The Missed Connection

Chapter 1 Might as Well have a Giggle

MIGHT AS WELL HAVE A GIGGLE

What nail shape would you like, miss?” asked the manicurist, inspecting Sasha’s left hand. “Square? Round? Almond-shaped?”

Distracted, Sasha glanced up from the phone nestled on her lap. “I’m sorry?”

“Almond?”

“Thank you, no, I can’t eat almonds,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Allergic.”

Physically, Sasha Cruz was getting a manicure.

Mentally, she was inside her phone, working.

She’d just landed the splashiest commercial in her career as a casting director—and so scrolling through audition clips was top priority.

She was so distracted, in fact, that she was about to miss a Pivotal Moment.

To be fair, no one expects a Pivotal Moment to happen at an airport mini spa.

It was odd enough that Sasha was getting her nails done professionally.

She was damned good at doing her own nails.

And assessing her own stock portfolio. And rewiring her own kitchen.

And silk-pressing her own hair. What couldn’t she do?

Very few things; namely 1) drive, and 2) confront life without antidepressants.

Sasha was raised to be self-sufficient by her single mom, a deadly practical electrician who played no games.

“You handle your business! No crying and no suffering!” she’d tell Baby Sasha.

Years later, she discovered that her mom hadn’t invented this quote.

It was paraphrased from an old Juvenile song. But it stuck.

Sasha had arrived at New York City’s Fiorello Airport with a flawless, bloodred manicure.

But sitting at her gate a full three hours early, she noticed a chip on her thumb.

This wouldn’t do. She worked hard to cultivate her “minimalist upscale baddie” veneer.

Even her casual airport ensemble made a statement.

Razor-sharp bob. Winged liner. Impeccable jeans.

Tiny tank. Diamond studs (fake). Cashmere throw (real).

She looked impenetrable, unrufflable, unfuckwithable.

A chip in her nail polish was a kink in her armor.

After all, as a casting director, she was known for her eye.

It’s why Seraphina, the international beauty emporium, had hired her to cast their Autumn Kisses commercial.

It was a huge departure for Sasha, whose specialty was popcorn rom-coms and thrillers.

But after a yearlong sabbatical—where she did little but hole up in her Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, condo, living off DoorDash and YouTube Pilates—she was a tad rusty.

The great news? Seraphina was flying her to their international brand summit in Paris so she could get a “feel” for the Seraphina vibe.

Just her and over one hundred execs from all over the world.

To be honest, this was an unnecessary trip.

Every girl, gay, and they was familiar with Seraphina’s vibe.

Where else does one find the world’s most covetable perfumes, eye creams, and hydrating-fluffing-smoothing shampoos?

But Sasha welcomed the trip. A weekend in Paris was a gift from the heavens, especially after fighting her way back from hell.

And her flight phobia was no match for Xanax.

But first, nails. Luckily for Sasha, once she noticed the chip, she also noticed B-Relaxed Spa across from her gate.

Its neon cursive sign beckoned to her. The salon was a tiny, hot-pink space with one nail station and two massage chairs—and it was blessedly empty.

When Sasha walked in, a freckled, caramel-skinned twentysomething

wearing thigh-length braids called out, “Heyyy! I’m Maxi.”

Accent via Staten Island, thought Sasha. Slight lisp via Invisalign. Gorgeous girl. I wonder if she’s ever thought about acting?

Sasha was never not casting.

Maxi led her to the nail station, where they sat across from each other. After deciding that almond was, indeed, the shape in question, the manicurist got to work. And Sasha got back to scrolling. Less than a minute had passed before Maxi said, “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Sasha glanced up from her phone. Her eyes were blurring from studying the self-tape submissions of dozens of models and actors.

It was a lipstick commercial, so she was looking for luscious lips.

But “luscious” was so subjective. And the only real direction she had received was via the marketing VP, a fiftysomething dude in leather jeans.

“Think cute girls, hot boys who’ll agree to wear lipstick, real bodies, all ethnicities.

A buffet of diversity. But a fuckable buffet.

” In other words, find models who were “inclusive” enough to score culture points, but sexy enough to please investors.

She stole a glance at Maxi. She had a cute, Kewpie doll–shaped mouth. Her energy was like a bouncing beam of sunlight. Perfect for Seraphina.

Hmm, is she about twenty-three? she wondered. Maybe younger? Black-girl freckles, caramel skin . . . Wait. WAIT. Is Paramount still developing that Sade biopic?

