Page 22 of Saving Saul

I drag a trembling hand down my face, trying to shake off the last remnants of the dream. The same damn dream. It pulls me under like the tide every night, dragging me back to a place I swore I’d never revisit. A place where I’m waiting for Saul, my heart foolishly open, my soul stretched raw with hope. And every night, he disappears—leaving nothing but silence and shadows.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I push myself up, pressing my back against the headboard. The cool air from the ceiling fan does nothing to soothe the heat clinging to my skin. Damn him. Damn, these dreams. Damn, the way he still has a hold on me.

It’s been four months. I should be over him.

Saul should be left in the past, right where he left me. But my sleepless nights tell a different story. They whisper of a man whose absence still burns, of a love that refuses to fade no matter how much I try to suffocate it.

Every morning, I drag myself out of bed, running on chicory coffee and stubbornness, barely holding it together. Bad Mamma Jamma’s—my dream patisserie—is finally real, sitting pretty in the heart of Jackson Square like it was always meant to be. I still don’t know how I landed the lease; the rent should’ve been impossible, but the owner—a weathered old Creole man with sharp eyes and a knowing smile—said he believed in me. He told me to pay what I could, and as my profits grew, so would my rent. I didn’t ask questions; I just took the blessing and ran with it.

And now, not even a week in, I’ve got five high-end catering requests flooding my inbox. It turns out a certain Power Forward from the Pelicans got his hands on my beignets and raspberry jam at a pop-up in the Quarter, and suddenly, New Orleans’ wealthy Black elite and Hollywood royalty are scrambling to book me. It’s everything I ever wanted—more than I dared to dream.

But none of it will matter if I keep nodding off over the fryer, nearly burning my caramel sauce, or rolling out dough with hands that shake from exhaustion. Saul has already taken my peace. I’ll be damned if I let him take my dream, too.

At first, the visions were just fleeting glimpses. A hint of his voice, the curve of his jaw, the way his deep laugh used to wrap around me like a warm embrace. But then, they became something else—something more. Vivid. Consuming.

Every night, he’s there. His dark eyes hold secrets and sorrow; his voice is thick with a longing I don’t understand. Tessa. How he says, my name feels like a plea, a prayer, a tether Ican’t break no matter how hard I try. I reach for him, desperate, but the dream always turns.

The bayou creeps in.

A thick, suffocating mist coils around us, stealing him away before my fingers grasp his. His warmth turns to cold emptiness, his presence replaced by something darker—something waiting, watching.

And then—Mama.

She emerges from the mist, just like she always does. In the only photograph I have of her, she is dressed in the lace wedding gown. She is radiant and spectral, with an otherworldly glow. Her beauty is haunting, and her presence crackles with an energy that feels more like a warning than comfort.

“Use the holy gris-gris, Tessa.” Her voice is soft but insistent, her pearl-and-stone necklace swinging like a pendulum in her delicate fingers. “The path to your love is within.”

I reach for her, for the necklace, for any piece of her that I can hold on to. But, like always, she fades. Saul fades. The shadows devour them both, and I am left alone, drowning in the void.

My breath shudders as I blink into the darkness of my bedroom, the dream still clinging to me like wet fabric. My fingers automatically find the pearls at my throat, their warmth pulsing beneath my touch. They hum against my skin, a steady rhythm I feel more than hear—a sign.

Grandmère often mentioned that the Sinclair women had an uncanny ability to anticipate events before they unfold. If these dreams carry a message, I’m already aware of it.

Saul is not gone, and our story is not finished. We will reunite somehow, and then I will have to decide.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. No. I can’t do this. I can’t let my mind twist itself into knots over a man who left me standing alone in front of cameras, humiliated and heartbroken.I can’t let dreams and whispers from the past convince me that he still belongs to me.

I sit up in bed, the echoes of their voices still ringing in my ears. I look at my phone again; it’s 5:05 am. My body feels heavy, like I carry the weight of their absence even now, wide awake.

"Dammit," I hiss through clenched teeth as I sit up, shaking off the lingering pull of the dream. My heart pounds, erratic and fierce, as I push the sheets aside and plant my feet on the cool wood floor. The afterimages fade, but the message remains clear. Saul is out there. And my heart wants to find him.

I haven’t told anyone but Carissa because what would they say? My sister Selene would scoff. Even my therapist would likely dismiss me as a foolish, heartbroken woman clinging to a man who set her up to be humiliated in front of the world. And maybe they’d be right. But something deeper tells me otherwise.

My dreams stopped me from leaving him the night before he proposed, even though logic told me to run. My brain knew it was too good to be true, and I should have listened.

Now, my dreams won’t let me get over the man. They keep the sound of his voice and memories of our conversations in my heart.

I step into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the refrigerator grounding me. As I fill the kettle with water, my mind churns, the fragments of his note resurfacing:He’s free; you’re better off without me.

Patrick, he’s gotta be talking about Patrick.

I don’t want to care. I no longer want to feel anything for Saul or his family drama. But he follows me, haunting my days and stealing my nights.

If I could see him, maybe these dreams would stop.

And I could get some sleep.

The kettle clicks off, but I leave the tea, forgotten on the counter. Instead, I open my laptop, its glow cutting through thepre-dawn gloom. My fingers hover over the keyboard. “Come on, Tessa. Think,” I mutter to myself.

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