I should probably chill.
My anxiety must be rising off my skin like heat, because Wyatt shifts his bag of pastries to the other arm and reaches over and squeezes my shoulder once. Some of the tension drains out of me at that single, simple gesture, his touch warm and miraculously grounding. I glance at him, surprised, and he offers a tiny smile.
“You got this,” he says, right as the door buzzes.
I exhale and try to breathe my panic out with the air. Wyatt’s hand falls away, but I can still feel the heat his touch left behind, steadying me as we enter the foyer and head for apartment 1B.
I hear laughter inside, the clink of cutlery and glassware. The low thrum of music playing on a record player. This could be anyone’s house, anyone’s party. Wyatt and I could be two people who met anywhere, a couple who fell for each other normally and now brings Polish pastries to friends’ dinner parties.
Then the door opens, and I’m greeted by the smiling face of a woman with bushy gray hair and purple cat-eye glasses. “Hello,” she says, beaming even wider at the pair of us. “You must be Ely. And who’s this? Your boyfriend?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “This is my—um—”
“Wyatt,” Wyatt interjects smoothly, stepping forward and shakingthe woman’s hand. “Thank you so much for having us. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course, of course,” she says. “I’m Kinneret, one of Michal’s friends. I’m just so happy you could both make it. Please, come in.”
We step inside. My hand twitches reflexively toward the mezuzah on the doorframe, but with my arms full of coffee and pastry, the gesture is abortive.
A sidelong glance at Wyatt reveals his anxiety is back too, despite his smooth introduction. The skin around his mouth is vaguely green—and I can’t help thinking back to that night I first met him, the strange and intriguing juxtaposition of confident Revel Jamie and the softer, sweeter Wyatt I met in the hotel bedroom.
The interior of Michal’s apartment is what I always fantasizedmyhouse would look like, if I grew up to be rich and became the kind of person who, like, donates to art museums. There are musical instruments I don’t recognize leaning against the wall, next to sculpture pieces from cultures I’ve never visited and paintings by artists I’ve never heard of. The whole place smells faintly of myrrh, and I spot an incense cone burning idly by the record player. Is Michal secretly an heiress or something? Because damn.
The other guests are here already—at least, I assume this is all of them. My brain reflexively wants to try to categorize them—Modern Orthodox, yeshivish, Reform, Chassidic—but this group defies categorization. There’s a man with a black hat and peyos deep in conversation with an androgynous person with dyed-pink hair. A woman in a straight brown wig carries challah to the table while Michal, in a violet tichel, moves dishes to the sink to be washed before Shabbos officially begins. A little boy around twelve years old, who I assume is Michal’s stepson, darts around vrooming his model rocket ship. All in all, viewing this scenefeels like watching a movie where the director did some research but not quite enough.
Michal catches my eye from the kitchen, and a huge grin splits her face. She immediately abandons the dishes, drying her hands off on a tea towel as she hurries over to greet us. “You made it!”
“Always with the tone of such surprise,” I tease, even though we both know I almost didn’t come.
Michal’s gaze flicks to my left, toward Wyatt. If she’s intimidated by his presence here, she does a great job of hiding it. “Professor Cole,” she says. “Wow, I’m hosting a legend.”
“I come bearing gifts,” says Wyatt, lifting the bags of baked goods and grape juice. I wonder if I’m supposed to make some clarifying remark about how we’rejust friendsor something, if Wyatt will think I’m taking advantage of the fantasy if I don’t.
But then again, it’s not like he’s said anything to explain his presence here either.
“Oh, you didn’t need to do that,” Michal says, but when she peeks inside and spots the babka, she goes, “Hellyes, good choice. People are going to fight over this bread.”
She introduces us to some of the other people who have gathered here, including her wife, Shoshana, an adorable five-foot-nothing woman wearing a blond wig and a gauzy kerchief who ignores my extended hand in favor of outright hugging me—one-armed, since the other arm holds the fattest baby I’ve ever seen.
“Gut Shabbos,” Shoshana says. “Michal’s told me so much about you.”
I feel my cheeks pinken. I can only imagine what Michal had to say. I mean, how would I describe me to someone else? Especially after I flaked on the last Shabbos dinner?
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, falling back on politeness. “And who is this?”
“This is Hadas,” Shoshana says. “She just turned six months.”
I grin and hold out my finger for Hadas to latch onto. She gives me a gummy smile, just two little teeth sticking out above her bottom lip. “She’s adorable. I had no idea Michal had a daughter.” She’d mentioned the stepson, but that’s it.
“She’d tell you she’s glad you missed her awkward pregnant stage,” Shoshana says.
“Valid.” I glance around at the apartment, its gorgeous art, and I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I ought to be here. Or at least, if nothere,then someplace like this. Someplace warm, with someone I love. A future with a family, even if that doesn’t involve children. Not for me.
I want it so bad it’s like a sailor’s knot twisted rough and tight in my stomach.
You gave up this life,a voice murmurs in the back of my mind.You left.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say at last, although with my dry mouth it seems to come out scratchy and raw.
