* * *

Hi Barry, long time no speak. Just wondering, are you related to a Bracha Green? I know it’s a common last name, but I see that her brother’s name is Dov Ber so I’m wondering if maybe you’re named after the same person?

Gershy knew it was a strange text, but no matter. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.

A moment later, his phone buzzed.

From 7th and Clifton? Yup, first cousin.

Within moments, Gershy had Barry on the phone. “Okay, so, uh… b’kitzur, I…” Gershy realized that in his haste, he hadn’t planned what to say. Should he explain that he was exploring ways to torpedo a shidduch? No, that would sound bizarre.

“Yeah, so I was redt to your cousin and, y’know, I wanna know what her deal is, so I was wondering if you could tell me anything she really doesn’t like so I can look out for it.”

Barry was a good guy. Too straight for shenanigans, but too kind to question when he spotted them.

“Okay,” he said, clearly restraining the bafflement in his tone. “I’ll ask my sister.”

It was another ten minutes before Gershy’s phone buzzed. She says Bracha is pretty laid back, the only thing she cares about is facial hair. She really doesn’t like it.

Gershy’s heart dropped. He looked into the mirror. His clean-shaven face stared back.

“C’mon,” he grunted at his barely noticeable stubble. “Grow!”

The face in the mirror stubbornly remained the same.

Gershy paced. This was ridiculous. Why was this Bracha so laid back? Why couldn’t she despise people whose mothers made poppers for dinner? Or whose fathers hailed from Flatbush? Why something as abstract as facial hair? What good did that do him? He hadn’t sported a beard since a seventh-grade Mordechai costume!

Wait. Gershy stopped short. Mordechai. Beard. Fake beard. It was simple! So simple!

He sat down at his laptop and began to type furiously.

* * *

Sunday night, 10:30 pm. The door to a nondescript home on 7th and Clifton opened, and a 21-year-old girl slipped in.

“Bracha! How did it go?!” Before she could take off her coat, Rabbi and Mrs. Green were anxiously at her side.

“Great,” Bracha replied. “Let me run upstairs for a sec. I’ll be right back.”

She entered her room and collapsed on the floor, laughing.

She called her cousin. “Kaila, remember you told me Barry asked if there’s anything I don’t like? Did you tell him facial hair? You won’t believe this. The guy shows up with this big, brown beard. Suspicious, because it’s the kind of thing you hear about before, right? Anyway, when he made a left turn, I sneaked a peek. The price tag was still on! Two hundred and fifty dollars! What? Say no? Of course not! Can you imagine what he’d pay for a diamond ring?”

And Bracha went down to speak with her anxious parents.

* * *

“She said what?!” Gershy demanded.

“She said she’s happy to go out again,” Mrs. Bean repeated, confused by the outburst. “You had no complaints, so I said we’re on the same page. I think tonight is best, no? Keep up the momentum.” Gershy opened his mouth and closed it.

Bracha wasn’t available that evening, but early afternoon was fine. Gershy gulped. He had two hours.

* * *

He could wear the same suit and tie but no — perhaps it was the blend of charcoal and purple that had captured her heart. He would go with a black suit, slightly crumpled, and his ugliest brown tie. Mom would surely protest, but hey — he wasn’t given any warning! This was the only suit he had left… sort of. And the tie? Since when can’t a guy like brown?

He looked at his watch. The date was in 20 minutes. A quick check in the mirror. Terrible. Perfect.

Now all he needed was the beard, and he’d look too awful to contemplate. Humming, he reached into his top drawer. Huh? Hadn’t he placed it at the front? Did it slip back? Wait, was it in the second drawer? Nope, empty. Gershy began to panic. Where was it?

He burst out of his room. “Mom?!”

Mrs. Bean rushed out of the living room, clutching her Tehillim tightly. “It’s almost time to go. What’s wrong?”

“I, uh, there’s something I’m missing….”

Mrs. Bean looked concerned. “Missing?”

“Well, it’s… like, a beard-type thing.”

Mrs. Bean let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I thought you meant something important. That ball of hair? When Angela was cleaning your room, she asked me about it. I had no idea what it was, so I told her to toss it. And Gershy — your suit desperately needs ironing! Why didn’t you tell me?! And your tie?!” Gershy was too disoriented to respond, and Mom was plenty anxious herself. “We’ll discuss this later, Gershy — you’ll be late! Grab your hat and go!”

