by Lexi Scott
She smiles brightly and waves her hand back and forth. “It’s not going to be a problem.” She walks to the car, graceful as a gazelle.
Of course, she only has to walk a hundred feet on a flat, paved driveway.
I decide keeping my mouth shut is probably the best way to start this…date. Is this a date? I have no idea. I decide to just think of it as Gen and me hanging out.
Though she’s definitely dressed for a date. She’s wearing that sexy little top, black with lime green ribbons that match the shoes, and a tight skirt. That’s dressed up, right?
Or maybe I’m reading into it, and it’s just Genevieve. She dresses like this all the time.
“Did you get a chance to look over the problems Eidelberg worked up for you?” I ask, and she flips a hot look my way.
Not hot like bedrooms and sex, hot like she’s attempting to blister my skin with her eyeballs.
“Do you have any idea just how much food I stuffed into that picnic basket?” she asks, her voice sweet. Dangerously sweet. Too sweet. “Broccoli salad with feta dressing, cheddar cornmeal biscuits, poached spinach and walnut pesto chicken, and chocolate chip cookies. All homemade, all kosher. And I had to run to the store for a few ingredients before I started cooking.”
“Oh.” I feel like an ass, but I was thinking the basket was filled with tuna fish sandwiches and sliced apples or something.
So this is a date.
Why the hell am I so hung up on labeling this…whatever? This is the same Gen I’ve been hanging out with a few times a week for the last three years. We’ve eaten, we’ve worn clothes, there’s nothing different about today.
So why does it feel so different?
“It’s not this huge deal,” she rushes to explain. “I mean, I actually love cooking. It kind of relaxes me. I’ve probably never mentioned it because I like to play it cool around you, but when I’m stressed and about to fail calculus, it helps me calm down. So, it’s not like…any big deal.” She rolls her eyes and nudges my ribs, like the Gen I’m used to.
So…not a date?
Stop it, Adam!
“That’s amazing. Well, you know when I’m stressed, I play video games for hours on end. Or chew on my nails. Your de-stressing is way more productive. And it sounds delicious. All of it,” I insist.
Her smile puts me at ease. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be.”
We drive the rest of the way talking about things that don’t really matter: who won the latest singing talent show she watches, how things are going at her parents’ furniture store, and then she asks about my yeast experiments. I’m just about to tell her the entire saga, but I don’t want to ruin my appetite thinking about it, so instead I say it’s all good and focus on finding a parking space along the dusty, curving road.
“I love this place,” I tell her as I parallel park with a respectable amount of skill. “And we got a decent spot.”
“Wait. I haven’t been here in a long time. Remind me—where’s the observatory?” she asks, opening her car door slowly. I point. Those soft gray eyes follow the direction of my arm and turn back on me, so wide I’m afraid they’ll pop out.
“I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing the picnic basket. “Do you think you can make it? I could always drop you up there and come back to park.”
She looks down at her green shoes and then up at me, her face determined. “I’m walking it. And I’ll be fine. Lead the way.”
Fifteen minutes later, she’s pushing her sweat-damp hair back off her forehead and grabbing onto my arm for balance. I’m trying not to let her see how my arms are shaking, especially because if she decides to let go of me, I have a bad feeling she’s going to trip on those stupid heels and plummet into the ravine below. When we get to the first picnic table, I’ve never been so glad to see a surface to sit down on in my life. I drop the basket and brace my arms on the rough wood, trying to catch my breath.
I expect to see Genevieve at my side, but she’s walking to the little clump of trees at the edge of the ravine. I get up and follow her, wishing I could slide my arm around her waist to make sure she keeps her balance, but she grabs onto my arm again and squeezes before I go crazy worrying. Her voice is just this breathy whisper.
“Look at that, Adam. Look.”
I do. The sun is setting, casting the entire sky above the ravine in a soft purple light streaked with orange and sprinkled with a glint of silver stars. The bright white letters of the Hollywood sign are offset by the dark trees, bending slightly as the wind picks up. It moves Genevieve’s silky black hair, pressing it back from her face as she looks out. Below the ravine, all of L.A. winks in the night with thousands of milky, twinkling lights.
“It’s amazing,” I say, my voice low in this moment that feels so private, even though there are people milling all over and a city of millions below us. “When I first moved here, I was so damn homesick. All the time. Funny, because the only thing I ever wanted to do growing up was leave Tel Aviv—leave Israel, actually—for good. I never expected to miss it. I have no idea why, but coming here made me miss it less.”
“I’ve lived right by this place my whole life, but I haven’t been here since I was a little kid. That’s just stupid, right? It’s like…it’s like you take what’s right in front of you for granted. Like this place. You just assume that it’ll always be here, so you don’t make the effort to come see it.” She turns to look at me, brushing back stray pieces of hair that fly around her face.
She’s so gorgeous it makes me a little dizzy.
She has this face that’s pretty much the perfect example of human beauty and symmetry—sharp, high cheekbones, full lips, wide eyes—but even though the scientist in me knows that her beauty is based on years of evolution that trains me to see signs of health and vigor as attractive, the man in me knows it’s something else that makes her so hard to look away from.
