Page 25 of Saving Saul

Her words sink in, heavy with meaning, but doubt prickles at the edges of my thoughts. “But guiding me where? To Saul? What if these dreams are just my own longing? Let’s not forget that the man abandoned me on a nationally televised TV show. Well, it will be televised once it releases.”

I pray it never releases.

She reaches across the table, her hand warm and steady on mine. “Tessa, the spirit world doesn’t waste time with foolishness. If you’re dreaming of Saul, it’s because your paths are still meant to cross. But there’s trouble ahead.”

"Trouble?” My voice rises, my heart constricting. “What sort of trouble?"

Her gaze sharpens, her voice low and deliberate. “Obstacles that only you can overcome. I wish I could lay eyes on him. I’d be able to read him within seconds. Spiritualists can do that, you know. You could have this power too if you’d accept it. It’s your birthright.”

I huff. “Grandmère, you know I barely believe in any of this stuff. Let’s not get too carried away. Now, tell me more about these obstacles.”

She chuckles and reaches over to squeeze my hand. “All right, Chérie. Just know that your ancestors want you to be happy. They want you married, rooted, and ready to continue our line. Saul is part of that, but forces from his past are trying to keep him from you. You know, old slew foot the devil, and he doesn’t want you to be happy, Chile. He wants you to be confused, fearful, and bitter. But you can’t fulfill your destiny that way.”

Her words strike a chord deep within me, a mixture of hope and determination tangling in my chest. “So what do I do?”

She leans back, her amber eyes locking onto mine. “The answers are in your blood, in the God-given whispers of your dreams. Trust them, Tessa. Trust the God within you. She never steers you wrong.”

The sun is settingas I step back onto the porch to leave. After giving me advice, we made gumbo and had a nice long visit.

Grandmère ’s words echo, their weight pressing down on me like the humid air.

“Trust yourself,” she’d said. “The answers are in the whispers of my dreams.”

I clutch the pearls at my throat, their smooth surface grounding me. As much as I want to believe her, doubt nips atmy heels. Can I trust what I’ve seen in my dreams? Can I trust myself?

The drive back home feels longer than it should. When I reach home, the city is dark, and the streetlights cast long, wavering beams across the pavement.

Inside, my home feels too quiet, too still. I slump onto the couch, my fingers tracing the pearls, the warm beads mingling with the heat pulsing in my chest. Grandmère ’s advice lingers, mixing with the vivid images from my dreams. Saul’s face, his voice, his plea for me—it all feels so real, so urgent.

"All right, Saul," I whisper into the quiet, the words hanging heavy in the stillness. “I’m ready if you are. Find me.”

THESE ARE MY CONFESSIONS

SAUL (MARCUS MITCHELL)

“Marcus,you’re announcing the costume contest winners after the British Comic Con the city is hosting,” Cecil’s voice booms over the kitchen clatter. “We’re the official after-party on Saturday, and it took a lot to win that bid. We need to shine. The women will eat up that British accent of yours.”

I pause mid-motion, wings hovering above the fry basket and glance at my boss, who’s grinning like he just hit the jackpot. Sweat beads on my forehead, dripping down to the edge of my collar. Crescent Hall’s back kitchen is a furnace, a windowless inferno where the heat seeps into your skin and clings to every thread of your clothes.

“Announcing the winners?” I ask, keeping my tone steady, even though irritation scratches at the edge of my composure. “Is that part of the job description now?”

This is worlds away from my sleek, spotless chef’s kitchen. Crescent Hall's back kitchen is a sweatbox, a gritty stage for my low-profile act.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I take a slow, steadying breath. Whatever chaos this party will bring, I’ll handle it. For now, I focus on the frying basket in my hand, the repetitive sizzle of wings hitting hot oil grounding me.

“Cecil, man, you know I hate crowds.” My voice is calm, almost conversational, but the truth beneath it churns like the oil in the fryer. I’m here to stay invisible.

Cecil shrugs, his massive frame blocking the narrow doorway like a bouncer at a speakeasy. “Too bad, pretty boy. You shouldn’t look like that if you don’t want to be seen.”

I can’t help but smirk, shaking my head. Cecil’s got this way of disarming you, his booming voice laced with something close to affection. And I know I’ll do whatever he asks, even if it’s announcing some ridiculous costume contest. He’s let me exist in his space, under his radar, without questions. That earns loyalty.

Yesterday, I watched the final preview ofLove, Unmaskedthat my lawyers sent me. It was brutal, and I watched it to watch her, Tessa.

Witnessing us fall in love all over again only strengthened my resolve to find a way to be with her despite the mess my family life is in.

When I got to the finale episode, it was like watching a train wreck. They showed the entire fucked up reveal, and I wanted to kill Gavin Turner for filming it. I tried, but I could not compel him nor the network by law to cut Tessa and me out of the show. But I lacked the credentials and clout in America that I have in Britain.

So, I tried diplomacy. I strongly suggested he cut us from the show, but he didn’t listen.

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