Limits (7 page)

She’s so gorgeous, it makes me a little dizzy. She has this face that’s pretty much the perfect example of human beauty and symmetry—sharp, high cheekbones, full lips, wide, pretty eyes—but, even though the scientist in me knows that her beauty is based on years of evolution that trains me to see signs of health and vigor as attractive, the man in me knows it’s something else that makes her so hard to look away from.

It’s the way her eyes shine when she looks at something she’s interested in.
The way her smile seems to take over her entire face and flick it on like a light switch. The way her hair is always down, long and wild, like a kid’s. But not like a kid’s at all, because, for all the ways Genevieve can be so fun and even silly, she’s still a woman. Completely a woman.

“Not stupid at all. There’s this place in Tel Aviv, the Azrieli Observatory. It’s the kind of thing I’d probably love. But I’ve never been there.” I shrug and don’t move away even when strands of her hair fly up and tickle my face. “I think, sometimes when you’re not happy in a place, you’ll look for any excuse to leave. Sometimes that means avoiding the things that might tie you closer to it.”

She leans against my shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean.”

When she turns her face, it’s so close to mine, I feel like maybe she wants to kiss me. I’ve known I wanted to kiss her for weeks now.

But I don’t know if she has a boyfriend. Or if I’m reading too much into this moment we’re sharing.

“I’ve never felt less homesick than I do right now,” I say, half to stop myself from kissing her before I can come up with a good enough reason not to, half because I want her to know how being around her for the last few months has felt more like ‘home’ than living in Israel for two decades ever did.

“I know
exactly
how you feel,” she says, her voice soft, her lips close. I move toward her, and it feels like the air between us is crackling with the friction of everything we want and haven’t said and are just beginning to understand when—

“Hey! Excuse me? Are you sitting here?” A woman with a high, whiny voice who’s pulling a bungee-corded cooler points to our picnic basket on the table. I wrestle the urge to push her into the ravine.

“Yes,” I growl. “We are.”

She marches away, muttering loudly about how
some people have no manners anymore
, and I look at Genevieve, bummed we lost our opportunity to kiss, but liking the way she’s smiling.

“‘Some people,’ huh? Was that because we’re Jewish?” She laughs, and it’s contagious. We’re both laughing as we head back to the table, and then, for a long time, I have nothing to say, because I’m too busy attacking every single thing she packed.

“This is freaking amazing,” I say, reaching for another biscuit.

She shakes her head. “I definitely used too much cornmeal. You’re just impressed because you’ve been eating canned pasta for weeks. So sad.”

“I’m telling you, I was the fattest kid when I was little. After my mom died, all three of her sisters plus every lady looking to snag my dad would cook for us, all old school Jewish food, all the time. I swear, everything I put in my mouth when I was a kid was fried in duck fat. I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack by the time I was thirteen. That said, if I’d been eating
your
cooking, I would have become obese. And probably died a young, happy death.” I grab another biscuit and wish I’d kept my mouth shut about Mom when I see the familiar look of pity in her eyes.

“How old were you?” she asks her fingers reaching past the halfway point on the table, like she wants to hold my hand and comfort me.

I want her to want to touch me—but not like this.

“When I got fat?” I avoid eye contact. The last thing I need is to look into those big gray eyes and get all therapy-session weepy on her.

“When you lost your mother.” She pulls back, folds her hands on the table, and looks at me, waiting.

How old was I?

When I lost my mother?

When my life as I knew it ended?

When everything good and fun and loving got muted, stomped on, suffocated and my father and I were left gutted and depressed, staring at each other like we had no idea what to do without her?

We never figured it out.

“I was three days away from my tenth birthday,” I say, my voice a carefully controlled monotone. “It was breast cancer. Same thing her mother died from.”

“Did she have any recipes you loved?” Her voice is reverential, but practical. I appreciate that.

I’m also kind of surprised at the question.

“You know what? Now that you mention it, she used to make this amazing French toast with challah bread. The best was with the circle loaf from Rosh Hashanah. I don’t know why that would make it taste better. The shape, I mean.”

“I think shape has a lot to do with how things taste. I love Hershey kisses, but I don’t like Hershey bars.” Genevieve shrugs, her shoulders delicate and kissable.

Is it because of the kiss that was interrupted? Her mention of the candy? Is my mind just going crazy? Because I definitely never thought a girl’s shoulders were kissable before, but now I can’t think of anything other than kissing her shoulders. And so much more.

“I guess I get that,” I say, looking at the chicken on my plate so I don’t gawk at her shoulders or any other body part. “I like ziti, but I don’t like rotini.”

“Yes!” She nibbles on a chocolate chip cookie. “I’ll have to try making you the challah French toast for breakfast sometime. My abuela makes the most delicious challah, and she only taught me the secret family recipe. You’ll fall in love.”

I swallow hard. “I bet I will.”

She bites her lip and fiddles with the picnic basket handle. I think we both know I wasn’t referring to bread. I reach over to help put things back in the basket, brushing a hand against hers or leaning close enough to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo. “I’ll walk this back to the car,” I offer, and she just nods and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite make it across her entire face.

I walk fast. The basket is way less heavy now that we’ve devoured most of the food in it, and I have time to think. About this date or non-date. About how I could take her, so fragile and strong all at once, and kiss her the way she deserves to be kissed. Not half-hearted, like some beach bum who doesn’t want to commit. Not like she’s some flake in a tight outfit and high heels. I want to kiss her like she’s mine. I want to kiss her to show her that I see through the facade she throws up for everyone else. I want to kiss her so she’ll never forget it. So she won’t forget me.

