Today Tonight Tomorrow(41)



“I’m not judging. I’m just surprised. Why haven’t you been to any of their signings?”

“I didn’t want to be the creepy guy in the back who’s clearly too old for the books.”

“You’re never too anything for books,” I say. “We like what we like. My parents have plenty of adult fans, and yet they hate romance novels.”

The pink on his cheeks deepens. “Once again, I’m sorry. Your parents really don’t approve of what you read? Shouldn’t they be, I don’t know, glad that you’re reading at all?”

“That’s never been an issue with me,” I say. “Children’s books, those are fine, but romance novels?” If they knew about Delilah’s book signing, they’d shake their heads and purse their lips and I’d know, before they even said anything, that they were judging not just me but Delilah and her fans. “I’ve sort of started hiding my books from them. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“My mom likes them,” Neil offers. “If that helps at all.”

“I hope you don’t ever give her shit for them.”

He grimaces. “Not anymore.”

I slip my phone back into my pocket. “I have to go home for Shabbat dinner,” I explain. “It’s the Jewish Sabbath. We’re not, like, the best Jews, but we try to have Shabbat dinner every Friday, and—”

“I know what Shabbat is,” he says, and points to himself. “Also Jewish.”

“Wait. What?”

How has he blown my mind twice in the span of a single minute?

“I’m Jewish. My mom is Jewish, and I was raised Jewish.”

“Where do you go to temple?” I ask, still unconvinced.

“I had my bar mitzvah at Temple Beth Am. ‘Vezot Hab’rachah’ was my Torah portion.”

“I go to Temple De Hirsch Sinai,” I say. That’s the only other Reform synagogue in Seattle. In our city of nearly eight hundred thousand people, we get two. Within three blocks of my house, there are five churches.

I examine him, as though looking for some obvious Jewishness I missed. Of course, there isn’t any—just his objectively cute face. I usually have this instant connection with other Jews. It’s happened my entire life, despite how few Jews I know.

Neil McNair is Jewish, and there’s that tug in my chest, the one I feel when I learn I share a religion with someone.

“Faulty Jewdar?” he asks.

“Guess so. It’s the last name, too.”

He makes an odd face. “My dad’s. I was planning to change it when I turned eighteen. My mom’s maiden name is Perlman. But then I… didn’t.” His voice falls flat.

“Oh,” I say, sensing some awkwardness there but unsure how to deal with it. “So… I do have to go home for this.” But it doesn’t feel right to split up yet, not when an entire army of seniors is out there plotting our demise.

He glances at his watch and then back at me. “Would it be okay if I stopped by for a minute? Just to like… say hi to your parents and tell them that I think they’re literary geniuses?” With his teeth, he tugs on his lower lip. “No, that would be weird. It would be weird, right? You’ve already done a hundred nice things for me today. You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. He’s babbling, oh my God.

It’s such a relief to hear he doesn’t want to split up—or at least that he doesn’t mention it—that I have to force my face not to react. And then I’m wondering why I’m feeling relief, of all things. I would have assumed I’d be desperate for a break by now, but I guess my McNair tolerance levels are higher than I thought.

“Do you… um… want to have dinner with us?” I ask. “You can meet them if you promise to be normal.”

I just asked Neil McNair to Shabbat dinner with me and my parents. At my house. Any other time, I’d text Kirby and Mara about it, but I’m not sure how I’d explain it. I can barely explain it to myself.

Neil’s eyes grow wide. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” I say. “They love having people over.”

“Would it—” He breaks off, shoving his glasses up, which have once again slid down his nose. “Would it be okay if we stopped at my house on the way there? I want to get some books for them to sign. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

It hits me again what his friends said earlier, about him not having people over. He’ll probably run inside and run right back out. I’m not actually going to his house.

I tell him yes, and on the way back to my car, I text my parents that he’s coming. Then I pepper Neil with more questions about the books. He’s an Excavated expert, recalling details like the name of Riley’s pet gerbil (Megalosaurus), the location of her first dig in book one (a small town just south of Santa Cruz, where her family was vacationing), and what she found there (a Pliocene-era sand dollar). Consider me impressed.

“You’re going to have to give me directions,” I say as I turn the key in the ignition.

“Turn left after the Forty-Fifth Street exit.” He buckles his seat belt. “This is weird, huh? You going to my house, and then the two of us having dinner with your parents?”

I let out a laugh that’s a little more high-pitched than usual. “Yeah. It is.”

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