12. Alana

TWELVE

Alana

You can't complain about the pressures,

the paparazzi, the madness.

Because that is the job.

I've always understood that's the deal.

~ Avril Lavigne

F atigue sets in on the drive from West Hollywood to Ventura. I must have fallen asleep during the ride. I wake to Tank nudging me.

“Time to go,” he says in his deep voice.

“You talked three times today, Tank. I think you just hit your quota for the year.”

He stares at me, neutral and wordless, as if his customary nonverbal presence is proof enough that he agrees with me. Still, there’s this inexplicable kindness in his non-expression. I can’t explain it.

“Thank you.” I stand and look up at him, taking the duffle he’s holding out. “You did well today. And I don’t thank you enough.”

“It’s my job.” Three words. Powerful and sincere.

I nod and smile. Tank walks me to the gate, uses his key to let me onto the dock and shuts it with a clang behind me.

I wonder, as I make my way past the boats to the one that will take me back home. Does Tank have a family? I picture him on a battery charging stand like the one I set my toothbrush on at night, powering down and re-energizing for the next day of serving my family. He and I aren’t that different, actually.

Stevens is sitting at the stern of the boat, his feet extended out along the cushions of the bench seating. He’s holding a book.

I walk slowly, breathing in the ocean air. Today is behind me. I’m heading home.

“Hey,” I say, boarding the boat before Stevens stands to give me his hand.

“Hi. Sorry.” He stands and walks over. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“What were you reading?”

“Oh. That? Just a book.”

I chuckle. “You don’t say. What book?”

He laughs. “It’s … uh … Gone With the Wind.”

“What? Really?”

“Would I kid about that?”

“I guess not. Wow.”

“Wow that I didn’t make up something more manly really quickly? Or wow that I’m reading that book?

“Maybe both?” I smile.

He walks to the front of the boat and I take my spot at the back. “I’m not avoiding you,” I shout as the engine starts up. “I just need to space out for a bit.”

“Take your time. I’ll just be up here, driving.”

About halfway across the channel with the wind in my hair and the spray misting my face, my heart finally settles. The crowd of paparazzi feels like a dream I woke from—vague and blurry, insignificant.

I take the seat next to Stevens. He looks over and smiles. It’s a far cry from the blundering interaction we had when he first met me. I have to give him credit for getting over his nerves around me so quickly.

“So, hard day?” he asks as if I just got out of any job and am weary from the grind of my work life.

“Yeah. Paparazzi. It’s always draining when they show up.”

“What’s it like?”

I look over at him. He’s seriously curious. “Blinding lights in rapid succession. So many voices shouting over one another you can barely make out what they’re saying. It’s overwhelming, even after all these years.”

“How could it not be?”

“I don’t mean to sound like a whiner. I’m grateful for my life and career.”

“I haven’t heard you whine yet.”

“Well, it feels like I should just suck it up.”

“Being harrassed? Having so little privacy? Everyone wanting a piece of you?” He pauses and looks over at me and then back at the water. “I don’t see where anyone should suck that up.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

We ride along for a little while longer in this silence that’s weirdly easy between us. I get the feeling this guy makes everyone feel comfortable. It’s in the way he doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks about him.

“You could have made driving me around awkward,” I tell him. Then I laugh lightly. “Well, you did.”

“I definitely did.” He laughs along with me and shakes his head.

“But you moved on pretty quickly. I’m grateful. I usually spend these boat rides across the channel either gearing up for what awaits me or decompressing from whatever just happened. I need my time on the water to be distracting or comfortable. And you’ve made it both.”

“I’m sure Joel is good at helping you get what you need. He’s a jokester, but he’s got a big heart. And he’s a people person. ”

There’s this unspoken sentence hanging in the air: not like me .

“Joel is great.” I look over at Stevens, his brown hair, strong face, kind eyes. “There are lots of ways to be a people person. Not all of them include being the class clown or having been voted most likely to have fifty best friends.”

Stevens studies me and then nods as if he’s still digesting my words.

I look out across the water. The sun is setting behind Marbella in the distance, smearing a pastel watercolor across the sky. I glance behind me at the shoreline of California.

Everything’s smaller from here.

My dinner is in the refrigerator, prepped and left for me as if by a magic fairy. In reality, I have a service drop off healthy meals that fit the parameters of my dietary regimen and I eat off those a few nights a week. I pull the foil tray out, pop it in the convection oven and pick up my phone.

