2. A Voice in the Dark
A VOICE IN THE DARK
SAUL
This woman will not shut up, and for some ungodly reason, I love it.
I'm perched on the edge of a plush blue couch, my heart pounding as if it's trying to escape. It's absurd how her Cajun-accented voice flows over me, a blend of charm and wit. I’ve never been one for idle chatter, but Tessa’s words feel like a melody I can’t stop listening to, pulling me in note by note.
But I hate that I’m already breaking one of my rules: getting invested in a woman, especially one I’ve hardly met.
My goal was to stay on this show long enough to generate good publicity for my new restaurant and make my grandmother happy. But now, this crazy whirlwind on the other side of the wall makes me want to… chat.
Gold Coast—my new restaurant—will be the talk of LA when it opens. That’s the plan, at least. But right now, it feels like a distant dream compared to this surreal setup, where I’m supposed to find love in a hub.
Love!
The word tastes foreign on my tongue.
I don’t believe in finding love on reality TV. As a matter of fact, with the violent and unstable life I’ve lived through, I find it hard to believe in much of anything.
Before I had a stepfather, my family and I lived idyllically in Brunswick, Maine. My grandfather emigrated from Ghana in the 80s after being offered a physics professorship at Bowdoin College.
He and my father died in a tragic car accident when I was nine, and two years later, my mother met and married Patrick Shannahan, a local Irish businessman. Word on the street was that he had connections to the Mob. But my mother didn’t believe it. He made her feel special and pampered when her life was falling apart.
It didn’t take long after she said “I do” for the beatings to begin, and before I realized it, I no longer had a mother.
After that chapter, my grandmother packed my sister and me up, and we moved back to her home in Kumasi, Ghana, and then to Britain.
Over the years, I became a big, bruising rugby legend.
My grandmother’s persistent matchmaking back home contributed to my current madness-talking to a woman through a wall. She has a Ghanaian blueprint for my life: marriage, children, and legacy. Part of me wants to honor her dreams. I’d do anything for that woman.
Except fall in love.
But maybe, just maybe, someone here could be more than a fleeting connection. If I follow my rules and stay detached, I might get a compatible life partner who doesn’t expect much in the emotions department.
I lean closer to the partition, ready to dive into her stream of consciousness as soon as she takes a breath. After all, she doesn’t even know my name yet.
I love that she can’t see me because I can be off-putting at first look. Women appreciate my looks, but then they admire me from afar.
I’m six foot five, large enough that most people think twice before stepping wrong around me. My muscles are hard-earned, a result of my rugby training. My shoulders are broad enough to bear weight—literally and figuratively—and my arms? They’ve endured their fair share of gym sessions and time on the field. My skin is a deep brown, and my grandmother says it’s smooth, like the mahogany my granddad used to carve with.
Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, full lips—it’s not hard to see why folks stop and stare. But my scowl? That’s the real deterrent. I know how it looks—brows pulled down, eyes cutting sharp like I’m daring you to try me. It’s something I practice. It keeps the nonsense at bay.
I never have to say much to make my point. The way I carry myself does the work. I step into a room, and the air shifts—that’s the energy I bring. I don’t apologize for it. You can either step up or step back, but you’ll remember me.
But here, I get to talk without anyone making predeterminations about me.
When a second of silence finally arrives, I don’t hesitate. “Well, I’m Saul. Saul Mensah,” I say, my voice steady, concealing the storm raging inside me. “Your words are captivating. I’m not usually one for people—they tend to drain me—but you? You’re fascinating."
What the hell, Saul? That is not detached.
There’s a pause, and then she laughs, and it feels like warmth wrapping around me. “So you’re a grump, huh? With that accent, I’m guessing you’re a British grump.”
“Afraid so,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips. “Not Brit born, but unapologetically Brit bred. However, my soul is rooted in West Africa.”
“Ahhh, Mr. Darcy, with a touch of spice. I like it,” she says, the grin in her voice almost tangible. “I always loved Mr. Darcy. He’s my favorite book boyfriend.”
“Is he? What if I’m more of a Mr. Rochester?” I counter, the comparison apt for the shadows I keep hidden beneath my chef’s whites.
“Dark, handsome, and brooding with secrets in the attic?” Her voice teases, though there’s a flicker of genuine curiosity. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
I grin. “I certainly hope so.” Her words weave a connection that feels improbable yet entirely natural, like a song you didn’t know you were humming.
“So, Saul, what do you do for a living?” she asks, her voice coaxing.
I hesitate. Should I tell her I’m a wealthy, reclusive former rugby star or a chef carving out a new path in America? Most Americans know nothing of rugby, so she wouldn’t know who I was even if she saw me.
I’ll go with the budding chef. I don’t discuss my fame or fortune with anyone.
