Limits (10 page)

             
He makes a good point. The place is a dump, but I’d be surprised if it isn’t exactly halfway between my parent’s house and Adam’s place, and I’m sure he knew that when he picked it. Because he’s precise like that. Thoughtful.

I’m not.

              “This place is great. The coffee is good,” I lie, tipping my cup to examine the sludge with a lump of coffee grounds floating around in the bottom. There’s no amount of sugar and cream in the world that could tame this brew. I force a smile and it seems to relax Adam. He shimmies out of his sweater and then folds his hands, short-nailed and long-fingered, on the table top.

             
“Did you order?” He nods at the laminate menus that are stuck together with the remnants of other breakfasts’ syrups.

             
I shake my head. “No, I was waiting on you. Are you hungry?”

             
His eyes flash to me, then he tugs the menu over and unsticks the pages, flipping through without really looking. “Yeah, starved. I could really go for some Eggs Benedict. Do you think they have that here? Probably not.”

It’s polite small talk. And it’s not necessary. It also has nothing at all to do with why we’re here.

I can’t do this with him. I can’t sit in this diner and pretend what happened the other night never happened. The thing is, I kept waiting to regret those words, wish them into a deep, black hole where they’d be forgotten forever. But that never happened. In fact, the minute I saw him walk in, I felt like—as crazy as it sounds—I felt like I was looking at my future.

And it felt damn good.

I can’t explain it, and I don’t know if I want to. I just know what I feel and that it feels so damn right.

             
“Look, Adam, about last night. I know you think I’m crazy—”

             
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Genevieve,” Adam says, his voice clear and steady. He pulls his eyebrows together and tilts his head like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I think you’re... impetuous. It’s a good thing, you’re young—”

             
“You’re, like, the same age.” I shake my head, annoyed. My next words are barely a whisper. “Why does everyone have to treat me like I’m such a child?”

             
Adam stares awkwardly out the window, running one hand over the five o’clock shadow prickling his wide jaw. I’ve probably made him really uncomfortable.

Though I guess it’s not any more uncomfortable than last night, when I all but got down on one knee.

              “Are you two ready to order?” The waitress’s question makes me jump in my seat. She moves to refill my coffee, but I cover the mug with my palm and shake my head.

             
“I’ll just have toast,” I say with a weak smile.

             
“Same,” Adam says, pushing the menu into place behind the napkin holder. The waitress slips her notepad back into her apron pocket and walks away. “So, I called because I didn’t want to talk to you on campus about this. Not on your tutoring time for sure. I’m really sorry I bailed last night after...” He clears his throat and looks right at me, his eyes locked on mine. “I just thought maybe you needed some time to cool down. After we talked in the car, you seemed pretty upset, and then it turned into...uh, the proposal. I just wanted you to feel like you could take a step back, you know? And I understand if you want to. More than that, I expect you to.”

             
Adam weighs the salt and pepper shakers in each hand. It’s a nervous act, but he contradicts it by not breaking eye contact with me the entire time, and I feel sucked into his stare.

             
“I appreciate what you offered, Genevieve,” he continues. “But, obviously, I can’t accept. I’m sure every man in San Diego County would think I’m a complete fool, but I can’t marry you. Not that you meant it anyway. I know you were just trying to be nice. And you are. So nice. That’s actually—”

             
He’s talking in nervous circles and letting his eyes linger too long on my face.

“I am impetuous,” I interrupt, and slide my hand across the table top. Almost touching his fingers, but just a shade too chicken to go all the way. Funny I’m not afraid to present the idea of marriage, but I can’t get up the guts to hold his hand. “I am. But I meant what I said...asked...whatever. I meant it. I think—” I take a deep breath and smooth my hair behind my ears. “I think we should. We should get married.”

              “Genevieve, I appreciate that you want to help.” He leans forward over the little battered table, his eyes soft, his hands almost ready to take mine, but holding back. Because he doesn’t want to encourage me, I’m sure. “But marriage isn’t a joke. It needs to be for other reasons...and none of those reasons should be because you feel sorry for me.”

             
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” I protest. I want to explain what I feel about him, about me, about love and life and the way nothing makes sense and then, sometimes, something does out of nowhere, but not for any reason you can explain. Not without sounding like a lunatic. So I try to just stick to the facts, give him a reasonable, logical argument, even if that’s not quite what I mean. “And I do want to help. You don’t deserve to have your entire career flushed away because of some shitty timing and stupid, uncooperative yeast. Plus, it doesn’t just help you.”

This muscle high up in his jaw pulses and he shakes his head, about to answer me. He pulls back, stares down at the patterns on the
Formica like he’s trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say. How to let me down, I’m sure.

             
“And what do you mean by that? What could you possibly gain from marrying me? You’re beautiful and bright and don’t need to be in a joke of a marriage, tied to me—
forever,
Genevieve.” And then his entire face changes. His eyes go dark, his mouth is hard and tight. There’s something fierce in his expression, something that makes me draw a quick breath in and hold it in my lungs. “Because that’s what I want my marriage to be whenever it happens. Forever.”

             
I push away from the table and sigh.

             
“What?” Adam asks, the intense expression loosened with a grin. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

             
I crack a smile. “You don’t really have many choices here, Adam. You can marry me, go back home...or what? Any other options that I don’t know about?”

             
Our waitress sets the toast in front of us, but neither Adam nor I move toward our plates.

