Chapter 20 Like You’re Mine
LIKE YOU’RE MINE
Sasha was balancing on her tiptoes atop a four-foot ladder.
She was also wearing a full face of makeup and a sweeping, full-length evening gown.
With her left hand, she steadied herself against the wall.
With her right hand, she stretched up to tinker with Destiny’s smoke detector.
Why had she never noticed how intolerably high her best friend’s ceilings were?
“What can’t she do?” murmured Destiny, as she watched Sasha from the plush safety of her rose-sprigged, antique four-poster bed.
Currently, they were in her bedroom, but her whole apartment was decorated in high boudoir style—lace-trimmed displays, gilded mirrors, antique furniture, and pink accents.
It was the night of the Two Tunics charity gala.
Destiny offered to style Sasha’s bob in sexy, tousled waves, so she came over to get ready.
But as she sat at Destiny’s vanity, the smoke detector beeps drove her crazy.
So, efficient to the bone, Sasha hoisted the ladder out of a closet, and changed the batteries herself.
She needed to keep herself occupied. Because she felt like she was suffering a breakup—a breakup with a man who was never hers, in the first place.
Once she got home last night, she crawled into bed, fully clothed, his scent still covering her.
His touch still burning into her skin. And she didn’t sleep.
Instead, she wept bitter, broken tears. She cried over the revelation she’d reached way too late.
She cried for hurting Wes, and for not having the courage to tell him how she really felt. Sasha was in pieces.
But she had to put herself back together. Because no matter how she felt, Sasha was going to see Wes again, tonight. And possibly Teo. And she had to take it like a woman. After all, this situation wasn’t happening to her. She’d unknowingly orchestrated it. It was all her fault.
She was too embarrassed to tell Destiny the truth. So, instead, she busied herself with home repairs.
“Please don’t fall. My insurance has lapsed,” said Destiny, sipping Fleur de Geisha tea.
“I’ve never fallen off a ladder in my life,” said Sasha. “And why don’t you know how to reinstate your insurance? And fix your smoke detector? You’d die first in The Hunger Games.”
“I told you, my Taskrabbit’s coming over tomorrow to do repairs. He could’ve done it.”
“You could’ve done it.”
“I’m too delicate for such matters.”
Folding her gown’s hem over her arm, Sasha carefully climbed down the ladder. “Fire safety isn’t a joke. Promise me you’ll learn how to change your battery, friend.”
“This isn’t about fire safety. You’re trying to channel your nervous energy.”
“Why would I be nervous?”
Sasha sat down at Destiny’s flashy mirrored vanity and eyed herself in the reflection.
Admittedly, she felt fantastic in the gown—a bias-cut peach satin slip dress that clung to her figure, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Her eyes were melodramatic and smoky; her hair fell in glamorous waves.
Tasteful Swarovski crystal jewelry twinkled at her ears and cleavage.
On the outside, it was all working—but inside, she was a boiling cauldron of turmoil.
Her stomach was flip-flopping, and her palms were permanently damp.
With a small grimace, she grabbed a New Yorker magazine and fanned her face.
“It’s clear you’re nervous, baby. You just climbed up a ladder in formal wear.”
“Formals always throw me. You’re all glam, you have to performatively be on your best behavior. It makes me goofy. At the junior prom, I bit down on a cherry tomato and it exploded all over my dress.” She sighed glumly. “I looked like Carrie.”
“What’s freaking you out the most about tonight?”
With a stressed-out sigh, she caught Destiny’s eyes in the mirror. She still wasn’t comfortable sharing the full truth about her and Wes. “Going to a fancy gala with Wes, maybe? Experiencing him in formal wear? Even though the date is just for show, it’s still nerve-racking.”
“Huh. Interesting. I had assumed the possibility of seeing Teo again was making you nervous.”
“Oh. Oh, of course. That goes without saying,” she said quickly, brushing a touch of powder onto her nose.
“But I don’t want to get my hopes up. It’s almost too good to be true.
So I’m managing my expectations. If he’s there, it’ll be a happy surprise.