Gershy ran for his car, head spinning. He slid in and glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of his perfectly clean-shaven face.

There was no other word for it — Gershy was horror-struck.

Chapter 2: Stringing Her Along

Esty Heller

Bracha’s squint at his bare face did not look like confusion. It looked like a smirk.

Come on, Gershy silently urged as he switched lanes for the sixth time in three minutes. I’m the ultimate flip-flopper who can’t stick with one look for two dates. Why did you even get into my car?

But Bracha Green seemed to recover from her surprise very quickly, and instead of being tasked to defend his new look, he found himself involved in a philosophical conversation about turning weaknesses into strengths.

Who has philosophical conversations on a second date before they even reached their destination?

Greens and Beans, that’s who.

“Take a fickle person,” Bracha was saying. “You know, the type of guy who’s yeshivish one day and a Lubavitcher chassid the next? Okay, not overnight, he would need time to grow his beard.” He caught her wink in the corner of his eye. “Or he, like, can’t stick to one lane on the road for three consecutive minutes. You know what he would be great at?”

“Not dating,” Gershy responded swiftly. “Or driving.”

“Nope, definitely not. But he’d make a great day trader.”

He switched lanes again. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Um, nothing.” Did he have to tell her that he was borderline obsessed with the stock market? He was never meeting this girl again. “I’m just thinking… maybe that’s why I applied for a job at a hedge fund company.”

“Your uncle’s?”

“My uncle’s what?”

“Your uncle’s company, but I guess not. I have a neighbor, Mr. Bean, who’s a partner. It’s not a common name, so I assumed….”

“Not a common name at all.” He switched lanes so abruptly, Bracha gripped her handrests in panic. “You wouldn’t know the name of the company?”

“Uh, believe it or not, I do,” she said, still clutching the armrests. “The name is BG Holdings. My initials?”

“Our initials,” Gershy muttered. He shook his head. “No, I applied for a job at Stonehaven Equity. BG Holdings is actually their main competition. It came up when I researched the place.”

Bracha gave a short laugh. “Yeah, our initials, how funny. And I’ll be stuck with those initials for life. I’ve built some name recognition in my industry at this point. So maybe when I get married, I’ll hyphenate my last name.”

“But you can never be—” he cried out, then clamped his lips together. She could never and would never be Bracha Green-Bean.

Bracha grinned. Goodness, did she really find this funny? Didn’t she realize what she’d implied?

He kept quiet after that. Awkward silence had to be the ultimate date-killer.

But after a few minutes, Bracha, who did not seem perturbed by the silence, started talking. “You’ve stayed in this lane for the last five minutes,” she noted. “What happened?”

Gershy blushed. “I can’t stand being in the inner lane of a double-lane exit. Like, subconsciously, I don’t trust that both lanes actually lead to the exit, so I stick with the far one.”

Bracha gaped.

“What?” he asked. “Is that crazy weird?” Man, yes! He’d done it! He’d weirded her out!

“It’s crazy weird,” she said slowly, “to meet a person who shares my distrust of exit lanes.”

* * *

The weather was annoyingly gorgeous.

Come on, clouds, Gershy beseeched. Do your thing.

He’d chosen the boring botanical gardens that Google reviews vowed “grew nothing but weeds.” He hadn’t banked on the sun shining gloriously in a bright blue sky. The last thing he wanted was a delightfully pleasant afternoon.

The main entrance was a stone archway, surrounded by neatly trimmed bushes. Not a weed in sight. Instead of weeds, there were colorful flowers blooming beneath the maliciously gorgeous sun.

An itch rose from the depths of his lungs. It wasn’t the maddening itch of irritation. It was a physical itch, climbing up his olfactory pathway and emerging as a loud, majestic SNEEZE.

“Ge-g-g-g-ezuntei-choo!”

He turned sharply. Bracha’s face was red, her eyes watery. “Are you—” he started, but his question was truncated by another grand sneeze. After that, it was sneeze (he), sneeze (she), sneeze sneeze sneezesneezesneeze, both of them, nonstop.

Unable to talk, Gershy frantically motioned for her to run with him. Finally, they tumbled into his car for shelter.

“Are you…” Gershy stammered. “I didn’t mention this, but I’m allergic to pollen.”

“Yessss,” she said. “Me, too. It’s terrible.”

