“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, Iwouldn’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.”