The statement was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. Correcting her was probably a bad idea, but he knew that in order to really get her on board, he’d have to at least try to get Naomi to understand. His job was full of deceptively small words like faith that had infinitely complicated definitions. Luckily, Ethan was pragmatic by nature and realistic by virtue of experience.

“It’s simpler than that. I want to give people a reason to believe. In themselves, each other, and something more.”

She stared at him for a long time. Ethan could feel her trying to peel back the layers of him, to find out whether his center was rotten.

“Come on, Naomi Grant. Don’t tell me you’re not a little intrigued.”

What if he wanted this too much? He never stopped to ask himself what failure would cost.

“Oh, I’m intrigued all right.” She brushed her thumb across the bench’s inscription, mirroring the way he’d done it earlier. “But for all your grand declarations, you still haven’t said anything about logistics.”

“I’m bad at details.” A flaw for anyone, but especially a rabbi.

“Most people don’t claim their weaknesses so easily.” Her voice was soft now, thoughtful.

He held her gaze for a long moment. “Maybe they should.”

Perhaps when the seminar ended, he’d ask her out. Ethan hadn’t asked anyone out in a long time, but then again, he couldn’t remember ever wanting to learn about someone as much as he wanted to learn about her.

Naomi broke first, her eyes narrowing. “You’re stalling.”

“Okay, okay. Here’s what I’ve got. Once a week, we do an hour-long, maybe an hour-and-a-half, seminar at the Jewish Community Center—less intimidating than the synagogue,” he answered before she could ask. “Ideally the curriculum stretches across six to eight weeks. That way it falls into the same schedule as the rest of our activities calendar.”

Naomi considered her cuticles. “Can I pick the night of the week?”

“Sure. As long as it doesn’t fall on Shabbat.”

“Tuesdays,” she said. “I have Krav Maga on Monday and Wednesday nights.”

“Done. You can outline the syllabus. Whatever you think people should know about pursuing modern intimacy.”

She arched a brow. “You’re giving me carte blanche?”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.” Ethan didn’t usually review the class materials of the professionals he hired.

Naomi got to her feet. “We should have a trial run. If the first seminar doesn’t work out, let’s agree to be honest with one another and call it.”

“All right.” He stood up too. “In terms of compensation—”

She waved him off. “You can’t afford my speaking rates. I’ll do it as a volunteer.”

“No. That’s really not necessary.” He must have looked serious, because she relented.

“Fine. Sixty bucks a session?”

That was insultingly low and they both knew it. “I want to argue with you, but something tells me I’ll lose.”

She smiled at him, the false one that he remembered from the convention center. “You should trust those instincts.”

“Does it work for you to hold the first session in two weeks? That should be enough time to book the space and spread the word to the congregation. I’m planning to contact the Hillel organizations at USC and UCLA.”

“Two weeks.” Naomi stuck out her hand.

Ethan took it after a moment. Up close her eyes were almost green.

He had fourteen days to get his act together. He hoped it was enough.

Chapter Four

WHEN ETHAN’S MOTHER called him in the middle of the following week and said she wanted to have dinner on Friday to celebrate his sister coming home, he immediately knew she’d forgotten about Shabbat.

This was a fairly common occurrence. He’d gently reminded her about his weekly observance, assuming they’d make alternative plans. But she’d insisted and, in a few rapid-fire keystrokes that he could hear through the phone, sent him an email calendar invite. In Renee Cohen’s book, iCal was legally binding.

Only on rare occasions did his mom pull out one of the family’s handwritten recipe cards, passed down across multiple generations—half the words still in German—and decipher them. Especially on short notice.

Ethan prepared himself for an evening of minor disaster.

Sure enough, on Friday night, it was hard to decide who felt worse as his mom’s hand shook as she tried to light the candles. Renee’s cheeks colored as her tongue tripped over the Hebrew words, rushing to recall them before the match burned her fingers.

His sister, Leah, kept apologizing for not being able to step in. Leah spent the majority of her time filming in remote locations for her job as a reality TV show producer, and by her own admission, it was harder to keep up with the traditions living in a tent on a tiny island off the coast of Maui.

Ethan sweated under his kippah. His mother’s dining room was easily seventy-five degrees. Right off the kitchen, it seemed to absorb residual heat from her out-of-shape and consequently overworked oven.

“Why don’t you just recite the English translation?” Ethan’s stomach twisted. He was a jerk for putting his family in the position of practicing rituals that they didn’t fully embrace.