“Tell you what, Tessa, I’ll give you a clue with my next statement.”
Okay, I’m game.” She replies.
“Food, at its core, is a conversation,” I muse. “Every dish tells a story, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” she agrees, her enthusiasm sparking. “Every spice holds a memory, every flavor a narrative. Let me guess—you’re a chef.”
“Right again,” I confirm, imagining her face lighting up. “I’m Ghanaian, and West African cooking is a love letter to home. It’s bold and unapologetic, much like my grandmother, who taught me its secrets. A stew isn’t just a stew—it’s history and innovation blended, much like life.”
“Your grandmother sounds incredible,” Tessa says softly. “In New Orleans, we get it. Food is heritage—Creole, Cajun, all that jazz.”
“Sounds enchanting,” I say. “You paint a vivid picture of your hometown, Tessa. I need to visit. So, what do you do?”
A pause lingers before she speaks, her tone vulnerable. “I’m… an actress, but please don’t ask what you may have seen me in.” A nervous laugh follows that statement, and I don’t like her embarrassment.
I know what it feels like to fail at the one thing you want to do, and I want to shield her from those feelings. I let her continue before I blurt out something crazy like, “I’ve got you. I’ll buy you a movie studio.”
“See, I’ve always dreamed of acting. The stage was my first love, but the screen—that’s the dream. It doesn’t matter because neither medium seems to love me back.”
“What kind of roles do you want to play?” I ask, hoping to open her up a bit more.
“Anything that makes people feel . I have roles where the audience will leave feeling for my character.”
“Well, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re great at that because I’ve known you for less than two hours, and I already care about everything you say.”
I’m so fucked.
“Awww,” she sings. “Thank you for that. But I swear I’m not acting now, and my wanting to break into the business is not why I’m here,” she adds quickly.
“Of course not!” I say with mock indignation. “But don’t worry,” I chuckle. “They’ll probably edit this part out.”
She laughs again, and the sound soothes something in my soul that I didn’t realize needed repairing.
“Oh, you know what! I’m also a trained chef. Go figure, huh?”
I scoff. “Now, you are pulling my leg.”
She giggles. “No, I swear. I’ve always loved cooking, and I needed a backup career in case acting didn’t pan out, so I got a culinary degree.”
She’s perfect.
“Well, hopefully, I’ll taste your cooking one day.”
She doesn’t respond to that comment. Instead she steers the conversation back to me. Okay, it’s your turn to tell me something else about you,” she urges her voice a gentle prod.
Do I dare?
“Well,” I begin, the weight of my past threading through my words, “I was once on a different kind of field—a rugby pitch in England.”
“Really? From scrums to soufflés?” she asks, her interest piqued.
“Yes, but after one wrong tackle, it was all over,” I admit, the memory sharp. “Cooking became my refuge. It’s rhythmic, therapeutic—a quieter pulse. It’s about sharing my heritage, one dish at a time.”
“Sounds like you found your way home,” she says softly. “When homesick for New Orleans, I cook my family’s gumbo recipe. It always makes me feel better.
“Home,” I repeat, the word settling in my chest. It’s more than a place. It’s a feeling I’m beginning to sense in this joyful girl on the other side of this wall.
Silence hums, filled with unspoken truths. Despite the barrier, I feel closer to her than I’ve been to anyone in years.
“Saul?”
“Still here,” I murmur.
“Good,” she whispers, and her words feel like a promise—fragile yet unbreakable.
Three hours, a few secrets, and many words later, I’m completely captivated by the pure sunshine on the other side of the wall. Hoping to see if she can connect with the broken pieces of me, I take a deep breath and draw from a place I don’t usually allow myself to go. The silence between us feels delicate, and I’m uncertain how to begin; I only know that I must.
"I was twelve when my whole world fell apart," I say, my voice low as I steady myself with each word. "My mom... she was everything to me. She was strong, beautiful, the type of person who could laugh even when things were tough. But she married the wrong man. My stepdad... he fooled everyone. He could flash a smile and make you believe he was the nicest guy in the world. But behind closed doors, he was a monster."
I pause, the memories clawing their way to the surface. It’s hard to speak the words and keep them from shaking.
"One night, I wasn’t home. I was staying at a friend’s house, trying to avoid the shouting and the tension. When I came back, she was gone. Just like that." My throat tightens, and my chest feels heavy like the air has been sucked out of the room. "He killed her, Tessa. And I wasn’t there to stop it. I keep thinking, if I’d stayed home, maybe... maybe she’d still be alive."
“Patrick, my stepfather, only got twenty years to life. I wanted the death penalty, but they said it was second-degree murder, a crime of passion. But I know better. There was no passion, just rage and control.”
