back, they only had enough oil for one night, but it burned for eight. That’s why there’s eight nights of Hanukkah.” His gaze flicks back to mine, eyebrow subtly raised, a small grin peeking out, a puppy wanting praise. I know I shouldn’t find it so hot that this guy who’s pretending to be my boyfriend spent five minutes on Google. But maybe it’s just howpleasedhe clearly is to be doing well at this for me. I give him a small thumbs-up under the table and try to not let my expression show.
“Spot on,” my dad says. “The main thing to know about pretty much any Jewish holiday is that our celebrations can be summed up by assuming someone tried to kill us, we inexplicably won, and now it’s time to eat.”
He claps his hands, as though we’ve all been waiting for him to give us permission, and not that we’ve all been thinking how best to avoid the food he made.
But the mayhem begins again, everyone talking over each other and gingerly eating around the brisket.
It’s weird watching your family interact, knowing it’s all being filtered for the first time through someone else’s gaze. There’s something sweet about watching Cal find my nieces and nephew as amusing as I do. It’s heartening to hear him laugh at all my dad’s dry jokes.
But it’s also incredible to watch my family’s dismissiveness through the lens of Cal’s expressive face. The first time my mom mentions my “little snacks,” Cal’s eyes go wide. When my mom asks where Cal’s parents live—apparently only a few blocks away—and she responds “How cute,” I see his nose wrinkle in confusion. But it’s particularly amazing watching his jaw set further and further in place every time someone interrupts me. I’m sousedto it. But after half an hour, I wonder if steam is going to start coming out of Cal’s ears.
“Want to get seconds with me?” Cal asks, standing up.
“Really?” I mutter, looking over at the demolished bowls of latkes and salad and the full plate of brisket. He grabs my arm and hauls me up with no effort.
“I didn’t really get what you meant before,” Cal whispers to me as he puts another hunk of brisket on his plate. I shake my head before he can put more on mine. “But yeah, your family thinks you’re twelve.”
I snort a laugh, trying not to be too loud, even though I shouldn’t worry, since no one is ever watching me.
“Do you want me to like ... I don’t know,say something? When they do it?”
My heart softens at his words. “Thank you,” I reply sincerely. “But no. This is enough.”
“I’m really not doing anything.” He sounds genuinely aggrieved on my behalf. I have to remind myself that this is nothing to do with me specifically—Cal is simply a guy who likes blocking for his teammate.
“Just having someone who sees it is pretty great,” I admit. He squeezes my shoulder in understanding, and we go to sit back down at the table.
The night carries on, and Cal wins everyone over with an ease I can’t imagine having. My dad says fifteen times how happy he is that Cal liked the brisket enough to have seconds. My nieces and Ethan all cheer while teaching him how to play dreidel and cracking up every time he pretends to cry when he loses all his gelt—the chocolate coins the game is played with.
I’m embarrassed to realize how much he’s winningmeover. At one point, he brings over a piece of the particular aged gouda I’ve mostly demolished from my mom’s cheese plate. “What’s this for?” I ask.
“You seem to like it,” he says with a shrug before going back to dreidel.
The man brought mecheese?!
I’m really going to have to come up with a mantra to remind myself this isn’t real.
But my crush becomes unbearable when it’s time to clean up and suddenly Cal turns to me, giddy, and says, “Shells!” He’s noticed my mom’s turtle in her tank, and the glee on his face at the simple reminder of my amusing anecdote is enough to make me want to melt. He’s sogood, clearly searching for joy in all the small things.
When I walk him to the door that evening, I can’t help but give him a hug. “Thank you,” I mumble against his solidity, not wanting to let go. I’m grateful that for a moment, it seems like he doesn’t want to either. “I worried this was a completely foolhardy idea from the minute I left the airport, but it’s been a surprisingly fun night.Youmade it a fun night.”
His grin is soft and his shoulders are relaxed, his expression full of a night of my dad shoving red wine into his glass and laughing over a game with the kids. “I had fun too,” he says.
I suddenly realize it’s the first time we’ve been alone since the airport. The air feels heavier with it, our gazes locked, the question of what’s happening lingering in the air. My whole body tightens as he leans toward me, and for a split second I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, even though no one’s watching.
But I must’ve misread it, because all he does is push a small curl behind my ear, grazing me softly and unknowingly lighting me up like a match sparking.
