“Oh, hi,” I say. “Hi. Hi.” I look up at Jake. “My dog doesn’t really like human contact, this is so nice.”
Jake tugs on his collar. “Come on,” he says. “Inside.”
I follow them through the doorway, and then Jake holds out a toy to Saber, and donkey-carrots him to his bed. Once Saber is seated, Jake lets him have the toy. The dog immediately starts drooling all over the plastic cylinder.
“It’s a peanut butter dispenser,” Jake says. “It keeps him occupied for hours.” He smiles at me then—a warm, welcoming smile.
“You look wonderful,” he says.
I feel myself blush. “Thank you.”
Jake is wearing a white-and-blue button-down and dark jeans. He’s barefoot, and his shirt is untucked, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his freckled forearms. All at once I’m met with the intoxicating scent of butter and garlic.
“White or red?” Jake asks me.
“Red,” I say.
“You got it.”
His apartment is spacious, with a stunning view of LA. From this high up, you can see a good chunk of the city. There is a sectional couch by the wall, a television across from it, and, around the corner, a galley kitchen. Jake disappears there, and I follow him.
The kitchen looks brand-new—all stainless steel appliances, and a small, round table for four sits off to the left-hand side. I take a seat while Jake opens the wine.
“How long have you been here for?” I ask him.
“About a year,” he says. “No, maybe almost two, now.”
“I have to ask,” I say. “What made you end up in Wilshire Corridor?”
The cork comes out with a pop. “Whatever do you mean?” Jake says with a grin.
He picks up the bottle, and I hear the wine slosh against the glass.
“It’s not exactly a youthful zip code.”
Jake laughs. “I’ll claim ignorance on that front. Honestly, the building was having a great deal, and it was close to work. At the time, it’s what mattered to me.”
“Pragmatic.”
He hands me the wine. I take a sip. Rich and full.
“It turns out I like it, though,” he says. “My neighbors bake all the time, they’re always home to water my plants or feed Saber if I’m running late, and whenever someone dies, there’s the Brisket Brigade.”
My eyes go wide, and I practically spit out my wine. “What do you know about the Brisket Brigade?”
My grandmother was fond of the phrase. She said in her later years, whenever a man’s wife would die, women would show up in droves with brisket in the hopes of being his next wife. Whoever made the best brisket won his hand.
“Only my lived experience,” Jake says. “They always throw me the leftovers. You know kugel freezes very well.”
“Are you Jewish?” I ask him.
Jake smiles. “More now than I’ve ever been before.”
I feel a warmth spread out through my limbs, although if it’s the wine or the revelation of—what? Familiarity? I cannot say. It was always important to my parents that I be with someone Jewish. Not because they are particularly religious people—they lived together for seven years before they got married, and the only time either one of my parents covers their heads is in the rain. But tradition is important to them.
“You never want to be a stranger in your own family,” my mother used to say.
Jake raises his glass to mine. “To Friday,” he says. We clink. “Here, I want you to see the view.”