“I don’t get it! I saw the pictures — this place didn’t have a green leaf in sight.”

Evil, horrible Google reviewers! It was true; people spoke up only to criticize. He’d chosen this place for its dead landscaping. And it wasn’t even allergy season yet!

“Well, I guess we should leave,” he said contritely. “I’m sorry….”

“It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”

And if he had? A giddy thought struck him. You bet it’s okay. This place had literally chased them out.

But Gershy had no idea what to do next. Was this his neat escape? Could he take her home now?

He got onto the highway and zigzagged between lanes.

“By the way…” Bracha said after ten minutes of dizzying driving.

“Yes?”

“I know my résumé lists my job as a speech therapist, but duh, that’s part of the template.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“That when I’m not addressing lateral lisps, I spend my time day trading.”

* * *

His olive-green sweater was an obvious choice for this not-happening third date.

“Olive-green,” his sister Avigail had announced after a graphic design class, “is the most unappealing color on the palette.”

Most unappealing felt about right. Besides, his suits had failed him twice.

But the moment Bracha Green took off her jacket in the hotel lobby, reality hit hard. Bracha was wearing an identically colored olive-green sweater.

We match, he thought in alarm. We’re not a match, but we match.

Okay, first effort of today’s Mission Self-Sabotage: a game. “Should we play Truth or Dare?”

“If you’d like.”

He wouldn’t like. All he would like was an explanation of how he’d landed here with a girl named Bracha Green wearing matching sweaters.

They started playing. After a few supersafe rounds, Gershy exhaled, exhausted with the inanity of it. “Remember how I applied for a job at Stonehaven?” he asked. “I have an interview tomorrow morning. Problem is, I changed my mind — hey, don’t look at me like that, I got scared that when a hobby turns into a job, the joy would disappear, so I decided I don’t want it. But I can’t back out now. My mother’s so excited, it’ll break her heart if I don’t give it a chance.”

The irony struck him as the words left his mouth, but Bracha missed it. “So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. Go to the interview and torpedo my own chances?”

“You’re not so amazing at that, are you?”

“Um. Maybe not.”

“Well then, this is my dare,” she said, eyes glinting. “You’re going to go and pretend you’re the nephew of my neighbor, Mr. Bean, from BG Holdings.”

“That’s their main competition! I can’t do that! That’s insane!”

“Well,” she said triumphantly. “That’s my dare.”

Chapter 3: Bean there, Done That

Michal Marcus

Who said that settling a dare wasn’t a good reason for a fourth date? If people could spend five dates sharing yeshivah and seminary stories, then letting a girl know you were made of tougher stuff was fair game.

Or at least that’s what Gershy told himself as he hunted for a tie.

There! The garish red-and-gold one that matched his Purim costume.

He drove the becoming-familiar route to 7th and Clifton and waited until Bracha slid into the car to make his announcement. “Mission accomplished!”

“Way to go,” she said with a smile. “Let’s hear.”

“I didn’t have to actually lie,” he told her triumphantly. “I just let assumptions pile up. They take me into this office with a desk the size of my dorm room. The CEO looks at my resume and says, ‘Bean, what an unusual last name.’ and I say, ‘Yeah, there aren’t many Beans around, just my uncles….’

“ ‘So why are you applying for a job here?’ he asks. ‘You know what they say about working with family…’ I tell him. ‘Besides, I’ve always admired your work.’ ”

Next to him, Bracha gave a small nod. To his annoyance, the nod felt good.

“Smooth. What happened next?”

“Well, then we moved into regular interview stuff. I figured I had nothing to lose — there was no way they’d hire the nephew of their main competitor — so I answered honestly. They asked if I’ve ever reversed myself mid-trade.”

Bracha laughed. “That feels like a trick question.”

“It kind of is. Usually, reversing is a mistake. But every once in a while, something holds you back.”

“And then?”

“And then you watch for a little longer.” He gave a half-smile. “And sometimes, it’s not as wrong as you thought.”

She looked at him. “So that’s when you invest?”

“Not all in,” he said quickly. “You just… don’t walk away yet.”

“And what convinces you to go all in?”

Gershy squirmed, laughed, but said nothing.

Soon, he pulled off the highway. Bracha looked around. “Where are we headed?”

“Creepy Crawly. It’s like a petting zoo, but with reptiles and snakes. They have the biggest Burmese python in the country.”

