Page 46 of Saving Saul

Michael claps a hand on my shoulder. “Rugby’s about trust, Saul. You can’t win a match if you don’t trust your team. And you can’t win a woman back if you don’t trust her with the truth.”

His words follow me off the field, clinging to my skin like sweat.

When I climb into my car, I’m still thinking about them.

No secrets.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, shaking off the guilt that tries to crawl up my throat.

Ican’ttell Tessa everything.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because if she knew—if shetrulyknew—she might never look at me the same way again.

Still, later that night, before I lay down, I text her.

Me:Good night, goddess.

Monday

I started simple.Since I didn’t know her favorite flowers, I sent my grandmother’s, praying she loved them.

A bouquet of wild peonies and white orchids, fresh and delicate, is delivered to Bad Mama Jamma’s before she even walks in the door. The petals are soft, the colors a perfect contrast—blush pink against pure white, with hints of deep green foliage peeking through. The scent, subtle yet intoxicating, lingers in the air like an unspoken promise. I don’t have to sign the card. She’ll know.

By noon, my phone buzzes.

Tessa:Thanks, Saul.

That’s it. Nothing else. No heart emoji, no exclamation mark, no hint of whether she’s smiling as she types it. But the fact that she texted at all? That’s something.

I grin and resist the urge to call her immediately, to ask if she liked them, if they made her think of me. Instead, I take my time crafting the perfect response—something light, easy. Something that doesn’t scream I’m waiting.

Me:Good morning, beautiful.

I hit send and lean back, waiting. Wondering if she’ll answer right away. Wondering if the flowers made her pause, even for a second, the way she makes me pause every damn time I think of her.

Tuesday

Today's gift is personal.Thoughtful. A piece of home.

I send her a carefully curated basket filled with the finest Ghanaian chocolates—smooth, rich, and made from cocoa beans grown in the sun-drenched fields of West Africa. Alongsidethem, jars of handmade jams from a family-owned shop in Accra, each one bursting with the flavors of mango, hibiscus, and spiced pineapple. These are the kinds my grandmother used to stock in her restaurant, the ones I grew up sneaking spoonfuls of when no one was looking.

I hope Tessa will appreciate them—not just for their taste, but for what they mean.

By midday, my phone vibrates with a new message.

Tessa:You think you’re slick, huh?

I chuckle, already picturing the way she must have tilted her head, her lips curving into that knowing smirk. She’s intrigued. That much, I can tell.

Me:Not slick. Just determined.

She doesn’t reply, but I don’t need her to. I can already see it: her fingers lingering over the screen, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she unwraps a piece of dark chocolate, savoring it slowly.

She’s thinking about me.

And that’s exactly the point.

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