He went against everything I stood for

The first time I met Binyamin, he was wearing mismatched socks.

The jaded, 26-and-single part of me wanted to run right back home, leaving his black Camry lingering on the curb. What 29-year-old guy wears mismatched socks on a date?

But once he’d turned to me with a boyish grin and a sparkle in his green eyes, something in me unclenched, slightly. How long ago was it that I’d had that sparkle, too? And how long since I’d lost it?

Maybe this guy was worth a chance.

We slid smoothly onto the highway, easy chatter flowing between us.

But this was nothing new. First dates usually went okay for me. I’d never had a problem with small talk — it constituted a big part of my job — and I’d had enough dating experiences to master the art of light schmoozing.

But hey, “This time it will be different,” and all that, so I resolved to give it my best shot, mismatched socks and all.

At the hotel, obligatory drinks in hand (Dr. Pepper for him, Diet Sprite for me), we started with our jobs.

“So,” said Binyamin, “I hear you’re a PA. That’s like a doctor, right? Correct me if I’m wrong. The only thing I know about medicine is how to take it.” He smiled.

I tamped down the automatic giggle that bubbled forth. What was with this guy? I mean, he was 29. How had he managed to retain the youthful energy that fizzed around him?

I kind of liked it.

“You got it,” I said. “We’re trained to do what doctors can, but they work independently. We need to work with a collaborating physician. And I’m in hematology-oncology.” Seeing his forehead wrinkle, I added, “Cancer ward.”

Binyamin let out a low whistle, pushing his yarmulke forward. “Wow. How did you choose your field? I’m sure it’s not easy.”

I paused. I’d been asked that many times, all variations of how could you work in such a depressing specialty? but the way he said it was different, like he was interested.

“Well,” I said slowly, “the specialty of genetics, tumors, all that, it really interested me. But… I guess what really helped me settle on Heme/Onc was my neighbor Ruchie.”

Binyamin lifted an eyebrow.

“It was a terrible matzav. She was separated, some of her kids weren’t religious anymore. And then she got sick. She went to appointments, did her treatments but… it wasn’t enough. She was hospitalized eventually, and barely had any support. Her friends helped a little, her kids came, but there wasn’t really anyone to help her make decisions. To stick up for her.”

Binyamin was nodding, green eyes serious, and I noticed how his youthful spark hadn’t vanished. Instead, something firm and steady had settled beneath it.

“I ended up staying with Ruchie a lot, advocating for her when needed. I was there for her when she came home, too, helping her with meals and with getting to treatments. That pretty much led me to stay in Heme/Onc. I try to stick up for people who need it, who don’t have anyone else. They’re in a rough world already, and with cancer, it’s even worse.”

I stopped to take a breath, color flooding my cheeks. Whoa. I hadn’t meant to say all that. It had just… flowed out. What was it about this Binyamin Rosenfeld that seemed to bring my defenses down?

“Wow.” Binyamin gave a self-deprecating grin. “Unfortunately, I can’t claim similar motives for choosing accounting. It was just the job that made the most sense. No pun intended. You know, sense, cents….” He winced. “Okay, that was bad. Sorry.”

Again with the giggles! What was wrong with me?

“Well,” I said, twirling my straw in circles, “I’m sure you stick up for clients plenty during tax season.”

“Yeah. It just has less of a heroic ring to it, y’know? Like ‘PA Saves Critically Ill Child’ sounds so much better than ‘Accountant Helps Client File Taxes.’ ”

“True. But to be fair, that headline leaves out, like, ninety percent of what I do.” I stopped, smirked. “Wait, I just made a bad pun, too. Percent… I guess we’re even.”

He laughed, and we were off, talking and talking. And after he dropped me off with good-night wishes, I peeked through the front window blinds, watching as his headlights shrank into the distance.

“Bayla! You’re back!” I heard Ma come up behind me. “How was it, sweetie? Listen, I know you noticed the mismatched socks, I noticed them, too, but I hope you gave him a chance anyway, none of his references said anything about—”

“Mismatched socks?” I pivoted slowly, eyebrows creasing. “What mismatched socks?”