If he isn’t? Well, maybe we’ll gather some clues. ”
Destiny clapped her hands on her thighs. Then, her drooly Saint Bernard, Miss Piggy, came bounding into the room, wearing a pink statement necklace. She leapt onto Destiny’s lap.
“Sasha, are you sure about Teo? I’m worried that you’re so caught up in the fantasy, you’re forgetting he’s just some guy.
Hopefully, he’s exactly who he presented to be on the flight.
But there’s a chance he won’t be. Honey, he could be the kind of boyfriend you need to crate at night. He could be poor. It’s a crapshoot.”
Sasha turned around on the stool, facing Destiny. “I’m not caught in a fantasy.”
Sighing heavily, Miss Piggy flipped on her back and zonked out.
“You are. And is it just a way to avoid what’s really in front of you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Wes.”
Sasha folded one leg over the other and arranged her gown over her knee. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked in a posh British accent.
“Don’t be cute. How many times have you hung out with him in the past week?”
“But we’re not just ‘hanging out.’ We’re basically coworkers.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me, Sasha Cruz,” announced Destiny, fussing with Miss Piggy’s necklace. “I know you. Look at how you’re wiggling your foot. You always contract restless leg syndrome when you get stressed out.”
Sasha let out a massive exhale, her shoulders slumping. She hoped her makeup masked her blotchy eyes from crying all night long. “Okay. Okay, I’m tired of running. I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t judge me.”
“No promises, babe. Shoot.”
“I’m . . . I like him. I’m crazy about him, a little bit. I don’t know how this happened. We keep slipping up with each other.” She dropped her face in her hands, and then, “You know, orgasmically.”
“Ahhh!” screamed Destiny, startling Miss Piggy out of sleep. “You did it. I knew it. Besides, you’re always with him. If you hang out at a barbershop long enough, you’re gonna get a haircut.” She beamed. “You really like him, huh?”
“Too much.” Sasha chewed her lip. “I’ve never felt like this.
But what if it’s just the trauma talking?
He was there at the scariest point of my life.
What if I’m just projecting all these savior feelings onto him?
But I ruined everything, anyway. I was too scared to get hurt, so I never told him how I felt.
And last night, he told me he couldn’t see me .
. . that way . . . anymore. That it was killing him. ”
“Killing him? He’s down that bad? What are we gonna do?”
“Nothing. We do nothing. It’s for the best, anyway. I’m scared he would’ve hurt me. He’s not a relationships guy, and he’s a tad ran-through, and he’s extremely close to his ex . . .”
“What does the ex look like?”
“She’s Imani McIntyre.”
Destiny’s jaw dropped. “Don’t piss me off. That strumpet?”
“Swear to God. I saw her the other day. Apparently, she’s tapped into her ‘divine feminine.’ ”
Destiny winced. “Yeah, let’s keep him away from her.”
Sasha stared off into nothing, trying to mentally prepare herself for letting Wes go. “This is for the best. I just have to keep reminding myself. Wes is . . .”
. . . wonderful, beautiful, caring, romantic, delicious . . .
“. . . sort of my favorite person. But our connection goes back to a time when I felt scared and vulnerable. I want to start over, feel strong. I mean, look at my progress! I’m headed to a gala full of strangers.
And I’m surprisingly okay with this. This is a massive step forward, and I don’t want any ties to the past.”
“Self-preservation, I get it. But you can’t help how you feel.”
Destiny was right. She couldn’t help her feelings. But she did have control over whether she acted on them or not. Earrings jingling, she stood up, grabbed her evening bag, and kissed Destiny on the cheek. It was time to go.
Later, as her Uber driver drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, as a syrupy amber sun set over Lower Manhattan’s chrome skyline, she dug into her bag.
She was looking for her good-luck charm.
The thing that she carried with her for the past four years whenever she needed a surge of positivity. Protection.
Her fingers found it in the dark. An old pencil, with Dane & Son Detective Agency stamped on the side in gold.
Grooves from the previous owner’s teeth marks were embedded on it, as he liked to chew it when he was thinking.
At least he did the night he tossed it to her in his office—and she caught it, in prime majorette style.
She fondled it lovingly, then tucked it back in her bag.
An ironic talisman for a woman who didn’t like to look back.