Wordivore left a game open for me to play with him earlier today. His first word sits abandoned on the center of the board. MAXIM, with the X on a double point square. Seriously? Twenty-four points out the gate?

I type: Are you trying to kill me before I even have a chance to look at my tiles?

I don’t expect an answer, but his cursor roars to life and the three taunting dots appear.

Kill is such a vicious word. I prefer maim … or even, subdue.

I laugh. I carry my dinner into the living room and curl my legs under me on the couch. The world is a deep blue-gray outside, the sun long since set. Trees form black silhouettes in the night, making me feel like the only things that exist in the world are within this house. My dress went home with my mother. The paparazzi are having their dinners, submitting their photos of me and Rex to their publications or websites and not giving another thought as to how the ripples of their seemingly innocuous stones will impact our lives and the hearts of our fans. And Rex is somewhere in Beverly Hills, running on his treadmill or watching TV with his two yorkies.

Rex .

I push our situation out of my mind, stare out into the treetops and remind myself what my yoga instructor is always reminding me: be here now .

Rex isn’t here. My mother isn’t here. Wordivore is here.

I look over my tiles. Then I smile.

Using Wordivore’s X, I add Y-L-E-M. Xylem. It’s a plant term. I forget what it means. Playing word games means gathering the oddest collection of vocabulary and stashing it for future use like a cache of weaponry.

Take that . I type.

Oof .

I’m up by one point. And it feels like one hundred.

This is why I choose you . His words are sweet.

Because you’re a masochist?

Ha. Possibly. Mostly because you are a worthy opponent. I enjoy a challenge .

I’ve been accused of being challenging more than once in my lifetime .

We’re all challenging in our own way .

I smile. We play for another hour, bantering about the game, but veering away from personal comments.

I’ve only got a few tiles left when Wordivore types: Can I ask you a question? Then he adds, It seems only fair since you asked me a question .

I asked you a question to level the playing field. You knew I was a woman. Now I know you are a man.

So that’s a no?

Depends

On the question?

Yes .

Well then, I’ll have to ask it so you can see if it’s one you’ll answer.

I smile. Okay. Ask .

Do you have any siblings?

Seems harmless. I’ll answer.

I don’t. I ask him, Do you?

Ah ah ah. He mocks me. If you ask another question, I’ll get another one.

No. We’re not even anymore. You know one thing about me I don’t know about you. To make it even, you answer me.

He doesn’t argue. He simply types an answer, and as his cursor moves, I eagerly await this new revelation about my online mystery man.

I do. I have a brother and a sister. We all live near one another. Always have.

Are you close? I’m suddenly hungry for everything I can find out about him and his family.

There’s a pause and then he types: Pretty close. I’m …

The dots blink while I wait to see what he is. He’s what? Adopted? An heir to a throne? A red-headed stepchild?

Finally he finishes his thought.

I’m a bit of an introvert. So I don’t always initiate time with them, or anyone. But knowing they’re right here in the same town as I am is comforting. I think I take them for granted.

Were you hesitant to tell me you’re an introvert?

Is that another question? If I’m counting correctly, you already asked one more than I did by asking if I’m close with my siblings. And now this question. If I answer you, do I get to ask another one?

I laugh. This guy.

I don’t think those two count as questions.

Beg to differ. But, let’s make this simple. Since I told you I was an introvert, you tell me. That’s fair, right? Are you? I’m guessing there are more introverts on this app than extroverts. He pauses and types . And, yes. I guess I was nervous to admit I’m an introvert. I’m surrounded by a lot of extroverts, and my family consists of four extroverts and me. They can treat my introversion like an ailment I’ll get over or grow out of one day. I’m sort of the odd one. He pauses again. Then he types: Not odd, as in you should run for the hills and block me. Odd as in different from the majority.

I am a bit of both, I admit . Introvert and extrovert. I love people. But I need a lot of time alone and I enjoy solitude. People can burn me out. But too much time alone and I get all up in my head, which is not a good place for me to hang out in unsupervised for extended periods of time.

I hit send and look back over what I wrote and then immediately type: Now I sound creepy. I promise I’m not.

So, you’re an ambivert. That’s what it’s called when a person has strong leanings toward both introversion and extroversion.

Well, now you know. I should be a little freaked out by this new level of disclosure, but I’m not—at all. I find myself wanting to tell him more. But I won’t. I can’t, really.

Now I know. His answer is so simple, but it makes me smile anyway.