Before leaving, my father told me had to use the “little boys’ room,” and left me alone with Ryan in the synagogue lobby.
We stood awkwardly facing each other. I was a petite five foot four, and even in my three-inch heels, I was a lot shorter than he was.
“Did you enjoy the service?” I asked nervously.
“It was beautiful. Thank you for letting me come.” He neatly hung up the tallis on a stand and set the yarmulke into a nearby basket.
“My pleasure.” Sheesh. Couldn’t I come up with something less mundane? Worse, the word “come” was whirling around in my head, playing crude mind games.
His cornflower-blue eyes gazed into my pickle-green ones—my “deli eyes” as Pop called them. I didn’t know what next to say. Thankfully, Ryan spared me from coming up with something.
“Would you like to go out for a drink? There’s a really great wine bar that’s not far from here.”
Dammit, that sounded good…so good…exactly what I craved after the emotionally draining service. But I couldn’t.
“I can’t. I’m fasting.”
“Oh.” The infamous little word when you didn’t know what else to say. His voice and face registered disappointment.
Before my heart sank, I had an idea. “Why don’t you come tomorrow night to my dad’s deli. He hosts an open house break-fast for the neighborhood—and any one who doesn’t have one to go to.”
Ryan’s face brightened. “I’d love to.”
The word “love” danced around in my head.
“Do I need to dress up?”
“No, it’s totally casual.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
As he loped out the front doors of the synagogue, my heart was racing.
He could show up in his birthday suit and I wouldn’t care.