Chapter 11 My Case, My Rules
MY CASE, MY RULES
Seat F never showed up at the Film Forum.
Sasha was disappointed, but tried to maintain perspective.
Deep down, she knew it was a long shot. After all, she had no idea if he was even in New York.
He could still be in Europe. Or anywhere in the world, really.
On the flight, he’d told Sasha that he spent half the year in New York.
But which half? And what if he split his time unevenly—like, a few weeks in New York, a month in Europe, four days in New York, and so on?
And lurking in the back of Sasha’s mind, always, was Wes’s dose of reality—without a name or a face, this guy’s a cipher.
Not someone. Wes.
She’d always heard about the phenomenon where two long-lost friends reunite, and immediately pick up where they left off, like no time had passed.
But she’d never experienced it before. After four years of silence, she and Wes were buddies.
That man was a good time. There was a flicker, a spark, when they spoke; and (practically) no topic was off-limits.
It’d been ages since she’d felt that lightness.
And she had Seat F to thank. Their plane conversation reminded her how it felt to truly connect with another human.
While she was on sabbatical, weeks would go by without her speaking to anyone but Destiny.
She forgot how to navigate the everyday, normal-ass ritual of two people exchanging intimacies.
With Seat F, she’d dipped a toe into feeling seen again—and it rippled throughout her life.
Now, she was hungry for more talk. More friends. More Wes.
She and Wes were in cahoots with each other. When they spoke, it was so sparky and exhilarating, like cracking open a window to her mind and giving him a peek. He recognized her—and she, him. And at this moment, she wanted to call him. There’s no way he’d be awake at 4:00 a.m., though.
Wes answered on the second ring. His voice was groggy, husky, and surprised. “Why are you awake?”
“Why are you awake?” she retorted.
“I was working on my brisket recipe. Something’s off, it’s driving me crazy.”
“You’re brisketing at four a.m.?”
“Yeah. Smoking after midnight makes the meat sexier and more dynamic. I have no science to support this, though.”
“Ever seen that movie, Like Water for Chocolate? Great book-to-film adaptation. The heroine infused her personality into her dishes. When people ate her food, they experienced what she felt when she cooked it.”
“Mmm. I like that.” He paused. “There’s a compliment in there, but I can’t find it.”
“Natural Born Griller is such a hit, Wes. I know you’ll place in the competition.”
“I appreciate it, but really, that’s not how it works. This is a real food competition, not a popularity contest. But if I place, I get sponsorships, invitations to bigger festivals. Bragging rights. I’m still new on the circuit, so I need to make an impression.”
“You’re good at those.”
Sasha heard him let out a small, sleepy chuckle. “Okay, Sasha. Why’re you calling me?”
“I had a revelation about Seat F that I urgently needed to tell you. Related to the case.”
“I’m listening.”
“I think I like not knowing anything about Seat F. Isn’t that weird?”
“Yeah, it’s weird. Especially since you hired a professional to track him down. Do you want to stop?”
“No, I want to find him. But this part before we do? I kind of like it.”
“Why?”
“Right now, it’s all possibility. He hasn’t let me down yet.”
“Why are you assuming he’ll disappoint you?”
“If you sleep on the floor, you have nowhere to fall.”
“Damn, Sasha, the bar’s that low?”
“Talk to any New York woman our age, she’ll say the same thing.”
At that moment, she saw a bright ribbon of sky peeking out from a crack in her curtains. Was the sun already rising?
“I forgot how easy you were to talk to,” she remarked, tucking her hand under the pillow.
“I earned six Communications badges in Cub Scouts,” he said, a smile in his voice.
After this, their late-night calls became a thing. Sasha didn’t know if it was the relative anonymity of talking without seeing him, or the hazy liminality of the hour, but she found herself becoming more and more candid with every conversation.
The next night, his call interrupted a dreamless sleep.
“Sasha, wake up.”
She sat up in bed with a start. “Are you okay? Am I okay?”
“I’m fine. You’re fine, too. I think.”
Sasha sank back into the pillows. “Wes, you can’t call an anxious person at this hour with urgency in your voice.”
“You’re right, my bad. I was just wondering . . . do you remember anything else about your conversation with Seat F,” asked Wes. “Any other details?”
“I don’t think so. Believe me, I’ve been racking my brain.”
“Sometimes the most innocuous details we tell people can turn into clues. Did you tell him where you like to eat? Your nearest train? Your favorite color? Anything.”
