A mischievous grin takes over Ethan’s expression, like the sun coming out after a storm. All that hesitation and nervousness is suddenly replaced by determination. Cal takes Ethan’s hand and draws him into the crowd.
They’re the most unlikely duo—my asthmatic, bespectacled, vertically challenged nephew backed by a hulking pro football player. But Cal moves with him like he’s got eyes on exactly what Ethan needs. When a tiny parachute starts drifting a little to the left, Cal seamlessly glides Ethan over a few feet. When a couple of other kids (and a few nosy parents) try to shift to be right under it, Cal doesn’t let them by. And when a parent is about to reach up over Ethan’s head and grab the parachute, Cal lifts Ethan up like he weighs nothing, making him the tallest person in the crowd. And Ethan nimbly wraps his hand around the little packet of gelt.
Ethan starts cheering, and Cal hoists him up even higher, whooping with him as though they both just won the Super Bowl instead of simply grabbing a bag of waxy off-brand chocolate. The celebration goes on for a full five minutes, with Ethan eventually succumbing to giggles. When Cal finally puts him down, Ethan runs over to his mom, beaming, leaving behind the rest of the crowd still jockeying over the next little parachutes.
Cal sidles over to me, sheepish for some reason.
“What’s with the face?” I ask.
“Was that too much? I think I genuinely knocked over a couple adults.”
I chuckle. “No, honestly, it was perfect. Any adult joining in on actively blocking small children for the sake of their own tall-enough children probably deserves it.”
His laugh always arrives like it’s a surprise to him, booming out louder than he intends. He leans over to catch his breath and puts a hand on my shoulder, as though my small frame could possibly steady him. But it warms me from the inside—big sound, big touch, and yet all so gentle it makes me shiver with want.
“Well, it made Ethan happy, so that’s all that matters,” he says, his hand still unmoving, weighing down my shoulder with all the what-ifs I’ve mentally piled on top. It’s confusing me to outwardly get to act as if I like Cal, when between us I’m supposed to respectfully know the difference. But in reality, Idesperatelylike him. It’s getting so damn hard to not read into, to notwant.
“You can’t really be this perfect,” I sputter, as though I have to find the flaw in this game he’s playing. I have to be reminded that he gets paid to play games. He’s competitive. He’s trying to win at this gauntlet we’ve set up for ourselves, and nothing more.
But I’m surprised at the cloud that takes over his expression at my words. “I’m far from perfect,” he mumbles, his eyes leaving mine for the ground. He looks smaller, like he’s channeling Ethan’s hopeless gaze from earlier.
I instantly want to take back whatever I’ve said that’s lost me that boom of a laugh. “I just mean ... you’ve been so good with my family. You’re the best buffer a girl could ask for. I’m not sure I can live up to the standard you’ve set when I go to Christmas with your parents.”
He glances back up to me, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the small curve of his faint smile. “You’re already buffering for me too,” he says.
I don’t know what he means. But I also don’t want to burst the bubble of this day. I want to earn back everything that makes him expansive and bright. So I link my arm with his and say, “Come with me for more sufganiyot?”
And while we spend the evening side by side, I never get the courage to ask him the real question that’s lingering on my mind: What could a guy so perfect possibly need a buffer for?
Chapter 4
Iread an article today,” my mom says the next night, addressing Sarah and Nina even though we’re all bustling around the kitchen. “And it says you should find one friend or family member to call every day and tell them you’re thankful for them.”
“If you called me out of the blue to say you were thankful for me, I’d assume you were being murdered,” I mumble as I flip over sizzling latkes (after my mom not-so-subtly shoved the ingredients my way again).
But of course, no one hears me. My mom and sisters chatter on about the aforementioned article, debating and dissecting, never looking my way.
It bothers me less with Cal here becausehe’slooking my way. Already tonight he’s helped me peel the potatoes. He checked in on me even as Ethan dragged him to the other side of the room to show him a new book. He snuck me an encouraging smile as he set the table with my dad. He popped a slice of cheese in my mouth when my hands were too covered in potato starch from the latkes.
I’m sad Hanukkah is over tonight and that this ephemeral routine I’ve gotten used to is going to disappear. I know it’s not the end of my time with Cal—we have Christmas Eve and Day. But I get the sense that my family brings out the openand loose version of Cal that I’ve become so enamored with. From what little I’ve gathered about his family, he boards himself back up around them. I’m more than ready to step up for Cal after everything he’s done for me this week. But the thought of seeing him reserved and unsure breaks my heart a little, even if I am incredibly curious about what they could possibly be like to make him that way.
My daydream is interrupted, though, by Cara zooming her way haphazardly through the kitchen and knocking me sideways in the process.
“Oh ... shit!” I say as my index finger hits the hot oil of the latke frying pan, searing pain shooting up at the contact.
“Language, Miriam!” my sister Sarah shouts at me without even looking, typically unaware.
But I can’t focus on anything except the pain. “Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, shaking my hand as though I can flick off the burn as easily as it started. I tumble to the sink, turning on the cold water and whimpering as I stick my finger under it. Time has slowed as my mind fuzzes with the acutely sharp sting.
But before I can even process that, Cal has barreled up next to me, eyes wide, my teenage nieces Libby and Lyla toppled over in his wake.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and I wince as he lifts up my hand, careful not to touch my finger, which is already welting.
“A little bit,” I admit.
“I saw on TikTok that saliva and a compress helps,” Libby interjects. I look over at her incredulously, and am about to explain that TikTok medical advice is usually not sound, but I’m distracted by Cal lifting my hand and putting my finger in his mouth.
I don’t believe Libby and her bullshit about saliva and compresses, but I’m so distracted that for a moment itdoeshelp. Everything else fades away, and all I can feel is myheartbeat pulsing in my finger and the warmth of Cal’s mouth on me and the concern in his expression that makes me want to melt. That determination, focused on me, is like the most delicious painkiller, making my burn obsolete.
