The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(72)

“Yeah, but no one wants to see it. It’s not glamorous.” She blamed exhaustion for the way she let her head fall against Josh’s shoulder.

“When have you ever given a single fuck what other people want?”

“Good point.”

Maybe it was hypocritical to preach about balance after hours, to hound her employees about taking all their PTO, to demand transparency and trust from everyone else, and not live by her own rules.

“Go home. Get some sleep,” Josh said. “I’m gonna talk to Clara. She’s been angling forever to get some of the administrative stuff off your plate. That’s the whole point of having staff, of hiring people we know and trust. We would have delegated at least twenty percent of your workload a year ago if you’d let us.”

Naomi’s mind caught on a wisp of a lesson from her courses. A scholar from Jerusalem posited that two types of rest exist.

One is rest from weariness, respite when our bodies and minds are worn down. Tired. We rest only so we might wake up and continue working. This first rest—sleep—brings relief, but not joy.

The second type of rest, the one Naomi had never really considered, came only at the end of reaching a goal, never in the middle. This was the rest of release. Of knowing that one had done something or made something worthy of satisfaction. Menuhat margoa, rest in achievement. Rest that brings peace.

Naomi supposed she could bask. A little.

Eventually, Josh got to his feet, offering her a hand up.

She refused to recognize it as a metaphor and only accepted because her heels were slippery on the concrete floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and they both knew she wasn’t just talking about the work. They’d done a lot for each other over the years, and yeah, he definitely owed her for the whole falling-in-love-with-their-financier-after-promising-not-to thing, but he’d also always believed in her, even when she didn’t return the favor.

What was more, Josh didn’t just believe in her ability to conquer worlds, he’d always believed in her humanity. He’d never seen her mistakes as fatal—never seen them as more than glancing blows.

“Two apologies from Naomi Grant in one hour? Quit it before I get smug.” Josh smiled at her, dimples and all. Fucking show-off.

He reached for the door handle, but she caught his wrist, using it to turn him toward her.

“What are you—”

And Naomi did something she should have done a long time ago.

She hugged him.

His arms came around her waist tentatively. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Are you sick?”

“Shhh,” she said, her chin on his shoulder. “I’m trying this new thing.”

The door opened behind them.

“Oh,” Clara said, obviously surprised to find her business partner and her fiancé embracing.

But the next thing Naomi knew, Clara had folded herself around Naomi’s back, cheek pressing into her shoulder blades, completing the hug like they were cartoon kittens on some kind of deranged greeting card.

“It’s about time,” Clara said, sighing happily.

“You two really are the worst,” Naomi muttered under her breath. But she didn’t mean it.





Chapter Twenty-Six


    MODERN INTIMACY—LECTURE 5:


   Get more naked


NAOMI’S MUSCLES COMPLAINED as she pulled herself out of her car in the parking lot of the JCC on Tuesday night. She’d expected the discomfort, having finally made it to the gym that morning for the first time in a while. Her brain read the ache as achievement. As conquering herself. Bending her form to match her will. The sharp edge of each step reminded her of progress. As it turned out, the sensation of falling in love with Ethan Cohen was very similar.

Except, of course, that it was her mind changing. Her brain instead of her body working to transform. The promise in the sweet burn of this new kind of work was comforting in its familiarity and heady with potential. It was hard to explain. She just felt . . . full when she was with him, satisfied in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

Naomi had lain in bed last night and given her ceiling all the sappy smiles she’d tried to hide during the day, asking herself what it was about him that made her softer and stronger at the same time.

The best articulation Naomi could come up with was that he made her tender. Which was . . . not a word that anyone had ever used to describe her.

Tender like petals pressed between pages of a book. Tender like a release of poison from her bloodstream. Tender, a cousin to weak, but with a quiet power she couldn’t deny.

Naomi had built Shameless. She knew what it felt like to take a theory you held about what the world needed and make it real. For the entire duration of her twenties, she’d rioted in art and business both. But this lecture series with Ethan was different.

It still held notes of rebellion, of steering social change, but while Shameless had operated outside of established systems, in open defiance of them even, the Modern Intimacy series was designed to build a bridge between a synagogue that had existed for a hundred years and people searching for belonging in an increasingly distant culture. And it was Naomi’s job to see them safely across.

She hoped she was up to the task.

Something about the parking lot was weird tonight. She shoved her keys in her bag. There were too many cars. Too many people lingering by the entrance, their voices kicking up as she passed.