Chapter 2 In Bocca Al Lupo #2
“Our stories are similar,” he continued. “I don’t know my mother. I can’t speak German. Feels like I have, ehh, a parent-shaped hole in my biography.”
“Exactly.” Sasha allowed her head to drop back against her seat. She rarely spoke about feeling culturally estranged from her Dominicanness. It was too revealing. What had made her go there with Seat F? And what were the chances that he’d get it? Well, in his own way.
“Esattamente,” he said in a low voice. Their eyes found each other. For a moment, Sasha forgot where she was. Talking to him felt familiar. It was like reuniting with someone you’d known so long ago, it predated memory. Had she met him before? Or did she inhale the wine too fast?
Her chest flushed hot. She felt a magnetic, elemental pull toward him, as sure as if he were attracting all the molecules in the cabin.
She felt summoned by him. Which was so unexpected.
For her, even entertaining this guy was nuts.
All she’d wanted to do on this flight was learn about the tenacious early twentieth–century Chinese and Black workers who built Route 66.
“Do you know anything about your mom?” she asked, hoping to break the tension.
“I do. She was a young Berlin aristocrat on summer holiday in Gallipoli. She had a romance with a poor fisherman’s son—my dad.
Then, she got pregnant. Gallipoli is beautiful.
It smells like cypress trees and the sea.
But, it was a struggling village back then.
After my birth, ‘poor’ stopped being charming, sì?
So she returned to Germany. That’s how he tells it, anyway.
” He tilted his head to one side. “What’s your parents’ story? ”
“Well, it’s a short one. My dad owned the electrical repair company where my mom worked. He was married, and my mom was his mistress. When she got pregnant with me, he fired her.”
“Cristo. I’m sorry.” Seat F finished off his martini. “Even if you knew him, how much do you ever really know anyone? I’ve had passionate relationships with people I barely know.”
How passionate? she wanted to ask. And with whom?
The flight attendant reappeared, handing Seat F another martini and refreshing Sasha’s wine.
They both took a sip. And then, Seat F slipped off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
Dear God, he’d thrown her off her game. Did she really reveal her tawdry origins?
Truthfully, she rarely thought of the beautiful, charming, intensely unfaithful man who sent money sometimes, but never met his daughter.
Sasha considered Raul Cruz to be her mom’s tragedy, not hers.
“Well. I don’t want to bother you. You had on your mask and AirPods before, so . . .” He trailed off. “Don’t let me get in the way.”
He even knew when to bow out!
The captain made another announcement about seat belts. Feeling no pain, she slid down her eye mask and reflexively made the sign of the cross.
“Catholic?” she heard him ask.
She slid up her mask. “I was raised Catholic, but no. Religion isn’t my thing. On planes, though, all bets are off. I’m interdenominationally open to all symbols of protection. I have worry dolls in my purse. The Egyptian Eye of Ra. A rabbit’s foot. A ‘Hakuna Matata’ magnet.”
And a chewed-up pencil from someone I used to know, she thought.
Just then, Seat F pulled out a pen and a cocktail napkin from his jacket pocket. He wrote something on the napkin and, silently, handed it to Sasha from across the aisle. The napkin had FILM FORUM EST. 1970 stamped in gold across the bottom. He’d written on it:
IN BOCCA AL LUPO
“The translation’s not perfect, but it means ‘good luck and stay safe.’ ”
Hopelessly intrigued, she whispered the words to herself, and then tucked the napkin into her purse. “A talisman from a mysterious stranger. Thank you.”
“Very mysterious, yes. I don’t even have, ehh, social media.”
“Love that. And I also love the Film Forum. Best indie theater in the city.”
“Yes, I live nearby in SoHo about half the year. I go there, alone, every Friday night when I’m in town.”
“Nice. I haven’t been to the actual theater in so long. I miss it. Especially watching a really dark foreign horror flick in a packed house.”
“Horror? I see,” he said, tapping a finger on his mouth. “Now’s a good time to tell you that ‘in bocca al lupo’ literally means ‘stay safe in the mouth of the wolf.’ ”
He tipped his chin downward, raising only his eyes to meet hers. Something passed between them, an electric, once-or-twice-in-a-lifetime understanding. For several thundering heartbeats, she lost her breath. God, it had been an eternity since a man had had this effect on her.
“So gothic and dark,” she said, once she found her voice. “I love it even more now.”
“I thought you might.” His eyes crinkled. “I want to take you to the cinema. I mean, I’d like to. Apologies, in English I’m too blunt.”
“Blunt is good. There’s no guessing your intention.”
“Guessing games are for children,” he said simply.
For Sasha, a woman who’d experienced ten years of New York City dating, a man saying those words was like hearing the herald angels sing.
“Shall we?” he continued. “When we’re back in the city?”
She froze. Things just got real. This would be her first date in years. Would she accept? She’d just gotten comfortable with grocery shopping herself, instead of Instacarting. Why did she think she’d be okay on a date? Despite her worries, she snapped into project-manager mode.
“Let’s do it. There’s a great restaurant near the Film Forum. Reservations are tough . . .”
Then, the scowl came back. “No, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”
“But I know the publicist. I can get us in, easy.”
“I’m sure you can.” His potent, pale teal eyes scanned her face. “But I want to take care of you. Sì? Allow yourself to be . . . handled.” He paused, running his fingers through his waves. “No, that’s not the right word.”
