Drift (Lengths) (11 page)

“Deo,” Whit hisses. “Yom Kippur is the Sabbath of Sabbaths! Please stop whining like a child. Not every holiday can be Hanukkah.”

Deo runs his fingers through his hair frantically. “I get that it can’t always be dreidels and chocolate gelt, but does it have to be so
negative
? Yom Kippur just bums me out. Do I have to fast this year?” he asks my brother, like Cohen’s some great Hebrew leader.

Snort!

“Dude,” Cohen says, shaking his head. “As we repeat every single year, you don’t have to do
anything
. You’re. Not. Jewish.” He says the words slowly, Whit pats Deo’s back, and I try so hard not to roll my eyes again.

“How can you say that, man? I mean, yes, my foreskin is technically intact, but my heart beats in Hebrew.” Deo presses a hand to his offended heart to emphasize the point for our benefit. “Rabbi Haas was at my wedding! Do you have a clue how upset he’d be if I just didn’t show up? Who else is gonna bother to bring him a nice bottle of Yarden for after the fast?” Deo glowers at my brother.

Isaac gawks at Deo, his face slack with surprise. “You’re not Jewish?”

“No. Are you?” Deo asks sulkily. Thank everything holy Isaac
isn’t
Jewish. I think Deo sees Judaism as some super cool club he can’t be part of, and he’s always meaner to newcomers who already have the magic ‘in.’

I mean, he cried so hard when Cohen started Hebrew school, Rabbi Haas just let him tag along. Cohen was pissed because Deo was supposed to join Boy Scouts and learn how to make a fire from sticks, then teach him. Instead they sat learning their
Aleph-Bet
, Cohen frowning, Deo grinning like he’d won the Israeli lottery.

“I’m not. I’m Catholic. If you don’t practice, why are you worried about the holiday?” Isaac asks.

Deo scoffs like Isaac is missing something.

Because, clearly, it’s ridiculous to be confused about how a grown man only
pretending
to be Jewish would feel like he had to fast and attend services for a holy day he clearly can’t stand.

“Because if my family is going to temple on Yom Kippur, I’ve got to be there too,” he says stubbornly, his logic so faulty, it’s painful. “But I’m
not
dressing in a black sheet and wailing like some damn banshee this year,” he says, pointing at Cohen. “We better win this thing.”

“Damn straight. I hear Cece has some interpretive dance planned,” Cohen says grimly.

Deo drops his head down on the table and moans.

Isaac can’t get over the whole crazy situation. “Are you Jewish?” he asks Whit.

She runs her fingers through Deo’s shaggy hair and shakes her head with a saint’s smile. I don’t know how someone as practical as Whit manages to put up with someone as insane as Deo.

“I’m an atheist. But I love going to temple. I guess...my parents raised me Lutheran, so I went to church a lot as a kid with my brother Wake. But going to temple with the Rodriguezes is pretty much the only time I’ve felt any kind of connection with any spirituality. I’m not saying I believe. But I do enjoy. And I have so much respect for their congregation and Rabbi Haas. It’s just such a good group of people.” Whit dips her head back over her wineglass.

She’s got to be pretty damn tipsy. She’s never usually so open about things like feelings and religion. But I love what she said.

“That’s amazing.” Isaac sits back and looks around at all of us, like he can’t quite get a handle on how we fit together. “I mean, my parents had so many friends who came in and out of my life, some of them more constantly than family. But there was never this connection that you all have. I think it’s…” He shakes his head slowly. “I think it’s beautiful.”

After the way Deo and Cohen snorted over Isaac’s drink choice, I’m prepared to have to flip the table on them when they tease Isaac over this.

But Deo lifts his head and reaches out to grab Whit’s. He squeezes hard and nods at Isaac. “No truer words, bro. No truer words.”

His voice is a little rough around the edges, and I get a tiny lump in my throat. It’s nothing. A quick sip of wine washes the scratch away. I do notice a few shiny eyes and cleared throats.

Holy crap. Getting older makes us so damn sappy.