“Sure!” Sasha put on a friendly expression. “You can ask me a question.”

“Are you feeling anxious right now?” asked Maxi.

“No, I’m, like, ridiculously relaxed. Why do you ask?”

Sasha couldn’t remember the last time she was relaxed.

She was high-strung as hell. In general, she felt like the first kernel primed to explode in a microwave popcorn bag.

She usually hid it behind self-deprecating banter and a breezy smile.

Though right now, after downing a glass of airport bar rosé, her smile was more boozy than breezy.

“Your hand is warm,” noted the manicurist. “That’s a tension indicator.”

Damn. Maxi was right. Nothing got by nail techs and hairstylists.

“Oh, that’s just me.” She shrugged airily, eyes drifting back down to her phone. “I run hot when I’m in work mode. Like when you have too many apps open and your phone overheats.”

“But you’re not a phone, you’re a person,” Maxi pointed out. “You must unclench.”

Unclench what, exactly? Her brows? Jaw? Butt cheeks? Everything was clenched. Sasha let out a small laugh. “Oh girl, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“How about a hand massage?”

“I’m good, really. But thank you.”

“I have an idea,” persisted Maxi. “Can I do a palm reading?”

Curious, Sasha abandoned her phone for good. She squinted at Maxi, assessing whether she was serious. “I . . . don’t know. Can you? Is it on the menu?”

“I’ve been studying palmistry,” she said proudly. “I’m just an apprentice, but I’m good at it. Come on, you got nothing to lose.”

Sasha thought about this for five seconds. “You know what? My New Year’s resolution was to be more whimsical. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Why not?” She shrugged. “The horrors persist. Might as well have a giggle.”

“That’s the spirit, diva.” The manicurist grabbed her right hand, flipping it over so it faced upward. Lightly, she traced Sasha’s palm. “Mmm. Your heart line runs deep. The deeper the line, the richer the love.”

“My palm’s lying to you, Maxi. I’m poor in love.” Not wanting to seem like a sad sack, she flashed a grin. “But rich in vibes.”

“Period.” Maxi giggled.

Sasha wasn’t really joking, though. Dating hadn’t been a priority in years.

When asked about her nonexistent love life, she always blamed work.

She traveled all the time! She was too ambitious!

She was the type of woman who intimidated men.

“Types” were her specialty. Her career hinged upon finding the perfect person for the perfect role.

She was so good at it, she’d typecasted herself.

“Would you consider yourself a hopeful person? Your soul line is showing that you’re optimistic.”

She couldn’t tell the truth, which was that she was chronically depressed, incurably sleepy—and that, on most days, the only thing holding her together was blush. Instead, she said, “I’m optimistic that I can grow to become an optimistic person.”

“Love that for you. And I love your bracelet,” said Maxi, eyeing the gold cuff on her right wrist. “But I think it’s blocking my reading. Here, I’ll take it off . . .”

“No!” In a flash, Sasha clapped her left hand over the bracelet. Her heartbeat quickened and she began to tremble. Abruptly, the oxygen seemed to disappear in the tiny spa.

“My bad! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so curt.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, panicked and apologetic. She took a few deep inhales, trying to regulate her breathing. Oh, this was so embarrassing. “Don’t know what happened there.”

“You’re not fine, you’re breathing funny. Here, drink this.” Maxi hopped up and grabbed a small paper cone of fountain water, handing it to Sasha. Eagerly, she gulped it down.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I just . . . I never take it off. It’s a sentimental thing.” Waving her hands in a don’t mind me gesture, she gave Maxi what she hoped was a disarming smile. Maxi smiled back but couldn’t hide her alarm.

The cuff stayed. It was the only thing shielding her scar from the eyes of the world.

It was a barely visible, shiny gash—but in Sasha’s mind, it was massive, sprawling, all-encompassing.

The scar (and its low ache on rainy days) was a constant reminder of that night in October 2022.

That night her life turned into a low-budget thriller.

A 20/20 episode. An “it happened to me” Reddit post. After that night, she’d learned that the only way to protect herself was to keep to herself.

Mind her business, not let anyone new into her life, and drown herself in work.

Outrun the memories. It worked for a long time—until last year, when her psychiatrist threatened to drop her if she didn’t take a work sabbatical.

Your mental health won’t improve if you keep running from your past, her doc had said. Slow down and face it. Feel it.