Because I’m as good as gone.

I don’t want to ruin this night, because it’s going to be one of the last memories I have of being here. I don’t want to think about the university board’s decision, which was pretty damn gracious. They’re allowing me to finish my thesis work based on what I have now and send it through correspondence after I get home. I have the option to fly back for an appointed in-person thesis defense or do it before the board through Skype. Which is really nice of them, considering they could have just demanded I rush through and have it ready in the next few weeks, then booted my ass back to Israel.

It sucks that things have started to work out with Genevieve the same time everything else is falling apart, but that tends to be how things pan out for me. I’m just thankful for the fact that it didn’t come down to the two of us exchanging an awkward hug in the labs before it was goodbye forever.

I walk back and see her, sitting on the picnic table, her feet propped on the bench, her arms stretched behind her, her head tilted back.

If her shoulders made me want to kiss her before, now I can’t pick a body part that doesn’t make me want to do something, everything. I want to lick the line of her lips until she opens for me. I want my hands on her hips, pulling her close. I want to
lay her back and rub my face against her stomach, run my fingers down her arms, suck on her neck, and press my body tight against hers.

I want Genevieve, even though I know wanting her is the last thing I should be thinking about right now.

“Do you want to go see the observatory?” I ask.

She jumps, like my voice startled her. “Yes.” She slips off the table and holds a hand out for mine.

I’m way past wondering whether or not this is a date. If it is, it’s the one that I’ll never forget, the one I’ll use to compare all future dates to. If it’s not, I’m never going to admit it to myself. I can’t have her the way I’d really like to, so I have to suck up and take what I can get. And I will.

Her hand in mine is pretty damn amazing, all things considered. I hold it tight and walk slowly because I know her feet must be killing her. We head to the huge white building and her heels click on the marble floor when we make our way inside.

Astronomy isn’t my area of expertise, but I know enough to explain the questions she has when we pass the shadow-box exhibits. And it’s not just Genevieve asking questions. She tells me about meteor showers that made the sky burst into a choreographed explosion of streaking light in a valley she camped in in high school. She tells me about sitting up until dawn on the sloped roof outside her bedroom window to see Venus clearly. She tells me about the mnemonic devices she used to make up to remember facts about the planets when she was a little girl.

“So you were always a closet scientist?” I ask as she leans over to get a better look at a replica model of Saturn, turning on an improvised axis.

“Me?” She flicks a glance my way and snorts. “Not even remotely. I was destined to sell ottomans and bedroom sets in the illustrious Rodriguez Furniture Warehouse. This degree? It’s pretty much my parents humoring me. It’s going to be in finance and business. So I might one day graduate from selling sectionals to balancing the books. If I’m lucky.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, keeping my hand just at the small of her back while she walks to the next exhibit.

We both watch the Earth, moon, and sun replicas spin around slowly, sometimes eclipsing, sometimes spread apart like they’re on paths that will never connect.

“What I want?” She takes a deep breath and moves closer to me. “I want to be free.”

“What would happen if you stopped working at your parents’ business?” I ask, and she spins around suddenly, narrowing her eyes at me.

“I don’t want to be a scientist.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

I hold my hands up, surrender style. “I’m not a recruiter for the program, if that’s what you think.”

“You’re giving off the vibe.” She drops her arms and pokes one finger into my chest.

“Sorry.” I take her hand, watch her eyes go dark, and hold back a groan when her tongue darts out, quick and pink, and wets her bottom lip. “The thing I remember most about my mother?” Genevieve leans closer, so close I can see the patterns of grays and lighter blues that make up her irises. “She lived every second like she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do. I’m sure she had regrets, but I think she just loved...everything. And when she died, I hated everything. I thought it was a shitty testament to who she’d been.”

“It’s normal to hate everything when you lose someone you love,” she says, threading her fingers through mine.

“Yeah, it is.” I brush her hair back from her face and let my palm linger on her cheek. She closes her eyes and breathes deep. “But it starts to become a habit. I fight it every day. Because, sometimes, I have beauty and happiness staring me right in the face, and I never even notice. Until it’s too late. I don’t want to keep making that mistake.”

“It’s not too late,” she says, her words a soft dare. Or a plea.

I pull her close, wishing she was right. Why didn’t I face my problems when they were staring me in the face? Why did I let her slip through my fingers?

Her body is warm and soft in all the right places. I haven’t slept with a girl since I left Israel, so some of what I’m feeling is pure, pent-up need. But that’s not how this is going to go. I’m not going to use Genevieve, because what I feel for her extends way beyond animal urges. I respect her. I love the way she makes me feel, the way she makes me want to change.

“Do you want to go to the roof?” I ask, and the words vibrate with my glaring frustration, which makes her eyes startle wide open.

“Sure.”

I spin her body from mine in one neat movement and we rush up the stairs, coming out onto the wide roof and into the cool night air. Night took over while we were inside, and the deep blue of the sky cools every temper that flared in me.

“It feels...so wide open up here,” she says, twirling around, head tilted back. “Free.”

“You could tell your parents you’re not working for them anymore. Don’t you have brothers and sisters who could help out?” She’s talking about the celestial beauty of freedom, I’m talking practical applications of it.

“My brother, Cohen, does work
there, and so does his fiancé, at least until she graduates and gets a teaching job. Lydia is this crazy successful lawyer. Enzo has always done whatever the hell he wanted to, even when we were just kids. Cece will probably get a job as a professor.” She looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “Maybe you know her? She’s in comparative feminist lit?”