Chapter 12 Head Case #2
“You should talk to my parents. They met at a support group for people chronically unable to pass driving tests. Imagine?”
“See? I love that,” enthused Sasha. “Did you know that Stevie Nicks married her best friend’s widowed husband?
And Serena Williams met her husband at a restaurant, which seems normal.
But no. He was sitting at a table she wanted, so she told him a rat was under a chair so he’d switch tables. Queen shit.”
“Advantage, Serena!”
“Colman Domingo met his husband in a Walgreens parking lot and found him when he posted a Craigslist Missed Connections story.”
“So, you and Colman are practically on parallel timelines.”
“Girl. And he’s been married to his guy for over a decade.”
“I love this for you, that you’re feeling all hopeful about men. You’re healing!”
If only it were that easy, she thought. The whole reason she was here, blowing up her silk press to steam her scalp, was to heal. To relax. To calm her nervous system. Healing was always on her mind. And always a bit elusive.
“I doubt if I’ll ever be all-the-way healed. But I’m feeling hopeful. And guess what? Wes and I found out that Seat F’s looking for me, too.”
“You and Wes? I thought he told you not to get involved with the case?”
Sasha grimaced. “He did. But I might’ve snuck into one of his missions. I didn’t think he’d catch me. I was just so curious.”
“You’re such a control freak. Girl, let that man do his job.”
“I know, I know. But I felt spiritually called to spy on him. I can’t explain it.”
“Interesting. Maybe you just want to be around Wes.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
Sasha wasn’t ready to admit this to Destiny. She was barely able to admit it to herself. To come clean with her, Sasha would need to confront the fact that she was trapped in the twistiest, most nonsensical hell of her own making.
“You know Wes Dane isn’t my type.”
“Do you know how often people misdiagnose their so-called types? It’s why no one does BuzzFeed quizzes anymore.”
“I know that I’m not into playfully flirtatious men. Impossible to tell their intentions, don’t you think?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know how to flirt playfully. I go in for the kill.”
“Our relationship is hard to explain.” She waved a hand, attempting to dismiss the topic.
“Try me, babe.”
Sasha steeled herself for this explanation. She’d never told anyone about the night they’d shared years ago, and she wasn’t ready to do so now.
“Wes and I had an intense night, back in 2022. I was scared and he was . . . perfect. Perfect. But he knew me at a scary time. One I’m always trying to forget.
Sometimes when we’re talking, I dissociate a bit, because everything about Wes reminds me of me, a stalking victim, being terrorized, and having nowhere to turn.
He pulls me into the past. Through no fault of Wes’s, of course,” she explained.
“Anyway, Seat F feels like a new page. I can control how much he knows. What he sees. We haven’t escaped the fires of utter chaos together. It doesn’t feel so heavy.”
“Makes sense,” Destiny allowed. “It’s worth noting, though, that you said Wes’s name several times in the last five minutes.”
Sasha had no response to this. Pouting, she asked, “Can we get Popeyes after?”
“You forget, baby, I’m a love professional. I just want to help. I can’t imagine a more complicated scenario than developing a crush on the guy I hired to find my crush.”
It was a terrible thought. Messy. Confusing.
And, as she’d discovered today while taking a break from researching meet-cutes, Reddit had no convincing advice for “how to tell if you’re inconveniently attracted to the wrong guy.
” Sasha decided that, if she felt a tiny spark for Wes, it was surely misplaced gratitude for saving her ass—in 2022 and today.
Every time her thoughts drifted to him, she steered them in the other direction.
Toward Seat F. The one predicted by the manicurist. The one who held her hand through turbulence.
The one who was looking for her, as she looked for him.
Remember the whole point, thought Sasha. Remember what you’re doing.
“But, if you’re truly not into Wes,” started Destiny, “do you mind if I add him to my database? He’s such an eligible bachelor. Truly one to watch.”
“Excuse me?” Sasha flinched, totally caught off guard. The idea was preposterous. She couldn’t figure out a proper response, so she burst into nervous laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
Sasha wound down her giggles, letting out a drawn-out sigh. “Oh, Destiny. He’s not a matchmaking kind of guy.”
“You think I couldn’t find him a partner? Me? In 2017, I successfully matched a Delta with an AKA. Don’t play with me.”
“I just mean, he doesn’t need one. He gets enough women, believe me. He even has groupies. They’re called the Barbecuties. Can you imagine?”
“What that tells me is there’s a market for him. And I could possibly be sitting on the love of his life. If you don’t etroduce us, I’m sliding into that young man’s DMs.”
“Umm . . . maybe. I’ll let you know.” Sasha adjusted her eye mask. “But I’m warning you. He’s kind of a player. By his own admission, he’s not a relationship guy.”
“Ahhh, I see. He’s not available, so you’re talking yourself out of being attracted to him.”
“Destiny, I’m not attracted to him! He’s an attractive man, but he’s not my man.”
“Fine, but I must reemphasize the fact that you should be diversifying your portfolio, man-wise. I worry about all this energy for Seat F. I meant it when I said I like seeing you romantically hopeful. I just don’t want the hopefulness to become delusion.
You met Seat F once. In the sky. Off the Henny. ”
“Listen, there’s a greater force at play. The manicurist said that the right connection can bridge hearts through time and space. She was on point! By the way, soothsayers are very trendy. There’s a new palmistry café opening in Crown Heights.”
“And? Brooklyn loves a fuckass coffee shop. Ever been to Cockatoo Café? It’s a coffee shop featuring live, uncaged exotic birds. Imagine a myna bird flying away with your croissant in its claws?” She yawned indulgently. “Not all trends make sense.”
“Palmistry does, though. That woman was onto something. I see signs everywhere. As a love specialist, I’d think you’d be more open to the whimsy of this.”
“I’m a realist. It’s the only way you get numbers like I do. My job is to make the connection happen, fast. The possibility of you actually finding Seat F is slim. And the biggest love red flag? Insurmountable obstacles. You’re mistaking the thrill of a crush with the thrill of the unknown.”
“Maybe,” muttered Sasha, unconvinced.
“Promise me, if you ever meet him, that you’ll bring a chaperone. I’ll go with you. Or, better yet, Wes. I don’t like that we don’t know anything about him. Promise?”
With a resigned exhale, Sasha responded, “Promise.”