Sasha struggled to unlock something. When she first spoke to Wes about the flight conversation, she was positive she’d recalled everything. But the more she pored over those six hours, the more she realized there were pieces missing. Out of focus. It made sense, given she’d drunk so much wine.
And then, she unearthed a buried detail.
“Wes, how could I forget? I told him about my job. Well, in a roundabout way. I said I was doing a ‘special project’ for Seraphina.”
“You weren’t specific? You didn’t tell him you were casting a commercial?”
“No, it felt too complicated to be like, ‘I’m on contract but it’s not full-time, it’s just for this one project, blah, blah.’ It’s hard to follow.”
“You told him you’re New York–based, right?” Wes was listening, but also half talking to himself. “Here’s my thought. Most guys, if you tell them you work for a store, they’ll assume you work at the store. Like, a sales associate, or at the register.”
“Mmm. I see where you’re going with this. You think he might be looking for me at Seraphina stores around the city?”
“Yup. I’m gonna visit some Seraphina locations tomorrow, see if he’s been by,” he said. “I’m looking up locations, and I see a handful in the city and three in Brooklyn. And Seraphina’s flagship New York store is on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh.”
“I’ll meet you there around noon?”
“No, you won’t. My case, my rules, remember?”
“I remember, I remember. You’re so strict.”
“And there’s nothing else you remember telling him?”
Sasha took an unblinking pause. There had to be more.
Wait, there was one more thing. It just popped in her head.
Why did it take Wes prompting her for the details to come flooding in?
It was like when a skilled yoga teacher gently touches your elbow or hip, and you magically reach pose perfection.
All he had to do was give her a nudge, and her thoughts crystallized. She wondered how he did it.
“I just remembered something else,” she confessed sheepishly. “I told him I like Fenty palettes.”
Wes took a brief pause. “I don’t know those words.”
“Fenty is Rihanna’s makeup line. And she makes eye palettes. An eye palette is several eyeshadows housed in one compact.”
“That explanation is less complicated than saying you’re a casting director?”
She ignored this. “Wait, I think I remember him writing that down. About the palettes.”
“A quick search shows me that Seraphina sells Fenty products.”
“Your wheels are turning. I can feel it through the phone. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you should let me do my job.” His voice sounded wired, invigorated. “Fuck, I love this part.”
“Listen to you.” She smiled to herself. “You sure you want to give up detective work?”
He chuckled. “Good night, Sasha.”
“’Night, Wes.”
The following night, Sasha woke up thirsty around 2:30 a.m. She padded into the kitchen, poured a glass of water—and, naturally, called Wes.
“I’ve been thinking about what I’ll do when I see him again,” she said. “And I’m so nervous.”
“You? He should be nervous. What’s tripping you up?”
“Sex,” she said without hesitation.
“But that’s the easy part.”
“Not to me. I haven’t done it in years. Studies show that, for women, the longer you go without it, the less you need sex with another person. Especially when we’ve got vibrators and dildos and smutty audiobooks.”
“I better find Seat F before you explode.”
“I need to shake the fear. I’m just not comfortable around strange men. That’s why I was so moved by, uh, Seat F. We were immediately comfortable.” She paused, chewing her lip. “Can I tell you a secret?”
This always happened with Wes. Something about his easygoing, nonjudgmental air made her want to spill everything on her mind. No boundaries, no filter. She was about to reveal something she hadn’t even told Destiny.
“I can’t even . . . you know. Well, I have trouble . . . I haven’t been able to do . . .”
“Self-checkout?”
“Wes, that’s ridiculous.” She couldn’t help but laugh at his masturbation euphemism. But it was still depressing. “Ugh. I’m so ashamed.”
“There’s no shame here, Sasha. Only solutions. Are you saying you can’t start? Or you can’t finish?”
“I can start! I set the mood. Light a candle. Lower the lights. And then I charge up my Rose—but I feel silly. I have to stop. Somehow, it makes me feel lonelier.”
“Maybe your problem is you’re engaging in sexual congress with a thorned flower?”
“The Rose is a vibrator, Wes. She’s famous.” Sasha lowered her voice to a whisper. “When’s the last time you masturbated?”
“Alone, or with a consenting party?”
“Alone.”
“This morning.”
“Was it good?”
There was a pause on the line as Wes considered this question. “I’ve never kicked myself out of bed.”
“God. Life’s so simple for men.”
“I can’t lie, we’re all more or less basic.”
“Not Seat F,” she retorted.
“No?”
“He’s not basic. Why would you think he’s basic?” She realized she sounded defensive.
“I don’t. I have no opinion.”
“Yes you do.”
“I truly do not.”
“Tell me.”