“Is Cece’s performance
that
bad?” Maren asks, twisting a napkin through her fingers. “I mean, is it that bad to be a part of it?”

“No. If you like running around like a lunatic with face paint and silly costumes while all the people in the synagogue try not to laugh at you, it’s actually super cool,” Deo says, then shakes a finger at her. “Oh no. No she didn’t! Shit, she got you, didn’t she?” He looks at Cohen. “You realize your sister knew Maren would be too damn nice to say no.”

“Damn snake in the grass,” Cohen hisses, his fists bunched.

I hide a laugh. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses this contest. Cohen is getting a costume and face paint
—or whatever the hell Cece dreams up for this—no matter if it kills him. That’s the way he is with Maren. There’s no way in hell he’d let her get up on stage and maybe be embarrassed by our kooky family. Cohen will grind his teeth and take his dose of embarrassment at his wife’s side like a good husband.

By the time dinner is done and we’ve all sampled Whit’s Aztec bark
—perfectly balanced between crisp, slightly bitter chocolate and fiery chilies with a pumpkin seed crunch—the party starts to wind down, with stretches and yawns abounding. Cohen checks his phone and whispers to Maren, who nods.

“Lydia we were going to head out now,” he says, sounding so obnoxiously parental, I can’t deal with it any more.

“Go ahead,” I say, not quite ready to say good-bye to Isaac just yet. “I’ll call a car.”

“That’s crazy,” Cohen says. “We’re right here. We’d be glad to take you home.”

I half expect him to stomp his foot at me and demand I take a ride in his car. And that ridiculous little outburst makes me realize that my brother is truly a good guy—the best guy. He’s looking out for me, as suffocating as it might be.

So I smile. I get up and hug him and Maren. And say, “Thank you. Truly. I didn’t want to leave the house, but you guys wouldn’t let up, and now look. I had a fabulous night. But you need to go home. I’m not ready yet.”

Cohen opens his mouth to say more, but Maren jumps in before he can argue. “No trouble at all, Lydia. We’re so glad you decided to come. C’mon, Cohen. I need to get to bed.” She gives him a sultry look that reveals ‘going to bed’ is nothing but a ruse.

They leave and Isaac and I help Whit and Deo load the dishwasher and clear off the table. There’s the comfortable silence in the air that comes after eating a delicious meal with friends.

Funny how, a few weeks ago, I would have laughed at the thought of Whit and Deo as “friends” of mine. Sure, they were tied into my family by long history and love, but I was always so damn standoffish. All that prickle had a lot to do with fear that I’d be the group fuddy-duddy, the too old, too bossy, dork who never fit in. But I wasn’t giving them enough credit. It winds up I’m surrounded by awesome people who love me exactly as I am, stereotyping, closed-off assholishness and all.

“Thank you so much for the meal,” I say to Whit. We stand awkwardly, because hugging really isn’t her thing or mine. But awkward doesn’t fit this glow I’m luxuriating in. It’s time of both of us to break out of our stupid boxes. “What the hell. Come here,” I say, holding my arms open.

Whit giggles, and the hug isn’t nearly as robotic as I expected from the two of us. “I’m
really
glad you came by, Lydia,” she says into my hair. “We should hang more often.”

“We will,” I tell her, and I’m somehow sure that isn’t an empty promise.

“Look, I wanna hit the hay as much as the next guy, but I’m so not cool with you calling a car, Lyd. I know it’s fine, but it just feels...I don’t know. Inhospitable? I’m gonna go start my hoopty, and then I’m taking your ass home. Alright?” The beginning of Deo’s speech was all brass and swagger, but I guess he still sees me as the bossy older sister as much as I see him as the goofy brother’s friend.

“I’d be happy to take you home,” Isaac says, looking at me from hooded eyelids. I wa
nt to protest that he looks too tired, but I realize it’s not sleep-deprivation that gives his eyes that look—it’s want.

And I want right back.

Nineteen or not—I want.

Which is not necessarily a feeling you want to cram into a small, confined space for any length of time. But the spice and the wine and his eyes make the decision as easy as it is potentially bad.