Gershy had run the destination by his teen sister. As he’d suspected, she’d squealed with horror when he’d offered to take her. “Snakes and reptiles? Are you nuts? I wouldn’t go there if you paid me!” Bingo.

Now, he glanced at Bracha, waiting for apprehension or disgust. But her face was impassive.

He bought tickets and they headed for the snake house, squinting as they moved into the dimly lit building. Humidity radiated from the enclosures, each habitat carefully arranged with rocks, branches, and leaves. Some snakes were easy to spot, draped lazily over a limb or basking under a lamp. Others took longer to find, a pattern gradually appearing against greens and browns.

Bracha studied the reptiles with open curiosity, Gershy trailing behind her. Then she walked over to a worker. “Good morning, Kendra,” she said warmly. “Impressive exhibit you have here.”

Kendra? Do they know each other? Gershy was confused. Oh, she has a name tag, and Bracha noticed it. That was… nice.

“Thanks.” Kendra beamed. “We have the second-largest collection of squamates in the US.”

“Wow! Can we handle them?”

“Sure thing. We have a few visitors can hold. There’s the corn snake — the kids love that one — a milk snake, and if you want the big guns, a Burmese python; Milo is his name. He’s large, but well-behaved.”

“I’d love to hang out with Milo!”

Gershy watched as Kendra crouched, unhooked a latch, then another. She reached into the enclosure, one hand sliding under the snake’s middle. The python shifted and Kendra adjusted her grip. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Bracha said. “I like substantial.”

Gershy opened his mouth to suggest starting with the corn snake, but Kendra was already turning, Milo draped over her arms.

“Who’s first?”

“Me.” Bracha stepped forward quickly.

“Okay,” Kendra said. “Arms out. Relaxed.”

Milo was transferred with care, his weight settling onto Bracha’s forearms. She let out a surprised laugh as he shifted.

“He likes to feel supported,” Kendra said.

“I can do supportive,” Bracha said, as Milo made a slow, determined attempt to climb higher and draped himself enthusiastically around her arm.

Bracha grinned. “This is cool,” she said. “It might be my favorite date activity yet.”

Gershy stared at her, then at the snake, then back at her again.

“Want a turn?” Kendra asked him.

No, he did not. He didn’t mind looking at snakes, but he did not want the slimy thing wrapped around his arm. But no way could he say that, so he said, “Sure,” with forced cheer.

“Okay, let me transfer him.” Kendra slid her hands under the snake with practiced ease. Gershy watched, every muscle tense.

“Arms out.”

He hesitated, then held out his arms stiffly.

“Looser,” Kendra said. “He needs somewhere to rest.”

Milo’s tongue flicked. Gershy inhaled sharply.

Kendra transferred the snake in one steady motion. The warmth surprised him. So did the pressure. Milo — who actually wasn’t slimy, but dry and leathery — lifted his head again and tightened slightly.

“Is he supposed to do that?”

“He’s just getting comfortable,” Kendra said. “You’re fine.”

Another second passed. “Okay,” Gershy said. “I think he’s comfortable enough.”

Kendra lifted Milo away. The pressure eased.

They thanked her and walked outside, where Gershy took in big gulps of air.

“That was fun!” Bracha said. “But wait, you never told me what happened next at your supposed-to-fail interview?”

Gershy sighed. “It didn’t go as planned, that’s what happened. After they peppered me with questions, the CEO said, ‘It’s been a pleasure. You seem to check all our boxes. And getting slipped some inside information about our competitor’s operating methods would sweeten the deal….’

“That really riled me up. I would NEVER share secrets. I mean, assuming I actually had them….” He reddened. “Anyway, I stood up and said, ‘Gentlemen, I appreciate your time. But I’m a man of integrity, and I’m afraid our visions don’t align.’

“I was walking toward the door, relieved I’d gotten out of the job, when the CEO said, ‘Mr. Bean, please come back. That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear. If you won’t betray your uncle, you won’t betray us either. Why don’t we talk compensation and benefits package?’”

“Oh, no! So you got the job? Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Gershy frowned. “They made me a really good offer; much better than what I’d imagined. It’s annoying.”

Bracha laughed. “A job offer. I hope you don’t want me to feel bad for you.”

“Well, it is partly your fault that I ended up in this mess.”

“Oh, so now I should apologize?” A wry smile.

