"It's not—we're not—" I struggle to define what exactly Noa and I are. "It's complicated."
Rachel leans closer to the camera. "You look miserable. Trouble in paradise already?"
"I haven't been able to reach her all day," I admit. "She seemed uncertain about me staying in Pittsburgh this morning, and now her shop is closed, her apartment’s dark and she's not answering her phone."
"Did you scare her off?" Rachel asks.
"I don't know." I run a hand through my hair. "Maybe. I signed a lease for the storefront next to her shop today."
My sister whistles. "That's either very romantic or very stalker-ish."
"You're not helping, Rachel," my mother chides before turning back to me. "Brian, darling, have you considered she might just be busy? Not everyone lives attached to their phone like you do."
"She said she'd call," I mutter, aware I sound like a teenager.
"And she will," my mother says confidently. "Now, let's light the candles. You can tell us more about this Noa after."
We light our flames together, the familiar ritual connecting us across hundreds of miles. As the candles flicker on my screen, I find myself wondering if Noa is lighting her menorah right now, if she's thinking of me.
"So," my mother prompts after we finish, "tell me about this bookstore owner who has my son signing real estate leases without a fifty-page analysis first."
Despite my worry, I find myself smiling. "She's... unexpected. Smart. Independent. Keeps me on my toes."
"Sounds like my kind of woman," Rachel says.
"She has this bookshop that's become a community hub. Author events, reading groups, and storytime for kids. She built an amazing resource."
My mother nods approvingly. "A businesswoman. And does she want children? I'm not getting any younger, you know."
"Ma!" I protest. "We've spent exactly two nights together. We haven't discussed kids."
"Mom, I've given you three grandchildren," Rachel interjects.
My mother waves dismissively. "I need more. Variety is important."
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat in it. This is just my mother being herself.
"The real question," Rachel says, "is whether you're really ready for this. Putting down roots. Being in one place. It's not exactly your natural habitat."
The question hits at the heart of my uncertainty. "I don't know," I admit. "But I want to find out."
"Well, I think it's wonderful," my mother declares. "You've been running long enough, Brian. Time to build something lasting."
Coming from my mother, who's spent years trying to lure me back to Jersey, this support is unexpected. "You're not going to tell me I'm being impulsive and reckless?"
"Would it change your mind if I did?" she asks shrewdly.
"No."
"Then what's the point?" She adjusts her glasses. "Besides, I like seeing you like this. Uncertain. Vulnerable. It means you're finally taking a real risk on something that matters."
After the call ends, I stare at the flickering candles. Their light reflects in the dark window of my hotel room. My mother's half right—I am taking an emotional risk. The biggest of my life. And for what? A woman I barely know but can't stop thinking about.
I pick up my phone and send one last message to Noa:
Let me know you're safe. Worried about you in this weather.
The gesture feels both inadequate and excessive—concern disguised as a casual check-in. But it's all I can do for now.