Very bad in the very best way.

“Thank you, Isaac. I think I’m actually on your way back to campus.” The words come out
so cool
, like I’m not a trembling mess of desire lit up and ready to consume.

“Dude,” Deo says
, pulling Isaac into a bear hug. “Thank you so much. I’m beat. So beat. Watching Whit do all this dinner party shit always wears my ass out.”

Isaac laughs softly and Whit just shakes her head and sighs, not even bothering to hide the look of pure adoration she levels at Deo.

Isaac and I leave them with a last thank you and a Tupperware of Aztec bark in our hands.

Outside their tiny house, the night is deep. Stars swoop low over our head, as bright as the crash of the waves is loud.

“I’m afraid I’m parked down by the beach.” He gestures to the little parking lot behind Deo’s surf shack.

I take a deep, salty breath in. “I think that’s a good thing. It would be a shame to head straight home on a night like this.” I kick my heels off, and Isaac, on cue, takes his shoes off. We start walking, the sugary sand warm and soft under our feet. 

“Your friends are wonderful,” he says, head tilted back to look at the low moon. “Very welcoming.”

I walk close enough to let the foamy waves suck and curl around my ankles. “They are, right?” I let a laugh whip out, as long and loud as I please. “It’s strange, because I’ve always felt this distance with my siblings and their friends. Like I didn’t fit. But tonight felt right.”

“I can’t imagine a place where you didn’t fit,” Isaac says. He walks by the driftwood circle Deo and Cohen arranged around their fire pit. I can’t count the number of times I watched the flicker of one of these fires with a beer in one hand and my fingers twined through my boyfriend’s as a teenager.

“Do you want to sit?” I ask, feeling silly as soon as the words pop out. “Sorry. Stupid. I’m sure you’re tired. Let’s keep walking.”

He catches my wrist in his hand and tugs me close. “Lydia.” He smiles, shaking his head. “I’d
love
to sit with you.” He leads me to the makeshift bench, and we settle down comfortably.

Before I can think about what’s appropriate or how much we can do or where the boundaries between us begin and end, he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his body, so I’m tucked against him.

And the fit is as perfect as if we were designed for each other.

“It’s much better when the fire is lit,” I say as we both gaze into the cool black ash ring.

“Maybe we could come back sometime.” He runs his fingers over my shoulder gently. “I’d like to do that. With you.” His voice is a soft caress in my ear.

“I would too.” Right now it feels like it should matter more, how many years there are between us. When I was his age, there was nothing more important to me than finishing class, hopping in my busted Jeep, and heading to the beach to surf, drink, make out, and soak it all in. I don’t remember when it all stopped or why; but it feels like some of the light and happiness just sapped out of my life and never came back. “I used to come here all the time. I feel like I should do that more. But I also feel like that’s stupid. Immature.”

“What’s immature about coming to the ocean?” he asks. “Being somewhere so beautiful with people you care about, having interesting conversations in the wild? What could possibly mean more than that?”

“I guess I just gre
w out of it.” I bite my lip and wonder
why
as he asks point blank.

“Why? And what did you grow into instead?” He draws the back of his fingers down my arm.

“I had a boyfriend—” I cut myself off with a laugh. “It always goes back to that, right? How pathetic.”

“Love isn’t pathetic,” Isaac objects.

“It wasn’t love,” I sigh. “It was being comfortable. That was it, I guess. Everything I did was kind of comfortable for a while. Nothing bad, but nothing exciting. I fell into this rut. And then, one day, I had enough. I was hungry for something else, so I started taking extra classes to graduate early. And I got this high off doing better than everyone else, maintaining the best GPA, scoring the highest on my bar exam, getting a junior partner position before everyone else did. I got addictive, and that was all I could think about.”

I want to get up and pace. Even with all the extra time I’ve had to devote to deep thinking since I got laid off, I’ve never really put it all out there for myself. Never analyzed why, exactly, I am where I am. And, more importantly
—

“Are you happy?” Isaac asks, his voice nonjudgmental, his arm warm and strong around me.