“I’m just saying, your dare really messed me up. I mean, this is a real business with real people. It’s not a joke.”

Bracha took a step back.

“You’re right, it’s not a joke.” She was quiet for a long moment. Then she looked directly at the red-and-gold tie. “And guess what? Dating isn’t a joke, either.”

Chapter 4: Spill the Beans

Blimi Rabinowitz

Did Mrs. Becker call back yet?” Bracha asked her mother.

“No. Which is weird, isn’t it? After the other dates, she was on the phone with those lukewarm yesses.” Mommy looked, really looked, at Bracha. “That’s definitely been his style. Do you have any idea why?”

Bracha shrugged. “It feels like… like he decided he’s not interested before this whole thing started. Like he was sure, even before he met me, there’s no chance it would work.”

“While you….”

“While I happen to think it has a lot of potential. I mean, we’re very similar. Every date we find out how much we have in common! We’re both into day trading. And allergic to pollen. And we both love the color olive green. And snakes. Not sure about the last one, actually,” she said, remembering Gershy’s pallor after handing Milo back to Kendra.

And our last names, she thought but didn’t say aloud. Did you ever imagine such a perfectly bashert pairing? It has to mean something.

She could already envision the sheva brachos menus: seven nights straight of green beans. Green beans with almonds. Green beans in soy-sesame sauce. Garlic green beans. Green bean-crusted salmon. Green beans with sun-dried tomatoes and basil….

Mommy looked less enthused. “The same allergy? That sounds… um, nice. Anything more substantial? I mean, I like chocolate ice cream and Tatty won’t touch it, he only takes vanilla. And we’re a very happy couple. Also, I like vacations in warm places, and he likes to ski. But I think we’re still a good shidduch. Because we agree on principles, and on the type of home we want to build. Even if the surface things don’t exactly match up. What’s the important part of a shidduch, anyway? Not allergies. Or snakes.”

There was a funny feeling growing in the pit of Bracha’s stomach. Maybe that’s what Gershy had felt when the Burmese python settled on his arms.

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I need to think.”

She stumbled to the couch and stared out the front window aimlessly. This had been the perfect shidduch, she knew it from the first date. It had felt so right. So predestined. She had to help Gershy see it, too.

But maybe she’d been reading this all wrong, divining signals of bashert from silly, inconsequential details? Maybe she’d read too many frum fantasy-style shidduch stories in Family First?

Mommy was right. Day trading and olive-green sweaters and a fondness for snakes weren’t the foundations of a marriage. They couldn’t be.

But our last names, she thought. That can’t be an accident.

From the edge of her consciousness, she heard a phone ring. There was Mommy’s tremulous voice, getting higher with each sentence. Then a calmer, “Yes, I’ll tell her,” and silence.

“Bracha?” Mommy poked her head into the room. “Oh, there you are. That was Mrs. Becker. It sounds like Gershy wants another date. And he passed along the strangest message: ‘The jokes are over’?”

Bracha shook her head. “It’s… I… I can’t explain it right now, Ma.”

“Okay. So tomorrow at 7 p.m.?”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Gershy was nervous, Bracha could tell. He was also dressed properly for once, in a conservative, well-cut suit and a pale green tie. At least there was that touch of green.

“So I was thinking,” he said as Bracha clicked her seatbelt closed, “maybe a traditional date would be nice this time? Like another hotel lobby, then a walk by the water. Sounds right?”

Bracha nodded. “It does.”

It also sounded boring. Conventional. But she had warned him, and she could see that he was trying. They had to talk tachlis, see if there was some compatibility beyond the silly, surface items she’d exulted in just a short day ago.

Gershy hadn’t changed everything about his demeanor, she soon noticed. He was still a wild driver, changing lanes recklessly. Was it nerves? She tried to remember her list of Standard Date Conversation Starters.

“We haven’t talked about camp yet, right?”

“Nope.” Gershy swung left.

“So I was totally that Color War type, the one who loved staying up the whole night, brainstorming for the perfect rhyme for ‘we’re the best team.’ You know how many words rhyme with that? The possibilities are endless. Seem, dream, queen, green….”

“Bean,” he said before she could. Then his face reddened. “I mean….” He took a breath. “I was never big on Color War, but I could see that for you. Nothing fazes you.”

