Page 24 of Alarm Fatigue

“Hi, Seth.”

I realized we had not talked since that marvelous kiss goodbye and he may be on a completely different page than I am. Not everything is my responsibility. “Listen, I wanted to say, well, thank you because I really did have a wonderful time the other day.”

He pauses, perhaps because of what I did not say, before he speaks. “I sense in your tone this might be you letting me down and saying goodbye?”

“I cannot deny that, exactly, but I really want a chance to say, it is not you or anything you have done wrong. During the time we have spent together, there is something I have picked up on, and feel free to correct me if I am mistaken. It is just that I have had the sense that when we are talking about me or my past, you do not want to hear about some of the grimmer aspects of what makes me who I am. Honestly, I think you are incredible, and if I was just looking for fun, I think we could really make a go of it. But, as it turns out, I need to know I can be myself. My authentic self. And that person is messy and needs to be able to talk it out. When something comes to my heart, even if it is a dark memory or a self-deprecating remark, I need to be able to share it. Do you understand what I mean?”

He sighs. “So what you are telling me is that the person you have been when you are with me is not real?”

“No, that is me as well, but…I am a myriad of things. Some are healthy and whole and some are broken and may never be completely healed. I am afraid if I told you half of what is really going on in my head, you would feel incredibly uncomfortable.”

“That’s not fair, Rachel.”

“It is, though. You have side stepped a few of my attempts to…you know what? You’re right. It isn’t fair. Which is why I think it is better we move on from here.”

Seth takes several breaths before he responds.

“Listen Rachel, I cannot deny what you are describing. I am sorry if you felt I was managing you or that you could not be yourself. It is just that living through the bouts of cancer with my wife for so many years, I have witnessed enough pain for a lifetime already. I am sorry because you are truly wonderful and incredibly sexy and attractive, but I cannot welcome all that you carry with you into my life. I am just not there yet.”

After a few more pleasantries, we say our goodbyes. I polish my glass of wine. When I look down, I almost drop my glass because I see the name ‘Mark Levy, MD’ is scrolling across my phone. Okay, the timing of this is frightening. I pick up the phone, but in the end, I cannot bring myself to answer. I feel giddy, like I am in seventh grade with a crush all over again. I drop the phone like a hot potato and stare.

Nope. Not ready for so many grown-up conversations in one day.

Now he has left a voicemail.

I continue to stare at my phone. After pacing around my kitchen island a few times I go back to the phone and press play.

His voice comes through my cellular speaker and I sit down hard and hold my breath while I listen.

“Rachel.” A breath. The way he says my name, like melting butter. “Listen, I hope you will call me back. I am concerned that I crossed a line—” That is one way to put it—“and I am worried I offended you and just…call me, please.”

I play it again. And again. Apparently, he was not so intoxicated that he cannot recall the events of the party, so it is a good thing that assumption was not my plan A. What I did not expect, if I am understanding his message correctly, is that he is worried because he thinks I am a bit more buttoned up than I am actually turning out to be. So that is something. Is that what he wants? Was he into me, and if so, was it because he expects me to be a woman who is wholesome? I worry my lower lip and I pace the kitchen floor.

If I tell him the truth, that I want him to consider a committed relationship with me, in part because I want him to cross more lines with me, will he be shocked by me? Will he think less of me? The blood rushes from my brain and I sit again.

I realize two things in that moment.

First, I cannot contain the truth of my feelings and who I am in this moment any longer. Second, I have his home address from our team roster downloaded to the files in my phone. I know where he lives and I need to speak to him as soon as possible.

I grab my keys, and then think about the large glass of wine I just drank and order a car service instead.

I look down, realize I need at least to put a bra on, and run into my room and do a bit more than that. I throw on a black cashmere hoodie for comfort, my favorite pencil jean skirt—it fits perfectly but not in an uncomfortable way. It is a go-to skirt of mine that I hope will convey, ‘Hey, I was not thinking about what to wear but look, I have curves.’ Chuckling to myself about my regression into middle school-high school angst, I put on my favorite casual tennis shoes in an effort to look cute, but not trying-too-hard.

The app on my phone says the driver is one minute out. I throw a piece of gum in my mouth, grab my phone and my bag, exchange a look with Sirius and run out the door. Minerva still has her back to me.

I practically leap into the car when it arrives.

Twelve minutes later we have pulled up in front of a town home that is closer to the hospital than where I live. This is a very expensive neighborhood, I think, but not near a shul. At least not one that I am aware of. Okay, Rachel, that is not why you are here. You are not the shul attendance police, and when was the last time you went other than when you are at Gavi’s?

Chill out and do not make this weird.

I thank the driver and climb the steps to Mark’s front door and knock twice before I ring the bell. I am practically bouncing on my toes. Trying to imagine what he will say and how he will respond to me is driving my anxiety through the roof. Well, Ami and the girls wanted me to get out into the world and live. So, that is exactly what I am doing. I go to push the button on the doorbell again but I hear the deadbolt click to unlock the door. Okay. I can do this.

The door opens and that is when a beautiful woman answers the door. She has gorgeous long dark hair, dark brown eyes and perfectly toned arms and legs, on full display, as she appears to be in a tank top and shorts combination that looks suspiciously like a pajama set. In my brief assessment I note her hair appears to be damp as if she has recently showered.

Oh, I think, and I turn away as she starts to speak in Hebrew to the rest of the house.

At the bottom of the stairs I thank God for whatever inspired me to wear tennis shoes and a stretchy skirt and I promptly break into a run.

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