Yes, it the fuck is, she thought. And that might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Okay, we have a date.” She paused. “I think I’m drunk. I want to sleep, but I shouldn’t. What if we crash? What if you snatch my purse?”
“To steal your worry dolls and Lion King novelty items?” he said, lightly mocking her.
“Great point.”
“Don’t worry, I’m too wealthy to steal.” His eyes danced. “Though, in America, those are the worst thieves, sì? You’re right, maybe you should protect yourself.”
She giggled drowsily. “An honest gazillionaire. Refreshing.”
“I try to be honest. I have to tell friendly lies so often, in my work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a luxury hotel inspector. As such, I must be anonymous. Use aliases.” He must’ve noticed that her eyelids looked heavy, because he then said, “Before you go to sleep, may I ask? What’s bringing you to Paris?”
“A business trip for Seraphina. The beauty boutique?”
“I know it well. A woman once told me she doesn’t trust straight men who know which beauty products to buy girlfriends. She assumes they’re, ehh, womanizing.”
“Counterpoint? If my guy knew I loved Fenty eye shadow palettes, I’d be impressed. Love a man who pays attention.”
Seat F nodded, his finger lightly tapping his bottom lip. Then, he typed something into his iPhone Notes app. Sasha leaned over the aisle and spied on his screen, which said:
NOTE TO SELVES. SHE LIKES FENTY EYESHADOW PALIATTES.
Sasha laughed out loud. He grinned. And then, all at once, she felt the woozy pull of the Xanax and wine, lulling her into sleep. Which could not happen.
Sasha and Seat F had an undeniable connection.
But he was, in fact, a stranger. And under no circumstances would she submit to full slumber next to a man she’d just met.
Instead, she allowed herself to float into a wine-woozy, waking restfulness.
But before she slid her mask down over her eyes, she stole one last glance at him.
He was so intriguing. Was it the accent?
The asymmetrical features that were so at odds with his solicitous demeanor?
The answer didn’t matter—because what she saw blew her fucking mind.
Seat F pulled a book from his carry-on. A lock of hair fell into his eyes as he flipped to a bookmarked page. And then, she saw the cover. How to Not Die Alone by Logan Ury.
Stunned, Sasha openly gawked at the book. Her mouth dropped open a bit.
Without looking up from the pages, the corner of his mouth curled upward. “No one wants to die alone. Sì?”
No one wants to die alone.
First Maxi, now Seat F. The universe was definitely sending her a message.
Thunderstruck, Sasha sat alone with her thoughts for who knows how long, trying to calm her nerves .
. . about everything. Maybe it was time to take a chance.
Maybe the great casting director in the sky had decided Seat F was the guy to do it with.
Was she ready for this? Probably not, but did it matter?
After a while, she stopped asking herself questions.
And then, summoning up all the courage lying dormant inside her, she thrust a trembling hand into the aisle.
God, she was dying to feel the skin of someone new.
Aching for connection. She’d gone so long without it.
Without words, Seat F took her hand in his. His grip felt warm, firm, and correct.
By the time they landed in Paris, they were bonded. They were also bombed. Whether it was the drinks, or the hours of vulnerable, connective conversation—she felt as if she’d slipped into a dream; someone else’s dream, someone more lighthearted and hopeful.
But, when they landed, the dream went awry.
Sasha couldn’t have predicted how overwhelming the Charles de Gaulle Airport would be, especially given her blood alcohol level.
To stay attached in the crowd headed to baggage claim, they reached for each other’s hands—but how do you hold hands, surrounded by a crush of people, while also rolling luggage?
But still, they managed to stay close. Until the taxi stand outside of Departures.
They were about to say goodbye (with a hug?
a kiss? Sasha would never know), when the dispatcher, overwhelmed with patrons, rushed them into their separate cars.
It all happened in a blink of an eye. Sasha and Seat F hadn’t exchanged names, numbers, or any info, whatsoever.
Well, Seat F knew her last name, but nothing more.
Sasha realized her mistake in the cab, headed for the hotel.
Without thinking, she shot off an email to her Seraphina HR contact, April MacGruder (she and April were both Spelman class of ’15.
They were friendly, but not friends). Sasha used her own Seraphina email, Sasha.C@, which was issued to her for the duration of her casting project.
Unfortunately, she was still catastrophically drunk.
In the email, she described Seat F to April—with hectic, misspelled energy—and asked if he worked at Seraphina. Because she absolutely needed to find him. The subject line? “Searching for Seat F.”
In her haste, Sasha didn’t realize where the email was going. Yes, she’d sent it to April. But she’d also cc’d the entire Seraphina staff. Global. Within twenty-four hours, digital chaos ensued.
And Seraphina corporate employees, worldwide, began searching for Seat F.
To: April.M@; SERAPHINA CORPORATE GLOBAL
From: Sasha.C@
Subject: Searching for Seat F
APRILL! I met my husband on the plane. Didn’t get his info, long stry.
Think he told me where he works but I CAN’T REMEMBER?
Can u tell me if he’s affiliated with Seraphina in any way?
Tall brunette, grean eyes, daddy energy?
International man of mistry vibes? A manicurist PREDICTED HIM.
She said THE RITE CONNECTION brIDGES HEARTS THRU TIME & SPACE.
He’s Italian, I’m American, we’re from diff parts of the planet but love bridged our hearts!
YOU FEAL ME? Anwy, I need him carnally. Please help. xoxo, S