The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(59)

The waiter came and poured the red wine they’d ordered. Naomi took a big swallow, half the glass, before she continued.

“I have this thing where, when people promise too much, when something seems too good to be true . . . I don’t like to wait around and see it break down.”

She’d learned early the cruel fact of life that you could lose everything more than once.

“It’s easier, at least it seemed easier then,” Naomi said, “to cut and run.”

“So you said no?” Ethan took a sip of his own wine instead of cutting his losses and whistling for the check. Naomi experienced an extra surge of warmth toward him for acting like this date was normal in spite of everything.

She wished she could write her cowardice off, attribute it to being young and stupid, but Naomi knew it was no excuse. “I didn’t say no so much as I ran out of her house and never answered her calls again.”

Joce had obviously moved on, married someone else, but Naomi knew more than anyone that good things happening for you didn’t make the bad things fade any faster. Time might heal all wounds, but in Naomi’s experience, never as fast as she needed.

“So, this is the first time you’ve seen each other since . . . Wow.” Ethan’s eyes had gone wide, the blue sharp and brighter than usual. “But . . . if everything else was good, if you’d worked through things before, why not work through that?”

The urge to change the subject pushed against her lips, but what had she told her students?

Sometimes first dates went deep, whether or not you felt ready. Did her and Ethan’s rapid foray into old wounds tonight speak to compatibility or false intimacy, sure to crumble at the first sign of real strain?

“I would make a terrible wife,” she said, voice matter-of-fact, stabbing for nonchalance.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Why not?” She crushed her napkin in her fist. “I’m selfish and I’m mean. Most of the time, I’d rather be alone than spend time with other people, even people I love. I never pull my punches, even when I should.”

“Naomi—”

But she wasn’t done. Naming her flaws, showing them to him here in public, was like trial by fire, and more than part of her relished the burn.

“I’m messy. I can’t cook. I never remember to call when I’m going to be home late.” She took a deep breath. It was almost all out there. For him to weigh and measure. To decide if she was still worth the risk. “But mostly, I don’t trust anyone. Especially not myself.”

“I see.” Ethan finished his own wine in a long swallow. “Let me ask you something. Why do you think I want to be with you?”

“Novelty?” There was still a hint of teasing in her voice, but not enough.

“Try again.”

“Oat-sowing?” she offered, a little more cheerfully.

His mouth quirked up. “Hardly.”

“Morbid curiosity?”

“Naomi,” he said again.

She played with a curl by her temple. “Hm?”

Ethan cleared his throat. “I wanna talk about God for a second.”

“Oh.” She sighed, feigning annoyance. “Him.”

He flipped his fork over a few times, breaking eye contact as if it cost him. “I promise not to do it too many times tonight. I’ll be cool.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

That earned her a small smile.

“All right then, go on, Rabbi Cohen. Tell me something about God.”

“Okay.” He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “There’s this Hebrew meditation I read about. It’s called husa, and it means, roughly, ‘compassion for something that is flawed.’ Husa is acceptance, devoid of judgment. The kind of love an artist has for their creation, even as they recognize its imperfection. To practice the meditation, we ask God for husa in prayer.” He lowered his voice as he recited, “‘The soul is Yours, the body is Your creation, husa, have compassion for Your work.’”

Naomi sat back and tried to catch her breath. His words hammered against her heartstrings.

“What I’m trying to articulate, probably a little poorly, is that you’re precious,” Ethan said, “not in spite of, but because of all the ways you believe you’re broken.”

Naomi ducked her head, going so far as to chew the terrible bread to buy herself time to respond. “I’ve spent my entire adult life in therapy learning to love myself, because I believed that if I loved myself, I wouldn’t need anyone else’s love. But that’s not really how it works, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said softly.

Naomi was so . . . gone over this man. No map, no compass. Gone.

“I’m starting to think all those years of emotional depravation just made me hungrier. So, sure, I guess I’ll take God’s love. If he’s offering.”

“He’s offering,” Ethan confirmed.

She resisted the urge to ask if God was the only one.

“Do I have to love all of my art? Because some of my early work is pretty bad.”

“You have to love all of it,” he said, “at least a little, because it’s created by your hand.”

“Oh, all right.” She crossed her legs. “I’ll love my garbage if you and God think it’s so important. I’ll be Oscar the fucking Grouch.”