Page 4 of Saving Saul

“I grew up with jazz and gumbo pots, learning life’s rhythms from my daddy’s saxophone. He was a musician—he used to say,‘Tessa, darlin’, life’s just like jazz; you gotta improvise.’ And boy, am I improvising now.”

I pause for a split second, enough to breathe, not enough to stop.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is... what are we even supposed to discuss in a moment like this? How do you converse with someone you’ve never met, can’t see, but might end up marrying?”

Leaning forward, I let my hands take over. They flutter through the air, each word punctuated by the cherry-red tips of my nails. It’s a whole performance, and I can’t stop giving it my all.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize I’ve likely steamrolled over his chance to speak. However, my nerves orsomething elseare steering this train, and all I can do is hang on and hope I haven’t scared him off before we even get started.

A VOICE IN THE DARK

SAUL

This woman will not shutup, and for some ungodly reason, I love it.

I'm perched on the edge of a plush blue couch, my heart pounding as if it's trying to escape. It's absurd how her Cajun-accented voice flows over me, a blend of charm and wit. I’ve never been one for idle chatter, but Tessa’s words feel like a melody I can’t stop listening to, pulling me in note by note.

But I hate that I’m already breaking one of my rules: getting invested in a woman, especially one I’ve hardly met.

My goal was to stay on this show long enough to generate good publicity for my new restaurant and make my grandmother happy. But now, this crazy whirlwind on the other side of the wall makes me want to… chat.

Gold Coast—my new restaurant—will be the talk of LA when it opens. That’s the plan, at least. But right now, it feels like a distant dream compared to this surreal setup, where I’m supposed to find love in a hub.

Love!

The word tastes foreign on my tongue.

I don’t believe in finding love on reality TV. As a matter of fact, with the violent and unstable life I’ve lived through, I find it hard to believe in much of anything.

Before I had a stepfather, my family and I lived idyllically in Brunswick, Maine. My grandfather emigrated from Ghana in the 80s after being offered a physics professorship at Bowdoin College.

He and my father died in a tragic car accident when I was nine, and two years later, my mother met and married Patrick Shannahan, a local Irish businessman. Word on the street was that he had connections to the Mob. But my mother didn’t believe it. He made her feel special and pampered when her life was falling apart.

It didn’t take long after she said “I do” for the beatings to begin, and before I realized it, I no longer had a mother.

After that chapter, my grandmother packed my sister and me up, and we moved back to her home in Kumasi, Ghana, and then to Britain.

Over the years, I became a big, bruising rugby legend.

My grandmother’s persistent matchmaking back home contributed to my current madness-talking to a woman through a wall. She has a Ghanaian blueprint for my life: marriage, children, and legacy. Part of me wants to honor her dreams. I’d do anything for that woman.

Except fall in love.

But maybe, just maybe, someone here could be more than a fleeting connection. If I follow my rules and stay detached, I might get a compatible life partner who doesn’t expect much in the emotions department.

I lean closer to the partition, ready to dive into her stream of consciousness as soon as she takes a breath. After all, she doesn’t even know my name yet.

I love that she can’t see me because I can be off-putting at first look. Women appreciate my looks, but then they admire me from afar.

I’m six foot five, large enough that most people think twice before stepping wrong around me. My muscles are hard-earned, a result of my rugby training. My shoulders are broad enough to bear weight—literally and figuratively—and my arms? They’ve endured their fair share of gym sessions and time on the field. My skin is a deep brown, and my grandmother says it’s smooth, like the mahogany my granddad used to carve with.

Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, full lips—it’s not hard to see why folks stop and stare. But my scowl? That’s the real deterrent. I know how it looks—brows pulled down, eyes cutting sharp like I’m daring you to try me. It’s something I practice. It keeps the nonsense at bay.

I never have to say much to make my point. The way I carry myself does the work. I step into a room, and the air shifts—that’s the energy I bring. I don’t apologize for it. You can either step up or step back, but you’ll remember me.

But here, I get to talk without anyone making predeterminations about me.

When a second of silence finally arrives, I don’t hesitate. “Well, I’m Saul. Saul Mensah,” I say, my voice steady, concealing the storm raging inside me. “Your words are captivating. I’m not usually one for people—they tend to drain me—but you? You’re fascinating."

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