Chapter 14 Fake Dating
FAKE DATING
What can I say about Detective Wesley Dane Sr. that we don’t already know? He was a pillar of the community. A father, brother, and son to all. Detective Dane was a child of Fort Greene, Brooklyn, before it became . . . well, you know . . .”
“Mighty white!” someone yelled out from the crowd, to knowing laughter.
“Before the transformation, let’s say,” city council member Marilyn Juarez said with a wink.
Sasha, Wes, the Dane family, and about sixty members of the community were gathered in Fort Greene Park’s central lawn, under the spotty shade of a group of 180-year-old silver linden trees.
Councilwoman Juarez was standing at the bench, which was draped in tarp.
She didn’t need a microphone; her voice boomed.
“As someone who grew up attending art, fitness, and college prep classes at the rec center he funded and built on Myrtle Avenue—the one that gave little-girl me a safe place to land—I can tell you that I wouldn’t be standing here today without his love.
As a detective, he was devoted to lifting his community.
He reunited missing children with their parents.
He helped DV victims build a case to convict their abusers.
He broke the case of mistreatment at the Mount Saint Mary’s Nursing Home, right here on Vanderbilt.
And I’ve never met a man with more integrity.
I’ll never forget his words at the 1998 Boys & Girls Club Christmas benefit: ‘Whatever you choose to do, choose the honest way over the easy way. It’ll come back to you with dividends. ’ ”
Sasha glanced at Wes. He was standing next to her, wearing a deep khaki suit and a synthetic smile.
She nudged him a bit with her elbow, getting his attention.
You got this, she mouthed. He blinked a few times, bringing himself back from wherever he was.
Thanks, he mouthed back, looking down at her.
The tightness in his expression softened.
Sasha had been so nervous about going to the ceremony with Wes.
Whether it was a platonic or romantic situation, meeting someone’s family always deepened the relationship.
All morning, she obsessed about what to wear.
And how would she introduce herself? As a client?
A friend? She supposed it didn’t really matter.
No one would be paying attention to her—it was a big moment for the Danes. Not their plus-ones.
Sasha wondered how Wes Dane Sr.’s legendary status affected Wes.
And why hadn’t he ever moved away? There was no outrunning your past when you stayed in the same place your whole life.
Sasha couldn’t fathom it—she left Houston for college, and after graduation, she moved to Brooklyn.
No looking back. So, Sasha had no reference for what it was like to live, as an adult, among people, places, and memories from her childhood.
How “stuck” she would’ve felt. If she’d stayed in Houston, she’d still be the girl with the popstar-concussing baton. Thank God she broke free.
For whatever reason, Wes never took that chance. She wondered why.
“. . . and Wesley Senior instilled the same values in his beloved twins, Brooke and Wesley Junior,” continued Councilwoman Juarez. “Now, I know y’all are grown and in your thirties, but to me, you’re still the kids going door-to-door, gathering baby essentials for new moms in need.”
Several “awws” came from the crowd. An older gentleman in a fedora and suspenders said, “Hmm-hmm. I remember Junior with his Superman cape and his stutter. Thought he could save the world!” Laughter and more “awws” erupted.
The old man looked delighted. Wes looked like he wanted to astral-project.
“Detective Wesley Dane Sr. taught his children to be productive, forthright citizens, and his influence is seen in them today. Brooke, as a commercial engineer with a doctorate and real estate here and in Martha’s Vineyard, and Wesley Junior, proudly following in Wes Senior’s footsteps as a”—checks notes—“ uh, oh I’m sorry, he was a detective.
Now he owns a chain of barbecue restaurants! ”
Sasha angled her head toward Wes’s and whispered, “A chain of restaurants?”
“Fucking Brooke,” he hissed. “She wrote this speech.”
“Did she exaggerate your dad, too?”
“No, he was a pillar of the community,” whispered Wes. “Everyone’s hero. But I never saw that, though. He was so hard on me. I think I was grounded for a decade straight.”
Sasha looked at him, trying to process this outpouring of vulnerability. She had a million questions, but now wasn’t the time to ask them. Wes was so kind, so bighearted. She couldn’t imagine a parent being harsh with a kid like that.
“Please join me,” Councilwoman Juarez was saying, “in dedicating this park bench to Detective Wesley Dane Sr. One of the true heroes of old Fort Greene.” With a flourish, she lifted the tarp off the bench.
It was shiny walnut with an engraved plaque affixed to the back.
The crowd clapped and cheered. “Deejay, spin us a tune!”