“Not really,” Bracha agreed, and she launched into a story that had them both in stitches. There was a comfortable pause after that, and Bracha stared out the window, contemplating.

The truth was… shallow similarities aside, there were deeper reasons why she kept saying yes. There was the way Gershy had taken up her dare and stood up for his principles at that interview. And how he’d braved his snake hesitancy for her. And honestly, she did enjoy their dates. They had felt fun, relaxed, with none of the heaviness and awkwardness she’d felt on dates with other guys.

She turned abruptly. “I was thinking—”

And then, there was a tremendous screech, and an ear-shattering BANG. Their car skidded — or was it flying?  — and someone screamed — actually Bracha screamed — and Gershy muttered something desperately as he yanked the wheel rightward — and then it was very quiet.

* * *

“It’s all right, you’re going to be okay,” the Hatzalah guys kept repeating as they gently carried Bracha into the ambulance. “Stretch out your arms, good, now your legs, great. Any cuts? Anything hurt? Baruch Hashem for airbags. Now, the swelling. Why don’t you take some of these bags here, they’re nice and cold. They’ll be good for the bruises on your face, might keep them from turning too purple.”

Bracha pressed the icy bag against her forehead.

“Good, good,” the chunkier Hatzalah guy said as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm. “You might want to take another when I finish this, for the cheeks, you know? Black and blue cheeks are not in style, as far as my wife tells me.”

Bracha waited until the cuff loosened. Then she stretched out her hand to accept the bag…

…and promptly dropped it in disgust as she saw the jolly green letters emblazoned across it.

“PREMIUM FROZEN GREEN BEANS! Just heat and serve!”

The Hatzalah guy picked up the bag and pressed it into her hand. “This whole story was major Hashgachah pratis, really unbelievable!” he said warmly. “Not that you guys got hit by a truck — I mean, that’s bad. Really bad. It was a real neis you had there. Wow. You must have major zechus avos. But of all trucks in the world, it was carrying frozen green beans. You can’t imagine what the road looks like out there — thousands, maybe millions, of green beans crushed across the asphalt. But the ones that didn’t get smashed, well… they make for perfect ice packs! Better than the ones in our ambulance.”

“Green beans?” Bracha moaned, dazed.

The medic chuckled. “It was totally bashert, you know?”

Chapter 5: Green Light

Bashie Lisker

Eight dates, only some of which had been elaborate psychological torture (his fault, he knew, he was doing better). One incident with a snake. One with a car. The edamame fiasco on the sixth date, which Gershy didn’t want to think about right now. The seventh date, when they’d accidentally both made matching pea green salad bowls and Bracha had said with a sidelong glance, “Well, it’s always nice to have two.”

Which had been very bold, and now Gershy was overwhelmed by the implication. The jokes are over. And now… what? He knew what was expected. Bean and Green, engaged. The Green-Bean wedding. His friends dressed in green suits. The jokes from the caterer. He’d never live it down.

“If you like the girl, you like the girl,” Mom said, exasperated. “Why are you so worried about the names?” She shooed him from the kitchen. “You know Aunt Rivki Saltz was a Pfeffer. These things happen.”

“They don’t happen. People make them happen,” Gershy pointed out. “Everyone’s so fixated on the shtick of it.” How many guys had told him to marry Bracha after their accident? “The only way the story could be any better would be if she married one of the Hatzolah guys!”

Bracha was in his head as he got into his more-than-slightly dented car. He could almost hear her wry voice, see the glint of her eye as she saw right through him. Are you that afraid of some teasing?

She made everything seem so easy, Bracha. When Gershy was out with her, he always felt a little sharper, a little bolder, a little more willing to laugh at every mishap. Gershy liked her. He liked who he was with her. He just really, really didn’t like her last name.

Right now, he had to prepare for the next date. Possibly the last date before….

He had to get a new tie, one that wasn’t repulsive, because Bracha was beginning to eye him like he was fashion-challenged.

Fine. He stopped at Crown Tailors to peruse the selection.

“May I help you?”

“Thanks…” Gershy squinted at the name tag. “Mr. Leyt. I’m looking for something stylish — not too stylish. Down-to-earth?” Bracha was down-to-earth. Gershy had never put this much thought into a tie before.

“Oh, let me get my associate, Mr. Breit. He’s our tie expert.”

Were they… did he hear those names right?

He shook it off. Bought the recommended tie, which was green and black, but who was keeping track? He was busy trying to figure out the rest of his life.

