Limits (3 page)

“Thanks. And don’t feel nervous. You look amazing, my entire family is totally in love with you, and my brother might be a huge ass most of the time, but I know for a fact he thinks the sun rises and sets over your head.” I’m trying to tell her how much my family will love and embrace her, but I feel like it’s coming out bitter and edgy. I take another sip and try again. “And congratulations. I know you and Cohen will be supremely happy together. You’re perfect for
each other.”

Maren dips her head and smiles softly. “I hope so. I mean, I think we will. And I appreciate you saying that, Genevieve. I know things haven’t been all that easy for you lately.”

“Please don’t start,” I plead, keeping my voice low because, otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll burst into tears right here. “Not you, too. I’m fine, I promise.” She gives me this sweetly sympathetic look that just makes the tears burn hotter under my eyelids. “Seriously, I’m fine. I don’t know why everyone is on my case about everything lately.” The last words jerk out harsher than I mean them to.

“Okay,” Maren says calmly, but her eyebrows are pressed together like she’s not convinced. I hear my brother’s dorky laugh from across the room, and Maren’s entire face lights up. Like it’s an instinct, she looks over in Cohen’s direction and a small smile creeps across her lips.

It feels like my heart is filling with cement. I am so damn happy for her, but that look that’s on her face? I’ve only ever felt the way she feels about a guy who never noticed me as anything more than his best friend’s little sister. And now he’s married, and I’m afraid I’ll never feel that way about anyone again.

“Go on,” I nudge, my voice breathy from holding tears back. “I’m fine. Promise.”

“You’re sure?” Maren touches my arm, and I take her hand and squeeze it.

“Of course. Go!”

Her coy smile breaks into a full-on cheesy grin, and she practically skips into my brother’s arms.

I see the way Cohen looks at her, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful, and I’m happy for them, I really am. It just seems like everyone I know is off finding their soul mates and getting married and starting these beautiful lives together, and I’m just...
stagnant.
Even Enzo has some broad on his arm—though, from the looks of it, he’s definitely not hanging around this girl with marriage on the brain.

At Deo’s wedding, Maren caught me crying, gave me the world’s greatest pep-talk, and told me I wasn’t a loser. She said that someday, I’d be so, so happy. And, for a while, I believed it. But slowly, things have just rolled further downhill. My friends are all moving away or moving on, I can’t afford to live on my own—I didn’t have a massive treasure chest fall into my lap like Cohen and my parents don’t hand me money to live on my own like they do for Enzo—and I’ve systematically dated the same version of different guys over and over for years while I waited for the one who wasn’t meant to be mine.

“Where have you been?” My mother’s voice is in my ear and her hand cups my elbow.

“I...I had a project at school,” I say. I leave out the part about being tutored. If my parents knew I was a single bad grade away from failing, they’d never let me live it down.

Mom opens her mouth like she’s about to lecture me about time management, but Cohen’s voice suddenly booms throughout the room.

“I’d like to make a toast,” he says, holding his glass above his head. “To my future bride, Maren...”

I tune out Cohen’s voice, because I’m sure I could recite the speech without even ever hearing it.

He’s going to start off with the retelling of how he talked to Maren on the phone for months before meeting her, and move on to explain how, once he did meet her, he would have done anything to have her. He’ll leave out some parts—like the fact that, even though things worked out, Maren was Cohen’s rebound and vice-versa. He’ll gush about how Maren is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, how he can’t believe he and Deo both found their soul mates (and I can’t help rolling my eyes just thinking about it, even if I know it’s mean and low). I bet
him and Deo talk about how they’ll go on joint vacays and barbeque at each other’s houses and name their firstborn sons after each other...

I go in search of more champagne.

I don’t have to search far or long. When the next tray passes, I pull two glasses off of it, clearing a space—a space just big enough to see to the other side of the restaurant. Near the bar. Where someone who looks remarkably like Adam is serving finger food. And coming this way.

Shit.

I glance over my shoulder at the door and see my mom and dad mingling with some friends from the temple. I’ll never make it past them.

Shit.

“Knish?” Adam’s voice is low and controlled like it always is. I was secretly hoping for even a twinge of nervousness. I can work with that. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a whisper, not sure why I’m whispering.

Adam looks at the tray, then at me again. “I was really hungry,” he says dryly, and at normal volume. I narrow my eyes at him and catch the beginnings of a shit-eating grin. “Genevieve, what does it look like? I’m working.”

“Of all the caterers in all the world...” I mumble under my breath.

He points to the yarmulke he’s wearing and raises one dark eyebrow. “How many fully kosher caterers do you know of in the area, ma’am?”

I shake my head and sigh. “Mazel Tov. But seriously? What are the chances my tutor would be catering my brother’s engagement party? It’s total mishegas.”

He clears his throat and moves the tray from one hand to the other. “It’s actually dumb luck I’m here at all. I picked up the shift for my buddy. He had a hot date. I, obviously, did not. And you should really try a knish. They’re almost as good as my Bubbe’s.” He winks at me, which is strange. Adam’s eyes always seem so...focused. Steady. Unless he’s rolling them at me. But winking? It’s kind of unexpected. And adorable. In a weird way.

I think about how shitty this night is going. How I don’t want to be that person who is bitter and unhappy because everyone else is finding their happiness. And I think about how much better it would feel to be in control of something—anything. 

“Thanks, I’ll pass,” I say, waving away the little dough squares stuffed with potato. I lick my lips, square my shoulders, and take a deep breath. “What time do you get out of here?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.

Adam twitches uncomfortably, and I feel a sense of victory spread through me. Like maybe he’s remembering how it felt to lick that icing off my finger. He isn’t so stone cold: I saw it in his eyes. Everything in my life feels very out of control right now. Like I’m in this bizarre state of limbo with work and school, and no social life to speak of. But when I watch his eyes rake over me in a way that makes my skin prickle with want, I know I can control one thing.