It’s the way her eyes shine when she looks at something she’s interested in. The way her smile seems to take over her entire face and flick it on like a light switch. The way her hair is always down, long, and wild, like a kid’s. But not like a kid’s at all because, for all the ways Genevieve can be so fun and even silly, she’s still a woman. Completely a woman.
“Not stupid at all. There’s this place in Tel Aviv, the Azrieli Observatory. It’s the kind of thing I’d probably love. But I’ve never been there.” I shrug and don’t move away even when strands of her hair fly up and tickle my neck. “I think sometimes when you’re not happy in a place, you’ll look for any excuse to leave. Sometimes that means avoiding the things that might tie you closer to it.”
She leans against my shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean.”
When she turns, her face is so close I feel like maybe she wants to kiss me. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I’ll admit that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our kiss.
I wish it hadn’t been a clear ploy to make Deo jealous.
Whatever the motive, that kiss seared itself into my brain and made me want more.
“I’ve never felt less homesick than I do right now,” I say, half to stop myself from kissing her before I can come up with a good enough reason not to, half because I want her to know how being around her for the last few years has felt more like “home” than living in Israel for two decades ever did.
Those are years I never really talk to anyone about, not in any substantial way. Even with my best friend.
Which makes me think about being legally married to Genevieve. It would be bad enough to marry someone who knew so little about me; if it was just a normal love match we could figure things out on our own. But this is for a green card. I know firsthand how invasive a process it can be when you have to lay your life bare for the U.S. government—they leave no stone unturned.
Genevieve has always seen me as a logical, smart, capable guy, largely because that’s the role I play for her and everyone else. What’s going to happen when she knows all the weird, crazy details of my life ba
ck home? Because I’m going to need to tell her everything to make sure we don’t run into any problems with our paperwork.
And telling her everything will change our relationship. I’ve always been more attracted to her than I should be, as her friend. But spilling my guts on top of that might push our relationship to a place I won’t be comfortable with.
I don’t want to be the kind fool who tricks himself into thinking he’s in something real, only to get sucker punched in a few years when his “wife” waltzes in to throw the “happy divorce” party she thinks we both want.
Holding back has kept me safe, let me be in control of the situation so far. Is it possible I can reveal things in a logical, self-contained way so I avoid stupidly falling for the friend who can never be more to me than a wife-of-convenience?
“I know exactly how you feel,” she says, interrupting my panicked thoughts. Her voice is soft, her lips close. Though alarm bells are going off in my head, I move toward her. It feels like the air between us is crackling with the friction of everything we want and haven’t said and are just beginning to understand when—
“Hey! Excuse me? Are you sitting here?” A woman with a high, whiny voice who’s pulling a bungee-corded cooler points to our picnic basket on the table. I wrestle the urge to push her into the ravine.
“Yes,” I growl. “We are.”
She marches away, muttering loudly about how some people have no manners anymore, and I look at Genevieve, half bummed, half relieved that we lost our opportunity to kiss.
I can’t push this relationship. Genevieve lives to flirt. This is all part of the game for her, but I know myself too well. As smart as I am with a textbook, I’m an idiot when it comes to feelings. If I don’t want to get pulled into something I can’t handle, I need to slow things down.
Friends. We’re just friends, and it needs to stay that way.
“‘Some people,’ huh? Was that because we’re Jewish?” She laughs, and it’s contagious.
The tension clears, and I focus on the main reason I started hanging with Genevieve in the first place—her incredible sense of humor. We’re both laughing as we head back to the table, and then, for a long time, I have nothing to say because I’m too busy attacking every single thing she packed.
“This is freaking amazing,” I say, reaching for another biscuit.
She shakes her head. “I definitely used too much cornmeal. You’re just impressed because you’ve been eating canned pasta for weeks. So sad.”
“I’m telling you, I was the fattest kid when I was little. After my mom died, all three of her sisters, plus every lady looking to snag my dad, would cook for us, all old school Jewish food, all the time. I swear, everything I put in my mouth when I was a kid was fried in duck fat. I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack by the time I was thirteen. That said, if I’d been eating your cooking, I would have become obese. And probably died a young, happy death.” I grab another biscuit and when I look up and see the familiar look of pity in her eyes, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about Mom.
This. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Gen has always been good at knocking my defenses down. When we were friends, it was okay to let a wall or two crumble. But I’m not sure we can keep doing that if we’re going to live together as a married couple.
What the hell am I doing?
“I know you don’t like talking about her…” she begins.
I shake my head and try to keep things light but informational.
Then it hits me like a bolt of lightning. The key to making this work is treating this marriage like an extension of a tutoring session. Logical explanations, facts, study guides, flashcards—that’s my comfort zone. I can handle that.
“Hey, we’re going to get hitched. You deserve to know about your future husband’s family, right? Ask away.” I wish we could have done this in PowerPoint, but I can make it work in an informal picnic setting. I’m flexible like that.