Next up: a venue for the date. One of the guys had recommended an escape room nearby, which might work. Bracha was adventurous. Inquisitive. Kind of amazing, truthfully.

He pushed open the door to Cipher Escapes and slammed into thin air.

“It’s a false wall,” said a cheerful voice. “You’ve got to find your way through the maze to get to the front register!”

He hated this place already. Which meant Bracha would probably love it. They were predictable like that. He slammed into several more invisible walls before he finally emerged at a register in front of a pleasant-faced, heavily tattooed man. “Uh, hi. I was thinking about bringing a date here?”

“Say no more. We get sheedukim in here all the time.” The man beamed at him. “Tell me — first date? More in the middle? Or are you looking for our engagement package?”

“Engagement package?” Gershy repeated, dazed.

“That’s right. Why do flowers and signs when you can really wow a girl? Make it to the final escape, open the door, and bam! The big question is popped. We’ve done a bunch already, and you can add a photographer, look at these portraits.” The man pointed to some professional-looking photographs on the wall, each one captioned with a pair of names.

Hinda Katz & Avraham Mouse

Leeba Sweet & Yanky Sauer

Rochel Pickel & Moshe Jarr

Shoshana Wein & Dov Glass

“Just imagine your names up on the wall,” the man said cheerfully.

“I can,” Gershy muttered, and he thanked the man and promised to think about it before making a quick departure. He needed a plan. A decision. Some guidance. He needed his rebbi. He headed to yeshivah, still at a loss.

“It’s still shayach, but I’m not sure,” he admitted to Rabbi Fisch. “It’s just… it’s a little much, I think?”

Rabbi Fisch scoffed.

“Do you like the girl?”

Gershy nodded emphatically.

“Do you have the same hashkafos? Can you see yourself spending your life with her? Raising children together?”

“Green-Bean children,” Gershy mumbled.

“Pach.” Rabbi Fisch shrugged. “My wife’s name was Goh before we were married. Did we ever hear the end of it? Of course not. Sometimes, you have to stop worrying about the laughs and wonder if it’s worth it regardless.” Rabbi Fisch’s eyes were warm. “Well? Is she worth it?”

Gershy took a breath. Go fish wasn’t going to cut it as an answer, and he suspected that Rabbi Fisch got that a lot, anyway. “She’s worth it,” he said.

* * *

“Mazel tov! I brought some refreshments for the l’chayim.”

“Hey, great news, I had to drop something off.”

“I thought your mother might be too busy to make Shabbos, figured I’d send over a side.”

“Wow, thanks,” Gershy took the green beans from the well-wisher and put it beside the other six pans. “Hilarious. Original, too.”

“I think it’s extremely funny, actually,” Bracha informed him. Of course she did. Bracha was going to teach Gershy not to take himself too seriously, or so his teenaged sister said. She thought Bracha was good for Gershy, whatever that meant. He couldn’t be too irritated. There was a strange, happy bubble growing inside of him. He stuffed some green beans into his mouth to maintain some equanimity.

“You didn’t really ask her to marry you because of your last names, did you?” Bracha’s grandfather asked over his own plate of green beans, a frown settling onto his face.

“He asked me in spite of them,” Bracha retorted. She was wearing a dress with suspiciously greenish undertones. It’s teal, she’d protested when he’d eyeballed it. Gershy, too male to differentiate between teal and turquoise and chartreuse (whatever that was), sighed and soldiered on.

“My father was the same way with my mother. Took him a while to come around,” said Bracha’s grandfather, smiling wistfully. “They came over here together, just before Ellis Island closed,” he said, waving a forkful of green beans to punctuate his point. Gershy made a vague sort of mm-hmm. “Of course, that was back when we were Gruendenwalder.”

Gershy blinked, his eyes unconsciously following the motion of the green beans. “Wait, what? Your last name was Gruendenwalder?”

“That’s right. Green is so American, don’t you think? It’s past time to change it back. Maybe if Bracha hyphenates, eh?” her grandfather suggested cheerfully. “Who wants to be a Green-Bean? I can suggest it.”

Who wants to be a Green-Bean?

Bracha did, for some wonderful reason. And Gershy found that the absurdity was growing on him, like a legume might grow tall in a garden.

“Thanks,” Gershy said, “but I think we’ll be just fine.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1101)