The deejay, who was a deacon at Emmanuel Baptist and not qualified to spin anything, turned on a Spotify playlist. As Frankie Beverly and Maze sang through the speakers, people began mingling, dancing, and heartily congratulating the Danes.
Though she obviously never knew Wes’s dad, Sasha was in awe.
He sounded like a saint. It was almost too good to be true.
She tried to imagine little-boy Wes collecting formula and diapers from neighbors, lugging a big bag from door to door like a mini Santa.
Trying to live up to the legacy of his beloved dad.
It must’ve felt constricting, following in the footsteps of such a heralded figure—and saddled with his name, no less.
There was no escaping being held to his example—and it was probably a lot of pressure on a kid or teen or young man trying to make his own mark in the world.
Honestly? With all this talk about Wes Senior’s honesty and integrity, even Sasha wanted to rebel.
A flurry of people walked by, slapping Wes on the back, congratulating him. Sasha stood by his side, smiling brightly. She would’ve felt out of place, had Wes not introduced “his friend Sasha” to everyone who spoke to him.
“We miss your dad every day, Junior.”
“The kindest man I ever met.”
“When’d you get so tall, son?”
“Retired NYPD, here. Went to PS 20 with your dad. Never could convince ol’ boy to join the force. Why? He was too principled to be a cop. Ha ha! No, all jokes aside, he never once compromised his beliefs to solve a case. That man was a saint.”
It was one compliment after another. Wes was all pasted-on smiles and blank-eyed hugs—until he was intercepted by a tall, lanky beauty wearing a micro pixie haircut and a sleeveless jumpsuit. Her face was a feminized version of Wes’s, and it looked pissed off.
“So. You decided to join us,” she said, planting her fists on her hips.
“A chain of restaurants, Brooke?”
“Oh, grow up. Dare to imagine a brighter future for yourself.” She dismissed him with an impatient wave.
And then, she noticed Sasha. With raised eyebrows, she quickly scanned her outfit—a chic, teal sundress with a sweetheart neckline.
Under Brooke’s pointed gaze, Sasha felt like she was giving a bit too much boob.
“Brooke, this is my friend Sasha Cruz. Sasha, meet the Omen.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Sasha said with a smile. “Your pixie cut is so pretty.”
“I hate it.” She spoke with startling bluntness. “I bleached my hair and it broke off, so I had to go short.”
Wes shook his head in deep sibling disgust. “I know you don’t get them often, but it’s customary to say ‘thank you’ upon receiving a compliment. We’ve talked about this.”
“Well, I love short hair.” Sasha tried to smooth things over. “You can lean into bold earrings. That’s always fun.”
Brooke stared at Sasha for a beat too long and then let out a short laugh. “You’re cute. I like you.” She cut her eyes at Wes, muttering, “She’s not your friend. Be so for real.”
Wes opened his mouth to respond, but Brooke cut him off. “Were you seriously gonna miss this? What would Daddy think?”
“The good news is, we’ll never know.” Wes looked exhausted by the conversation, and it hadn’t even lasted two minutes. “Well, it’s been riveting, but . . .”
“I can’t be the only one to uphold his legacy, Junior.
I have four Corgis, an actual career, a daughter, and Timothy-Joshua to oversee.
” When she said “Timothy-Joshua,” she pointed in the direction of a paunchy white man with a blandly sleazy vibe (flashy watch, attention-seeking mustache).
He looked like the kind of person you meet just as you’re hitting rock bottom in Vegas.
At his side was a pointy-featured, terrifyingly poised tween in starter heels.
“If I can make the time, you can make the time.”
“Really? Why don’t you write a speech about it? In this one, make me an aerospace engineer so I can rocket right the fuck out of here.”
“I cannot run Dad’s affairs on my own. I planned this entire event by myself! The decor, the guest list, the catering . . .”
“I’m surprised. The pigs in a blanket have Timothy-Joshua written all over them.”
Brooke gasped and then narrowed her eyes. “At least I’m married.”
“At what cost, though?” They all turned to look at Timothy-Joshua, who was doing the Nae Nae while holding a mini fan in front of his face.
Sasha was fascinated seeing this side of Wes. Together, he and Brooke seemed like overgrown thirteen-year-olds locked in an ancient sibling battle. She almost felt like she was eavesdropping.
“What ever happened to that writer-girl you were dating?” Brooke asked him with a pointed smirk. “The journalist? Sasha, do you know her?”
Writer-girl?
“Um, I don’t think so?” she said vaguely. A waiter with a tray swept past her, and she took the opportunity to change the subject. “Oooh look, mini crabcakes!”