“How old were you?” she asks, her fingers reaching past the halfway point on the table, like she wants to hold my hand and comfort me.
I’ve always wanted Gen to want to touch me—but not like this.
“When I got fat?” I avoid eye contact. The last thing I need is to look into those big gray eyes and get all therapy-session weepy on her.
Just stick to the facts, Abramowitz, and you’ll be just fine.
“When you lost your mother.” She pulls back, folds her hands on the table, and looks at me, waiting.
How old was I?
When I lost my mother?
When my life as I knew it ended?
When everything good and fun and loving got muted, stomped on, suffocated, and my father and I were left gutted and depressed, staring at each other like we had no idea what to do without her?
We never figured it out.
The pain shocks through me, but I fight back. Damn, I wish I had some index cards to read from right now.
“I was three days away from my tenth birthday,” I say, my voice a carefully controlled monotone. “It was breast cancer. Same thing her mother died from.”
“Did she have any recipes you loved?” Her voice is reverential, but practical. I appreciate that.
I’m also kind of surprised at the question. Talking about food is way easier than talking about feelings.
“You know what? Now that you mention it, she used to make this amazing French toast with challah bread. The best was with the circle loaf from Rosh Hashanah. I don’t know why that would make it taste better. The shape, I mean.”
“I think shape has a lot to do with how things taste. I love Hershey kisses, but I don’t like Hershey bars.” Genevieve shrugs, her shoulders delicate and kissable.
Is it because of the kiss that was interrupted? Her mention of the candy? Am I just going crazy? Because I definitely never thought of a girl’s shoulders as kissable before, but now I can’t think of anything other than kissing her shoulders. And so much more.
“I guess I get that,” I say, looking at the chicken on my plate so I don’t gawk at her shoulders, or any other body part. “I like ziti, but I don’t like rotini.”
“Yes!” She nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie. “I’ll have to try making you the challah French toast for breakfast sometime. My abuela makes the most delicious challah, and she only taught me the secret family recipe. You’ll fall in love.”
I swallow hard. “I bet I will.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
She bites her lip and fiddles with the picnic basket handle. Despite my attempt to play it cool, I think we both know I wasn’t referring to bread. I reach over to help put things back in the basket, brushing a hand against hers or leaning close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, because, apparently, I love to torture myself.
“I’ll walk this back to the car,” I offer, and she just nods and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite make it across her entire face.
I walk fast. The basket is way less heavy now that we’ve devoured most of the food in it, and I have time to think. About this date or non-date. About how I could take her, so fragile and strong all at once, and kiss her the way she deserves to be kissed. Not for show in front of the guy who broke her heart. Not like she’s some flake in a tight outfit and high heels. I want to kiss her like she’s mine. I want to kiss her to show her that I see through the facade she puts up for everyone else. I want to kiss her so she’ll never forget it.
But that’s dangerous territory. That’s beyond fact and logic.
My head can accept that, but my stupid heart didn’t seem to get the memo.
I walk back and see her sitting on the picnic table, her feet propped on the bench, her arms stretched behind her, her head tilted back.
A few days ago, Genevieve was a friend, and I only thought in private moments about kissing her. Then she proposed this crazy marriage scheme, kissed me for show, and now my mind can’t stop imagining kissing her for real…
If her sho
ulders made me want to kiss her before, now I can’t pick a body part that doesn’t make me want to do something, everything. I want to lick the line of her lips until she opens for me. I want my hands on her hips, pulling her close. I want to lay her back and rub my face against her stomach, run my fingers down her arms, suck on her neck, and press my body tight against hers.
I want Genevieve, even though I’m not sure desire is part of the marriage agreement. Clearly we need to talk ground rules.
“Do you want to go see the observatory?” I ask.
She jumps, like my voice startled her. “Yes.” She slips off the table and holds a hand out for mine.
It feels pretty damn amazing, all things considered. I hold it tight and walk slowly because I know her feet must be killing her. We head to the huge white building, and her heels click on the marble floor when we make our way inside.
Astronomy isn’t my area of expertise, but I know enough to explain her questions as we pass the shadow-box exhibits. And she doesn’t just ask me things. She tells me about camping in a valley in high school, when meteor showers made the sky burst into a choreographed explosion of streaking light. She tells me about sitting up until dawn on the sloped roof outside her bedroom window to see Venus clearly. She tells me about the mnemonic devices she made up to remember facts about the planets when she was a little girl.
“So you were always a closet scientist?” I ask as she leans over to get a better look at a replica model of Saturn turning on an improvised axis.
“Me?” She flicks a glance my way and snorts. “Not even remotely. I was destined to sell ottomans and bedroom sets in the illustrious Rodriguez Furniture Warehouse. This degree? It’s pretty much my parents humoring me. It’s going to be in finance and business. So I might one day graduate from selling sectionals to balancing the books. If I’m lucky.”
“Is that what you want?” I ask, keeping my hand at the small of her back while she walks to the next exhibit.
We both watch the Earth, moon, and sun replicas spin around slowly, sometimes eclipsing, sometimes spreading apart like they’re on paths that will never connect.
