“He felt that you weren’t invested enough,” she pronounces, as if she’s accusing Baily of a heinous crime. “As if you didn’t really care”

Mrs. Schwartzheimer isn’t one for platitudes.

She doesn’t go with, “It’s not you, it’s him” or “It just wasn’t bashert.” No references to anyone waiting right around the corner. Baily can appreciate that.

But the venerable shadchan doesn’t mince words, either.

“He felt that you weren’t invested enough,” she pronounces, as if she’s accusing Baily of a heinous crime. “As if you didn’t really care. And that’s no good. He wants a girl who cares about getting married. About relationships. You know it’s very important nowadays, relationships, that’s all anyone talks about.”

How, exactly, did she come across as “not invested” enough, Baily wonders? Did she not laugh loudly enough at his jokes? Look too eager to end a date? Not react with appropriate ecstasy when he’d come to pick her up? How do you measure investment, anyway?

Later, she’ll call Meira. Later, they’ll relegate Mrs. Schwartzheimer’s latest revelation to the Google doc they’re compiling (The Shadchan Said — bestseller in the making), and after that, they’ll come up with a hundred reasons why This Boy wasn’t The One and how it’s all bashert, she should be happy it ended now.

But Baily doesn’t feel like being happy. Not right now. Not yet. Maybe never.

Because after six successful dates, she’d really begun to (cautiously, wonderingly) think that Nosson Heiman was, in fact, The One.

For starters, he was tall. Not that it mattered, but it kind of did when you were five-foot-nine without shoes. But it didn’t really matter, and of course she would never say no to a shorter boy, in fact she’s dated plenty of them, more short ones than tall ones. But still. Being tall was a point in Nosson Heiman’s favor. Definitely.

He was also kind. Genuinely thoughtful. Caring. Deep. Insightful. She’d liked the way he asked her, on each date, how things were going at work — and always remembered what she’d told him the last time. And when they were in that gift shop at the aquarium (these places always made you exit through the gift shop) and she’d mentioned that she had a fish tank in her apartment, he bought one of those little fake plant things to add to it. It didn’t fit in, not at all — too artificial and oversized amid the delicate rock formations and mini fake trees she and Gila had chosen — but it didn’t matter, somehow. Baily had stuck it in the back corner and decided it gave the tank character.

She should probably toss it in the trash now.

The fish tank hums with comforting, endless sound. Water, bubbles, aerating the miniature world. The collection of fish swimming in a graceful, never-ending dance. Baily stares into the glass depths, squints past the blurry contours of her own face. Life is so simple for fish.

Dr. Seuss pops into her head. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.

So many fish in the sea.

This one has a bent-up hat. This one knows how to change a flat.

This one learns all day and night. This one is the perfect height.

No, no. Back to the fish. The fish. Swishing tails, scales glowing blue and orange and pink and white. Bubbles streaming upwards, tiny sparkling balls of air and light. Breathe, relax.

Gila had been the one who’d insisted on buying a fish tank. Let’s make this a real home, no waiting at the bus stop to get engaged.  Back when the two of them had made the move to New York together, found an apartment, determinedly set up their lives in the shidduch-rich streets of the Big Apple, they’d gone all out, custom-built cabinets and fake greenery and pretty rock formations and fairy lights that turned the tank into a magical underwater scene late at night. They’d set it up and Gila was super proud — See, life is now, it’s not just about waiting to get married.

Two months later, Gila was engaged. Seven years and four roommates later, Baily is still feeding the fish.

Oh, well. It’s not as if she has that much to do with her time. Or any other company to spend it with. The older she gets, the harder it is to find a suitable roommate.

Which brings her right back to Nosson Heiman.

For a moment her heart stings. Then she catches herself. She didn’t get this far by giving in to self-pity.

If he doesn’t want me, he’s not the right one.

She gives a fleeting thought to the pros list she’d scrawled in tiny letters, late last night. Deep. Thoughtful. Insightful. Kind. No. Stop.

Meira’s going to have to work very hard to convince her of the bashert in this one.

“Cheer up, Baily,” she says out loud. “There are lots of other fish in the sea.”

The words sound hollow.