Chapter 2 In Bocca Al Lupo
IN BOCCA AL LUPO
Sasha used to love flying. At the height of her career, she practically lived on the red-eye between New York and LA. It felt jet-setty, cosmopolitan. But today? Flights were a high-maintenance nightmare.
Time to settle in. She slipped off her sneaks, cocooned herself in her throw, and geared up for her antianxiety ritual—featuring a satin sleep mask, noise-canceling headphones, and a podcast about the riveting history of American highways.
Within minutes, she was floating in velvety darkness, scored by the soothing, Southern lilt of the host, a female Duke professor.
On the edges of consciousness, she heard the announcement: FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, PREPARE FOR TAKEOFF.
The headphones almost canceled out the whooshing sound of the doors closing.
She heard the doors reopen. Even with closed eyes, she could sense the presence of a last-minute passenger rushing in.
And then, given the sound of a carry-on being loaded onto the overhead bin to her left, that person sat in seat F.
Almost immediately, the subtle scent of leather and jasmine wafted over her.
Tom Ford Tuscan Leather. The cologne most favored by the sluttiest NBA and NFL players.
Years ago, she’d cast a Survivor-type reality show starring rookie athletes camping together during the off-season.
She was just a few years older than the twenty-two-, twenty-three-year-old guys, and they were a flirty bunch.
But once they realized she was too professional to entertain a toxic-but-sexually-satisfying situationship with any of them, they all became friends.
She ended up being godmother to a Detroit Piston’s baby!
The scent carried sweet memories, transporting her to a younger, freer Sasha. Before she went into hiding.
Hmm. Who was her neighbor? Given how many Seraphina execs were on the flight, he could possibly be one.
What if they’d be working together on the commercial?
God, traveling with coworkers was so painful.
You didn’t want Glenn from sales to see you nap-drooling.
Now she urgently needed to close the pod door.
Blindly, Sasha started groping around her seat again, searching for the button.
No luck. With a sigh, she sank back in her plush seat.
But then, out of nowhere, she felt her door slowly begin to close. On its own. Confused, Sasha slid the mask atop her head. Suddenly, the door changed course, sliding back open. She peered over at the seat next to her. And locked eyes with quite a man.
The guy in seat F nodded hello to her. Then, he held up a small, thin remote. “Yours is by your seat. Left side.”
Sasha checked. Indeed, there was a remote nestled in her console. “How did I miss this?”
“It’s hidden,” he said simply. “Apologies for stepping in. I felt bad seeing you struggle.”
Seat F had a slight accent. Maybe Portuguese?
He had full, dark hair. Five-o’clock shadow.
Tailored charcoal suit. His face was chaotic—crooked Roman nose, weathered olive skin, eerily pale green eyes, resting scowl.
But the overall effect was arresting. He seemed jagged, rough—a man who needed to rub up against something, to sand down his edges.
Back when Sasha used to date, she’d loved odd-looking guys with presence. And this guy had the presence of a Mafia daddy from a dark romance novel.
Too bad Netflix already cast 365 Days.
“You seem . . . thrown off. Should I not have intervened?” he asked.
“No, I’m grateful. I’m just not used to anyone helping me.”
“A shame.” A slight smile broke his scowl. Then, he glanced down, fiddling with the cuff link at his wrist. A lock of hair fell into his face and he raked his fingers through his waves.
It wasn’t until he glanced back at her that she realized she was staring.
Quickly, she looked away. Sasha often caught herself gazing at people’s faces—in a casting way, not a creepy way.
But just in case she’d given him the wrong idea, she tucked her hair behind her ear, flashing the fake cubic zirconia wedding ring she wore for protection.
He raised his dark brow. “Allora. Understood. You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m gay.”
Mortifying. How did she miss this? To be fair, Italian men were confusing.
“I’m so embarrassed.” She grimaced slightly. “So presumptuous of me.”
“No offense taken,” he told her. Then, he busied himself on his phone.
Relieved, Sasha slipped her sleep mask back on. As the plane took off, they fell into silence. The takeoff was a little bumpy—so, Sasha was focusing superhard on the podcast, trying to calm her heart rate. And then, she thought she heard Seat F lightly chuckle.
Sasha slid off her mask again and glanced in his direction. He was suppressing a grin.
“Hello again. I owe you an apology,” he confessed. “I lied.”
“So soon?” she said wryly.
“I didn’t lie about you being gorgeous. You are, and I suspect you know it.
But I’m not gay.” His pale, almost translucent emerald eyes settled on hers.
Despite herself, she sat up a tad straighter.
