Chapter 3 Caucasian Fornication #2
It was a brilliantly sunny morning a few days after Sasha’s return.
The two friends were on the communal rooftop lounge area of Sasha’s building—along with a dozen of her neighbors.
As with many of Brooklyn’s newer high-rises, the roof was designed to look like an urban oasis, with chaise lounges, wood deck tiles, and green spaces.
It was the perfect spot for remote working (i.e. , gossiping and tanning).
Sasha and Destiny were kindred spirits who’d met as adults—a rarefied breed of best friends.
One of Sasha’s first big casting jobs was the film adaptation of a bestselling memoir, My Life as a Matchmaking Maven.
The author? Destiny. Her expertise? Creating love matches for Black women seeking to marry wealthy.
She was perfect for this career, as she was a Black woman who’d married wealthy three times.
From their first brainstorming session at the Hotel Chelsea bar, their bond was immediate.
Destiny was ten years older than Sasha, with a voice that purred and a fascinating backstory.
In college, Destiny married her first husband, Jake; a dull, much older real estate honcho.
Two years later, he divorced her—after she’d grown two sizes beyond his prenup-mandated weight requirement.
When he immediately moved on with a bodacious Ruth’s Chris waitress, Destiny sought revenge.
First, she befriended the waitress, under the guise of “seeking closure.” Secretly, she sussed out her needs (good sex and travel) and then introduced her to a thick-dicked hedge fund zillionaire who, as Destiny knew from experience, could provide both.
Within weeks, the waitress dumped Jake to marry the hedge fund guy.
As a final nail in her ex-husband’s coffin, Destiny officiated the waitress’s wedding.
Destiny learned quite a lesson from this experience.
She had a sixth sense about people’s desires.
Cleverly, she parlayed this talent into an elite matchmaking service.
Her tagline? Love isn’t luck. It’s strategy.
Like an Abyssinian cat, Destiny was languid, fancy, and dedicated to a fluffy life of luxury. Unless the subject was love. In that case, she turned into a steely, ruthless shark. And right now, she was metaphorically circling Sasha in the ocean.
“But baby. All this fuss over one mere man? Have you learned nothing from me?” asked Destiny. The yogafied bombshell was a vision in a cascading, auburn bussdown and a pink bandeau top. She wore pink, exclusively.
“You weren’t there on that flight,” whispered Sasha, conscious of her neighbors lounging nearby. “Even through all the drama with the email, I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Honestly, I’m offended. I’ve been trying to match you for years! Every man in my network is top of the line.” She chef-kissed her fingertips to her lips. “Vetted and approved by me. And you fall for a random civilian?”
“But that’s what makes this so exceptional. The fact that I, a woman who rejects all male attention, spoke to this man for almost six hours straight? It has to mean something.”
“Does your picker even work, though? You’ve been alone for a decade.”
“By choice! I was leaning into being single.”
“You need to lean into being plural,” she retorted. “It’s important to date widely before you decide Seat F’s the one. You need to spread it around. Be a ho, like me.” When Destiny said the word “ho,” it somehow sounded elevated and elegant, like “courtesan.”
“You only date rich old men on their deathbeds.”
Destiny stretched languidly. “Mmm, wait till you meet Marlon. He has property in Mustique.”
“Yeah? How long ago did Marlon pass?”
Destiny playfully whacked Sasha in the shoulder with her hat. “He’s very much alive, thank you. He’s sixty-eight and does CrossFit! But back to you embracing your inner ho.”
Pouting, Sasha played with the hem of her sundress. “I can’t be a ho. I’m too sleepy. Hoes don’t nap. Didn’t Cardi B say that?”
“No, she said hoes don’t get cold. Which is a scientific fact,” added Destiny. “Listen, let me build you a roster. I can get you a pair and a spare by close of business Friday.”
“You don’t get it, Destiny. We talked for hours.” Sasha slid off her sunnies, and looked soulfully into her friend’s eyes. “The. Whole. Flight.”
“So? That’s the airplane version of the club boyfriend. Remember those? You’d go out, lock eyes with someone, then date him exclusively for the duration of the function. Never to be seen again.” She shrugged. “Some men shouldn’t exist beyond the theoretical plane.”
“Stop gaslighting me into thinking my experience wasn’t real.”
Destiny ignored her, pulling up an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop. “Look at all these available men in my contacts. This guy, Eli? He’s perfect for you. Full disclosure, he’s a little awkward. His personality gives first draft. But he’s a HENRY.”
“You just said his name’s Eli.”
“ ‘HENRY’ means ‘High Earner Not Rich Yet,’ ” said Destiny, scrolling through her contacts.
Sasha burst out laughing. “I’m through with you.”
“Listen, he gives gorgeous head and he’ll analyze your retirement fund,” she enthused. “But I’m having trouble placing him because he has sleep apnea. Does snoring trigger you?”
Sasha exhaled dramatically, flopping back on the sunbed. “I don’t want Eli. I want Seat F. That flight felt cosmic. I’ve never felt a connection like that, so fast.”
That’s a lie. Destiny doesn’t know about the other time I felt this way. No one does. It’s between me and him. Anyway, it was forever ago. It doesn’t matter now. And it couldn’t matter, then. Different time, different situation.