“Anyway, he’s in prison now, and I swear I’ll use every resource I have to make sure he stays there for the rest of his life. I can’t trust the system to handle it on its own. He can never be free because I know he’ll hurt my grandmother for testifying against him and essentially putting him away. He swore he would, as they finally took his sorry ass away in chains.”
My words sit between us, raw and jagged. For a moment, I can’t bring myself to say more. But then I hear her voice, soft and full of something I can’t quite name—compassion, maybe.
"Saul," she says, her voice shaking, "I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like for you. Losing her like that... in the way you did."
There’s a weight in her words, as if she knows the pain I’m talking about. I sit up straighter, waiting for her to say more, and she does.
Her voice filters through the wall, soft and trembling, carrying the kind of weight that settles deep in your chest. I stand and press my hand against the cold surface as if that could bring me closer to her and let me bear just a fraction of what she’s carrying.
"I lost my mom, too," she says, her words barely more than a whisper. The admission catches me off guard, striking like a dart straight at my chest. There’s a pause, and I can feel her hesitation, the kind of silence that promises something raw is about to follow.
"But it was… different." Her voice wavers, each word heavy with a pain she’s clearly carried for years. My fingers curl into a fist against the wall, my breath catching in my throat. I want to say something, anything, but I don’t dare interrupt.
"She disappeared when I was just two years old." The words hit me like a blow. Two years? My heart hurts as I picture a tiny, helpless version of Tessa, alone in a way no child should ever be. "My father says that one moment she was there, holding me in her arms, and the next… gone."
I lean closer as if I might catch something in her tone that would make this easier to hear, but there’s nothing—just her voice, heavy with an ache that could swallow us both whole.
"No note. No explanation. Nothing. Just... silence." She says it like a fact she’s tried to accept but never really could. The silence that follows stretches, thick and unbearable. I can hear the tremble in her breath, the way she’s trying to hold herself together.
"My daddy never talked about it," she continues, her words quick now, as if she’s trying to outrun the memories. "He said there were questions no one could answer, and digging for them would only cause more pain. He remarried and then just stopped mentioning her. Her mother, my grandmère—that’s my grandmother—she and I are close. She keeps the memory alive for me as much as possible. As for me? I don’t even remember her. Not her face, not her voice—nothing. And that’s a pain of its own, you know? How do you mourn someone you don’t even remember?
I close my eyes, trying to picture the life she’s describing. A little girl growing up without answers, with a void where her mother should have been. It makes my chest ache for her, the little girl she was, and the woman she’s become.
She hesitates, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter and more vulnerable. "Sometimes, I wonder if she chose to leave." The words are laced with something sharp—hurt, confusion, maybe even anger. "Or if... something else took her away. Sometimes, “I wonder if that thing could take me away too.”
Never…
I exhale slowly, pressing my forehead against the wall. Her words settle like stones in my gut. She’s piecing it together aloud, offering me a glimpse into a story I know she doesn’t share lightly.
"Either way," she says, her voice breaking slightly, "she was gone. And all that was left was this… emptiness."
My throat tightens. I want to go to her, hold her, and tell her she doesn’t have to carry this alone. But I can’t. Not yet. Not here. All I can do is listen; every fiber of my being is focused on her voice.
"Losing someone that way—it’s like trying to grasp smoke," she murmurs, and I hear the faintest waver in her tone. "You can’t make sense of it, and it never really leaves you. It’s just always there. A wound that refuses to heal."
I rest my hand against the wall again, wishing it weren’t there. Wishing I could reach through and hold her. I understand that kind of pain—the kind that lingers and shapes you in ways you don’t even realize until you find yourself on the other side of a wall, listening to someone else pour out their heart.
"Tessa," I say, my voice rough, "you’ve been carrying that your whole life, haven’t you? That not knowing, always wondering. It’s a different kind of pain, but it’s just as heavy. And you’ve been carrying it alone."
She doesn’t answer right away, but I can hear her breathing, shaky and uneven. "Yeah," she finally says. "I guess I have. But so have you, Saul. Losing your mom like that... it’s not something you get over. It stays with you. Shapes you."
"It does," I admit, running a hand over my jaw. "But I think it also makes us... different. People like us know what losing something you can’t get back is like. We know how to keep going, even when it feels impossible. And maybe that makes us stronger.”
She lets out this little laugh, shaky but real. "Or maybe it makes us better at pretending we’re strong."
Her words pull a low chuckle out of me, soft and genuine. "Maybe. But sitting here, talking to you? It doesn’t feel like pretending. It feels like I can just be me for the first time in a long time."
I press my hand to the wall like she can feel it on the other side. "Same here," she says, her voice warm and sure.
At that moment, the wall doesn’t feel like a barrier anymore. It feels like a bridge that connects us instead of keeping us apart. For the first time in years, I don’t feel alone in my pain. And from the sound of her voice, neither does she.