Page 109 of What's in a Kiss?

“You don’t.” Rabbi Dan shrugs.

“Damn it, Dan. Why am I still here? How do I leave?”

“How did you get here?” the rabbi asks in a far-out stoner voice.

“How didyousteal a Honda?” I ask.

“Hey, hey,” Dan says, throwing up his hands. “Tithing takes many forms.”

“You are so infuriating,” I say. Then I allow myself to consider his question. HowdidI get here? Masha’s ceremony. RabbiDan said those words about two people becoming inextricably entwined. Then I stared at Jake. There was a burst of light, a tremor in the ground. And that’s when it happened.

“A light bulb is turning on in your mind,” Dan says and smiles as if he’s been waiting for this all along. “Right on.”

Is that it? Do I need to don my maid of honor hat and make Masha’s wedding happen a second time? Do I need to go out the way I came in?

“Can you meet me tomorrow morning at ten at Lifeguard Tower 28?” I ask Rabbi Dan.

He nods and we rise from the table, the deal struck.

“Don’t forget to bring the joint,” he says. “There appears to be a shortage.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I spend a sleepless night alone in the bridal suite at Shutters on the Beach, attempting to recreate the details of Masha and Eli’s Real Life wedding. By ten on Sunday morning, I’m dragging toward Tower 28 a chuppah made of plywood, hot glue, and lace.

I hear the beep of a large truck in reverse, and I look toward the sound. A tow truck pushes a red 2012 Nissan LEAF out of the Shutters parking garage. Somewhere deep inside I’m panicked and intrigued. But I don’t have time to think on it more.

I’m wearing a golden shift that approximates my maid of honor dress. I’m barefoot and have painted exactly half of my lips red. I made four handwritten programs, one for every person I’m hoping will show up today. I affixed the programs with popsicle sticks. I bought a small bouquet of white and yellow calla lilies from the florist up the beach. I have a sack of take-out pupusas, a string quartet version of “Just Like Heaven” downloaded on my phone, a sunny sky, and a heavy heart.

“I recognize this maid of honor,” a voice behind me says.

I turn to find Rabbi Dan making his way down the beach. He’s dressed as his alter-ego yogi self—his Jewish novelty tie replaced with the unnecessarily sheer white kurta, his yarmulke swapped for a sand-colored headscarf.

“How do I look?” he says and spins like the sand is a catwalk.

“Like a man I’d drag out of a weed café so he could be twenty minutes late to officiate my best friend’s wedding,” I say.

“Where is everyone?” Yogi Dan says, scanning the quiet beach. “I’ve got a bris at eleven or a kundalini class at eleven thirty. Depending on how things go.”

I check my phone, but there are no new messages. Jake hasn’t written me back since last night, after we text-argued about my decision to stay in Santa Monica. He was shocked, then confused, then annoyed. He wanted to come meet me, said he’d pack a bag and bring Gram Parsons and be at Shutters in an hour. When I responded that I needed some time, that I’d explain everything today, he called. And called. I put my phone on silent, knowing that if I picked up, I’d end up spending the night in his arms, and I’d lose the will to do what I have to do right now.

If he’d called one more time, I probably would have caved. But he didn’t.

Now I’m terrified I’ve blown it anyway. Terrified he won’t show up.

“He’ll be here,” Yogi Dan intuits. “The wild card is the bride.”

He’s right. When I’d called Masha last night to invite-slash-beg her to come today, she’d sent me to voicemail. I was in the middle of leaving a long, ungainly voice memo when I got her text.

Masha:You’re still here? Didn’t I tell you to go home?

Me:About that.

Me:I may need a tiny bit of help.

Masha:Wrong number.

Me:Please, Mash. If this works... you’ll never hear from me again.

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