Destiny turned toward her so fast, her stack of pink bracelets jingle-jangled. She eyed Sasha with suspicion and alarm.
“Am I hearing you say that you’re soulmates? What have I told you? It takes four seasons of dating—an entire calendar year—before you can confirm soulmate status.”
“You know I don’t believe in soulmates. But there was undeniable magic.” She nibbled her bottom lip, remembering. “We held hands. Just for a little bit, during turbulence. Like this.”
Sasha demonstrated on Destiny, whose eyes slowly widened. “How many seconds?”
“About five.”
“Mmm. Anything more would’ve been creepy. Five is tasteful. Damn, he’s good.”
“It’s funny, though,” said Sasha. “I never pictured my soulmate being white.”
“Recession indicator,” quipped Destiny. Then she began scrolling through her spreadsheet, again. “Wait. You’re open to dating white men? Hold, please.”
“What are you doing?” asked Sasha.
“Consulting my Caucasian Fornication database. In case you can’t find Seat F, I have some backups. What genre of white man are we doing? Fade-and-tatted-calves white? Country-club-chinos white?”
“I’m not looking for a white man!”
Just then, a husky blond guy walked by, and winked. Sasha waved her fingers at him.
“I’m not looking for a white man,” she repeated, this time in a whisper. “He happens to be white. Italian from Italy, to be specific. A coastal beach town.”
She gasped. “Imagine us summering in Portofino?”
“First of all, who’s ‘us’? Secondly, this isn’t about Caucasian fornication. I wasn’t even thinking about sex on that flight.”
“See, but that’s a problem,” said Destiny. “The longer women go without sex, the less we need it. And we stop even missing it. That’s just the law of sexual physics.”
“But I get horny sometimes,” protested Sasha. “When the laptop heats up on my lap, I get a tingle.”
Destiny looked harrowed. “Friend.”
“I know, I know. Maybe I’m just not a sexual person. Was I ever? In my twenties, I had three significant boyfriends. I must’ve enjoyed doing it with them.”
Sasha pictured one of those old Cosmopolitan magazine coverlines: “Whore to Bore, and Back Again: How to Reignite Your Inner Slut.” She wondered if sexuality was like a muscle. If you don’t use it, it atrophies.
“I’m sure you were sexual. You know, in your prissy way,” Destiny said. “Honestly, I can’t see you doing anything to affect the integrity of your silk press.”
“Stop it, I’m not precious about my hair. I work out four times a week.”
“So you say,” joked Destiny. “But yes, you were freer, in general. Before everything happened.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Sasha and Destiny never talked about October 2022. The bracelet, the scar, and the memories hung between them, as subtle as flashing neon lights.
“You can’t stay scared forever,” said Destiny softly. “I’m not diminishing your experience. But you have a defeated way of living. Don’t let that monster . . . that fucking predator win. Live. Be free. Take chances.”
Sasha nodded in agreement. It was easier than explaining the way fear works.
After a while, it stops being vivid. It turns into a lifestyle.
The fear of the traumatic incident evolves into a fear of everything.
Sasha used to be a normal woman, fully experiencing the world.
Free. Now, she was in chains—unable to even stay at a hotel without barricading the door at night.
If only the cure was as simple as “Don’t let the predator win.”
Sasha changed the subject. “Anyway. Maybe Seat F was just a club boyfriend. But I want to see him again. Just to make sure. There was a reason we connected, and I want to know what it is. Does that make sense?”
“Yes. To a woman violently attracted to her MacBook.” Destiny reached for her LaCroix on the ground. At which point her spectacular, all-natural double Ds popped out of her bandeau top. “Whoops!”
Sasha reached over, yanking up Destiny’s top. “Please. I live with these people.”
“You know where my titties would be welcome? Italian beaches. Just saying.” She shimmied her shoulders. “Quick question. What if some Seraphina employee actually does find him? What then?”
“I’m choosing to forget that there are strangers all over the world on the case,” she said. “Too mortifying. Anyway, HR disabled my account, so I won’t receive any more responses. Thank God,” she sighed. “I just need to do some detective work, myself.”
For the past couple of days, she’d been musing upon fate.
Accepting that Seraphina job. Ending up on that particular flight.
Sitting in that specific seat, next to that specific man.
It felt destined. But she didn’t even know his name.
He had no social media, and she didn’t know where he worked.
Was it a lost cause? Or maybe she should do some private investigating herself.
Destiny was right. She needed a detective.
Just then, she froze. And gasped so loudly that she startled someone’s maltipoo, two chaise lounges away. She swiveled her head toward Destiny. After a few seconds, Destiny’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. And then, they started speaking over each other in rapid-fire best-friendian.
“Wait, you’re not thinking—”
“Oh but I am—”
“Have you spoken since—”
“No, not in years—”
Sasha knew a detective. A good one, too. But was she prepared to see him again?
Of course I am, she thought, answering herself. I don’t know what he’s up to, or what his life’s like now. But we’re both adults. And that brief, fleeting moment we had was born out of a heightened situation. We can be professional.
She whipped out her phone and scrolled through her contact list. There he was, the first name under D.
WESLEY DANE, DETECTIVE. DANE & SON AGENCY.
Wes had saved her life once. But reaching out to him might be opening up a world of trouble.