             
“No.” He shrugs. “But that doesn’t mean that this is a viable option.”
              I square my shoulders and straighten my back. I realize this may not be the most rational solution, but it’s a damn workable one. One that isn’t all that weird. “I’m not going into this thinking of it as a joke, Adam. In fact, my parents talked to me this fall about meeting men. You know. Um, meeting men they...would help me choose.”

Now is not the time for me to mention that I was completely horrified and screamed that I would never,
ever
do that, that there was no way I’d let them arrange something that huge. My point is that plenty of smart, rational people still have arranged marriages, and no one bats an eyelash.

Well, very few people bat their eyelashes.

Er, none of the Jewish parents or grandparents bat their eyelashes, anyway.

“Are you talking about using a
Shadchan
?” I’m not sure if he thinks the idea is hilarious or horrifying.

“Of course not,” I huff, though Miriam Spektor has arranged a half dozen totally happy marriages in our synagogue, and nobody laughs about her skills. Lydia was next on her list, before her partner’s divorce helped her snag a guy all on her own. “This isn’t
Fiddler on the Roof
.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Anyway, you only need a
Shadchan
if you can’t find someone on your own. We’ve already met.”

Adam sits back, arms crossed and stares at me. “Genevieve, you could have anyone you wanted. Even if you were going to go ahead with an arranged marriage, you’d have folders full of applicants. You could pick and choose, not get stuck with some washed-up loser with too many degrees and no way to support you.” A flash of embarrassment clouds his eyes.

I take a breath, get my thoughts under control, and try hard not to ramble.

“Adam. If I could choose a husband, I’d choose someone kind. Someone hard-working. Someone smart and funny and...um...” I gesture at him. He raises one eyebrow high. “Handsome!” I wind up yelling. I lower my voice and ignore the way his eyes widen in...shock? Humor? Terror? “I would choose someone like you. I’d be
lucky
to have the chance to choose someone like you. And I will go into it like I go into everything: I’ll give it my all, and I won’t quit when things get hard.”

             
“You’re not going into it like anything because it’s not happening. I’m not going to let you ruin your life because I bet my chances on a stupid thesis project that didn’t wind up working out.” He runs a hand over his face.

             
“You aren’t ‘letting’ me, Adam. I’m not a child. I
want
to. I want to help you if I can. And it would honestly help me, too. I know you think I’m just a spoiled brat, but it’s not like that. I—”

             
“Gen,” he says. He reaches across the table and covers my hands with his, finally, and they’re as strong and warm as always. These are definitely hands I can hold for a lifetime. “I don’t think you’re a spoiled brat. I really don’t. I think you’re pretty damn amazing. But marriage? There are laws against this kind of stuff. You could get in a lot of trouble. With the
government.
”

I wave my hand around at him, brushing off his threats of danger and doom. “Only if it weren’t for real. We can make this real, Adam. I know we don’t know each other all that well, but we could get to. I’m pretty adorable, if I do say so myself.” I catch his eye and he smirks. Then he smiles. Then he full on laughs.

I know I’m winning my argument and it feels amazing.

             
“My place is a dump, Genevieve. Where would we live? I make next to no money. I have nothing to offer you.”

             
“You’d be saving me just as much as I’d be saving you,” I say lightly and look away from him. I don’t know how to convey to Adam what’s got my insides twisted into knots and the loneliness that somehow feels like my only company lately.

             
I look up from the sludge in my coffee cup and meet his eyes again.

             
“Marry me, Adam. Today. Don’t think about. Don’t analyze even angle. Let’s just get in your car and go. There’s nothing and no one stopping us, and we’ve already agreed you don’t have any other options to stay in the country. You can sit here and argue with me all day, but I promise I’ll wear you down. Better to just quit now, pay the waitress and Google Map the Justice of the Peace because you and me? We’re going to get married.”

             
Adam looks up, his eyes blazing, and I hold my breath and cross my fingers under the table. Suddenly he nods and reaches for his wallet.

“I’m meeting with your parents first. And I’m not taking you to Justice of the Peace, Genevieve. If we’re going to do this, it will be in front of your family and friends. I have some money set aside. I’m happy to spend it on a real wedding.”

I lean over and kiss him softly on the lips before he can say anything else or change his mind. It’s just a celebratory kiss, just a brush of the lips. At first.

But then his hand comes behind my neck and pulls me closer. His lips are hot and quick, and his tongue sweeps the outside of my lips, then teases inside and tangles slowly with mine. My mind skips and jumps, sending faulty signals to every part of my body. My heart flutters and I feel a damp, spreading heat between my legs. I lick back at him, press forward with urgency to feel the hot slide of his tongue and the gentle press of his mouth for another perfect second. When he pulls away, his eyes are hot and wild.

“Do you always get your way?” he asks, his words dragged out on ragged breaths.

“Always.” I level a firm look across the table, and his smile is pure admiration.

             
Victory!

“Are you ready to go inside?” 

I run my thumb along her knuckles as I hold her sweaty palm against mine. Genevieve looks up at me, her pupils so huge, her gray eyes look black. I realize for the first time that I’ve seen her sad and angry and frustrated, but I’ve never really seen her scared. The other night, at the observatory, was probably the closest we’d come before. But even then, she looked more furious and worried than anything else: her eyes were too busy trying to order me down off the ledge to register any true fear. 

But now? Those eyes belong to someone who’s afraid, and it surprises me how deep the look cuts at me. How much I want to be the one who takes that fear away.