He reaches for a candy jar on his desk and holds it out to me.
“You guys really do have privacy in here,” I say as I grab a handful. The sugar helps. A bit. “All we have out there are our low-partition workspaces. And those do approximately nothing to shield us from the Hales.”
“Somehow, I get the feeling you didn’t come in here to talk feng shui.”
I crunch down on a mini Snickers. “I am so fucking naive.”
At first, I’m surprised I say it out loud. I don’t make a habit of swearing at work, and I don’t do anything nearly as aggressive as the way my teeth are tearing apart this Snickers. It must be last week’s drunken gripe fest that’s made me okay talking to Russell like this. Letting him see a less polished version of Ari Abrams.
Russell’s brows crease again, his eyes growing concerned. They really are a brilliant shade of blue. “What do you mean?”
“Torrance apologized to me this morning. She got here early, told me how embarrassed she was about what happened at the party. She even said she’d take me to lunch, like we’re friends, when we’ve never gone out to lunch together before.” I shake my head and unwrap a 3 Musketeers. “I really let myself believe her.”
“I get it. Even in here, sometimes I feel completely . . .” He motions to the walls around us. “Trapped.”
Trapped. That’s exactly the right word for it.
“What we talked about on Friday,” I start slowly. “Are you still—is that still something you might be open to?”
“We were both pretty plastered. I had the headache all weekend to prove it.” He drapes his hand over a baseball on his desk, rolls it in a circle. “But . . . I’m serious about it if you are, Ari.”
I’m not used to hearing my name from him. It’s always been weather girl, and there’s something about my name that snags my attention. Something that turns me serious, if I wasn’t already.
“I just want to not dread going to work,” I say plainly. “Yes, I’d love to be valued a little more. I’d love to take on some bigger weather stories. But I used to look forward to work all the time, which is maybe a weird thing to say when it requires getting up at what most people would consider an ungodly hour. But it’s true. I love my job. I don’t love the way Torrance and Seth run this station, and it’s clear neither of them has plans to leave. Even if this means we spend more time around them and quite possibly lose our minds in the process . . . I want to at least try.”
“I know you’re not into sports,” Russell says as he tosses the baseball once in the air before catching it. “But that kind of sounded like you were a coach giving a halftime pep talk to a losing team.”
“Hopefully it wasn’t prophetic, then.”
He holds up a finger, one corner of his mouth quirking into a smile. “Ah, but that’s the great thing about sports. We love an underdog story.”
6
FORECAST:
It’s raining gelt （and chardonnay）
THERE’S A LIMIT to the number of times one can hear the dreidel song without losing one’s mind. I hit that limit about a dozen I have a little dreidels ago, and yet I paste on my sunshine smile for my niece and nephew, who could probably keep playing until midnight without getting bored.
“I have a little dreidel, I made it out of . . .” Cassie says from where she’s sitting on the living room rug, a heap of gelt and pennies spread between her and her brother. We’re all wearing matching menorah light-up sweaters Alex got us for Hanukkah last year, and she keeps scratching at the collar of hers.
“Pizzadillas!” Orion shouts, showing off his adorable jack-o’-lantern smile. He finally lost his first tooth over the weekend, and I can’t remember ever being that proud of something. Oh, to be five again.
“What’s a pizzadilla?” I ask from the couch, where Javier and I have been both playing and refereeing the game.
“A quesadilla with a pizza on top!” Orion gets so excited, he flings the dreidel across the room. “I thought you were smart, Aunt Ari.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should have known. My pizza knowledge is sorely lacking,” I say as he scurries to collect the dreidel. “You’ll have to make them for me next time.”
“Let’s make them now!” Cassie bounds up to me, her curly dark hair springing in all directions. The oversize menorah sweater hangs to the knees of her blue-and-white striped leggings. “I’m going to make you the best one, but Papa will have to put it in the oven.”
“Kiddo, we’re not making anything. We just ate,” Javier says, running a hand through Cassie’s wild hair that matches his. “And I think that’s enough dreidel. Why don’t we save some for the remaining seven nights? Aunt Ari has to be up early in the morning.”
“And that is entirely because the station doesn’t respect Jewish holidays.” I consider that for a moment. “Although frankly, sometimes neither do I. It’s a fine line to walk.”
“One more round.” Cassie gives her dad these pleading eyes that are impossible to resist. “Please?”
“They don’t teach you how to say no to that face in parenting classes,” Alex tells me as he heads into the room, drying his hands on his jeans.
With glee, the twins grab the dreidel again. I have a little dreidel, I made it out of Aunt Ari’s existential angst.
Until Alex had kids, I was convinced I didn’t want them, certain my genes would make me a terrible parent. But spending time with them has changed my mind completely. I’m not sure how many and I’m not sure when, but all I know is that I want this kind of family. I want this joy we didn’t always have growing up.
“You look beat,” Alex says to me as he settles into an armchair, stretching out his long legs. The shammash light on his sweater keeps flickering on and off, though he changed the batteries before dinner. “Dreidel too intense for you?”
“I’m fine,” I insist. It’s been my mantra lately. Fine that Garrison dumped me. Fine that Torrance would rather resurrect petty arguments than be a real boss. Again I summon that here’s your weekend forecast smile. But even fine sounds forced when you have to insist that’s what you are. So I amend it. “I’m great. Really.”
And I’ll be even better once I meet up with Russell tomorrow evening to discuss our plans. A couple hours before my usual bedtime, but it’s definitely worth staying awake for.
“You lose,” Orion informs us as the dreidel lands on gimel and he takes all my gelt and Cassie’s. “You all lose!”
I pretend to pout. “Oh no, again? You’re a real high roller!”
Both Orion and Cassie burst into giggles, their little-kid laughter soothing my soul just a fraction. It’s always been a toss-up whether a holiday or birthday or other celebration would include my mother, depending on her mood that week. I assume Alex invited her, and it’s almost a relief that she didn’t show up.
“That’s game.” Javier collects the dreidel and transfers Orion’s winnings to the coffee table. Cassie must be too hopped-up on sugar—I brought a lot of gelt—to contest Orion’s victory. “I’ll take them upstairs if you two want to keep talking.”