“The truth? For a woman, I know it’s uncomfortable being stuck for hours with a man trying to .
. . ehh . . . hit with you. No, hit on you. You should feel comfortable.”
She blinked, speechless. How novel, that this strange man cared about her comfort. For a few seconds, she allowed herself to believe it. As a rule, Sasha didn’t trust strange men.
Maybe not anymore, she thought. But once, forever ago, you felt totally safe with a strange man. Instantly and intensely. And it wasn’t a lie, or a line. He meant it. And you felt it. But that was an impossible situation and an impossible man. Doesn’t count.
She dropped the thought as quickly as it arose. It was ancient history.
And then, Sasha got suspicious. How did Seat F know that, for her, safety was paramount?
Maybe he was a cult leader. She remembered learning from some podcast that cult leaders were adept mind readers.
Subtly, Sasha launched into her stranger-danger checklist, studying him for signs of volatility—e.g.
, clenched jaw, hands in fists, nervous foot taps, dilated pupils, flinty eyes.
Nope, he passed the test. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“Well, thank you for the thoughtful lie.” The tiniest smile played on Sasha’s lips. Then, she remembered she had no real proof he wasn’t dangerous, and the smile dropped.
“Prego.” A slight smile softened his face. “It means ‘you’re welcome’ in Italian.”
She didn’t want to encourage conversation, she really didn’t. But, for some reason, she couldn’t help herself. “Where are you from in Italy? Your accent’s charming.”
“Southern Italy. A small beach town called Gallipoli. And you?”
Just then, a flight attendant appeared, offering a wineglass on a tray. “Morning, Ms. Cruz. Here’s the rosé you requested on the USFlight website three hours ago,” she trilled, extremely specifically. “Enjoy!”
Sasha had preordered it, in a move that felt efficient at the time—but was now embarrassing.
“Oh, I will. Thank you.” Cheeks aflame, she took a tiny sip. She hoped it looked dainty.
“Lovely surname,” he said. “Is it Cruise like Tom? Or Cruz like Penélope?”
“Like Penélope. My father’s Dominican. My mom’s Black, via Houston.”
“Ahh, Texas.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Howdy.”
His Italian-flavored cowboy accent was charming. She couldn’t help but smile. “Nicely done.”
“So, how do you identify? Um, ethnically?”
The question would’ve been rude if he hadn’t sounded so authentically interested. (And if he’d been an American white guy.)
“Well, Black, of course.” She paused. “At thirty-two, I’m still working out what it means to be Afro-Latina.”
“Thirty-two? I was thinking you have . . . twenty-five years?”
Flattered, she smiled with actual teeth. “Really? Thank you. It’s because Black don’t crack. Ever heard that expression?”
He shook his head, eyes dancing with interest.
“We look young forever,” she whispered. “Look at Angela Bassett. My future’s bright.”
“Sì, sì, it’s true.” He chuckled. “So, you say you’re . . . ehh . . . working out what it means to be Afro-Latina. This means what?”
Wow, Seat F was direct. And a sharp listener. Sharp-listening in a foreign language was no easy feat. Also, this conversation was getting so deep, so fast. It challenged Sasha’s stranger-danger rules. But he was pulling her in. She felt as if she was swimming against a current.
“Sometimes I feel like a fraud claiming Afro-Latina identity. My parents were never together, and I don’t know my dad.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I speak Duolingo Spanish. I’m so ashamed. I really regret not experiencing my Dominican side.”
“Ahh, but that should be his regret. Not yours.”
“Well, it’s a long story,” she said, knowing she’d said too much.
Seat F cocked his head slightly. He noticed her hesitation and didn’t pry. “Santo Domingo is beautiful. Have you visited?”
“A decade ago. Being there was a mind-bender. I saw my cheekbones everywhere.”
“Why have you not returned?”
Anxiety, she thought. Fear born of one specific experience that rippled into every part of my life. Things that used to be easy, like flying, are excruciating now. I hate it. But I can’t help it.
“No time,” she told him, and gratefully took a rosé refill from the flight attendant. Without hesitation, she downed half of it. Seat F watched her do this, raised his brows approvingly, and then ordered a martini for himself.
“I’m of mixed ancestry myself,” he said. “My father’s Italian, but my mother’s German.”
She laughed. “Biracial king!”
“This . . . I don’t understand?”
“No, it’s just interesting, thinking of a German-Italian person as ‘mixed.’ Americans would say you’re white mixed with white.”
“Well. Let’s not get into the reductive racial politics of your country.”
“Whew. A six-hour flight isn’t enough time.”