I can make a man want me.

Even this one.

3  ADAM

Genevieve Rodriguez is asking me on a date.

And I have to answer her. So I attempt to speak.

“What time? I...what I—I’m sorry. What?”

Cool. So, at least I handled that well. Real nice, Adam.

Genevieve curls her fingers around the champagne flute in her hand so tightly, I’m pretty sure it’s about to explode. I take hold of the stem and try to tug it out of her grasp, but she yanks it back and swallows the last couple of sips in one quick gulp.

“Forget it. Sorry I asked,” she says, shoving the glass my way. She starts to go left, but must see someone or something that makes her change her mind. She darts right, backs up again, closes her eyes, and rushes straight past me, clipping my shoulder as she goes.

I’m about to call after her, but some nice old couple wobbles over and descends on the plate of knishes, and I’m momentarily trapped. Until it occurs to me to just hand them the entire plate.

Sometimes it’s amazing how my brain can handle the most complicated scientific problems for hours on end without a hitch, but when it comes to basic human interaction, I have zero skills.

I follow the path she took outside, and come to a standstill when I see her holding hands with some schmuck who looks like he’s probably a professional surfer. He’s gazing deep into her eyes and her cheeks are pink. I realize that I’m an official, certifiable tool.

Genevieve obviously wanted to use me to get back at her boyfriend, who pretty much fits my every expectation of her type, right down to the slacker suit-and-Chucks combo and scruffy, beach bum look. From the way she’s undressing him with her eyes, it looks like they’ve made up, and it makes my blood boil a little to imagine him taking her home and peeling that ridiculous get-up off of her before they climb into bed.

Well, at least I didn’t actually fall for her half-hearted invitation and trick myself into thinking I had a dream of a chance with her. I can straighten my yarmulke, grab a tray of pastrami bites, and grit my teeth through the rest of this shift like nothing ever happened. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being Adam, her uptight tutor, and never acknowledge what almost happened tonight.

Fantastic.

I put that plan into immediate effect. Luckily, I don’t wind up having to devote a ton of time to passing out kosher treats. The main course is
buffet, and I was just an extra hand for hor d’oeuvres. If I leave now, the remaining servers will get to split tips, so they’re cool with me ditching out. The boss hands me a couple twenties and cuts me loose. I can pick up some beer, watch shitty sci-fi, and fall asleep knowing that my yeast trays, my job, my social life, and my family have all contrived to screw me over in every possible way.

I make a final pass through the dining room to pick up any remaining trays and trash and then head out through the kitchen and down the back employee hallway, but a sound stops me.

It’s a combination of hiccups, the clank of glass, and what sounds like sobs.

I follow the noise to a small broom closet. I push the door open and the light reflects off something sparkly. And damn if I know that sparkle all too well.

“Genevieve, what the hell are you doing here?” I ask, squinting into the dim light. She’s sitting on a stool, a nearly-empty bottle of champagne clutched in her fist, her sparkly heels sitting next to her.

“S-s-sulking!” she cries, wiping tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. “What of it?”

A red veil of fury makes my vision blur. “What did that dickhead do to you? Is he even still at the party? Did he leave you here?”

Genevieve gives me a long, confused look, blinks her pretty gray eyes, and takes another swig from the dregs of her bottle. “What? Who are you talking about?”

“The goy,” I say, waving my hands around like a madman. “The one who looks like a skateboarder with the hair that was all messy.” My tongue ties when I try to explain it any more clearly. “That asshole you were talking to before,” I finally manage to spit out.

“Deo?” She says his name half like a moan, half like a bad joke only she knows the
punch line to.

“I guess. What the hell kind of name is Deo anyway?” I grumble, hating everything about the guy on premise. Some people would argue that a scientist should be more controlled, but the chemicals running through my brain are one hundred percent natural and completely savage. Sometimes science is like that, and that’s when I love it most.

“Not everyone can be named after the first man ever.” She smiles, and it’s this beautiful juxtaposition, her bright, sweet smile and those wet, sad eyes.

“Do you need a ride?” I ask, thinking, stupidly, that I’m going to wind up her tool after all. I don’t really care, though. If popular consensus is that Deo is the winner in this setup because he left a girl like Genevieve alone and crying, I’ll happily be the tool who cleans up his mess and gives her a ride home.

“Um...I hate to inconvenience you, but my brother and his date looked pretty cozy, and he was going to bring me back home.” She tries to put the champagne bottle on a shelf full of cleaning chemicals three times, but it won’t fit. The look of total confusion on her face is pretty damn priceless.

I take the bottle from her and offer my arm. “C’mon. You need some water and aspirin and your bed.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs as she slips her feet into those stupid heels and leans hard on my arm. “You’re being so
nice
to me, Adam. Why are you so
mean
when you’re tutoring me?”

For every two steps we attempt to go forward, we need to go one back because Genevieve’s sparkly shoes keep sliding off of her feet. “I’m not mean when I tutor you. I’m just getting paid to do a job, so I need to take it seriously.”

“Ah.” She stops a few feet short of my car and totters back and forth. I’m primed to catch her, but she doesn’t fall over. “So I’m just a job?”

Even drunk, she’s reading too much into what I said. “No. I mean, yes, it’s a job, so I take it seriously. But you? I care about you doing well. So I do my best to make sure you learn what you need to. If I come off as mean, it’s only because I know you’re a hell of a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for, and I think you need someone who pushes you.”

We’re finally at the car. I open the passenger side to help her in, and she puts her hands on my chest. A simple touch like that shouldn’t ignite the feeling that her hand on me does.   “You really think that?”