Page 47 of Saving Saul

Wednesday

Today,I get strategic. After scrolling through her Instagram—every caption, every like, every wistful comment—I find my answer.

Months ago, Tessa posted about a rare vintage cookbook, one she had been searching for but could never get her hands on. The pages, she wrote, held stories as much as recipes. A piece of history. Inspiration.

I tracked down a pristine copy, the kind collectors hoard, pages slightly yellowed but perfectly intact. Wrapped in silk, the weight of it feels significant—like something meant to be passed down, cherished. I have it delivered to her shop with a simple note:

For inspiration.

This time, her text comes faster.

Tessa:Stop it.

I can practically hear the exasperation in her voice, but I know her too well. She’s touched. She’s fighting a smile.

Me:Not a chance, goddess.

She doesn’t reply right away, but that’s fine. I imagine her turning the book over in her hands, running her fingers along the worn cover, flipping through pages filled with handwritten notes from cooks long gone.

She wanted this book.

And now, she has it.

Because she’s mine.

Thursday

She still hasn’t agreedto dinner, but I know I’m getting close. I feel it in the way she lingers just a little longer in our texts, in the way her responses come faster, sharper—teasing, but never dismissive. She’s waiting for me to flinch, to back off.

Not happening.

So, I up the stakes.

The Valentino dress is a risk—a deep crimson masterpiece that looks like it was stitched together with seduction and defiance. The matching Louboutin heels, sleek and impossiblyhigh, and the Valentino clutch, small but commanding, complete the package.

It’s bold. It’s over the top. And it’s exactly what she deserves.

I make sure it arrives at Bad Mama Jamma’s before closing, the box wrapped in black satin with a single card tucked inside:

For a night worth remembering.

Silence.

Hours pass with nothing. No text, no reaction, no playful jab. For the first time in days, doubt creeps in. Maybe I miscalculated. Maybe I pushed too far.

Then, just before midnight, my phone lights up.

Tessa:Fine. One dinner. No promises.

I exhale, relief settling deep in my chest, but it’s more than that. It’s satisfaction. Anticipation. Because we both know—this isn’t justonedinner.

Me:I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear the dress.

She doesn’t respond.

But she will.

FOOD FOR MY SOUL

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