14. Alana

FOURTEEN

Alana

Don't grow up too quickly,

lest you forget how much you love the beach.

~ Michelle Held

A week of being back on Marbella since our day spent shopping on Rodeo has been nearly utopian. Mother called the day after we were hounded by the paparazzi to rave about the publicity stunt she orchestrated. The media gobbled the story up like seagulls at a spilled trash can. Now, as far as the public’s concerned, Rex and I are either getting back together, actually already engaged, or his body was taken over by an alien and I’m carrying his alien love child.

Gotta love the tabloids.

I put all that out of my mind since my mother’s call and have spent my days doing yoga, gardening my flower beds, reading, and playing on the online game. Wordivore hasn’t been on in person for three days, and I weirdly miss him.

I just finished swimming laps and I’m curled on my bed in my fluffy robe .

I pull up the app on my phone.

Wordivore’s profile says, Online.

I open a board and my tiles spill into place at the bottom of my screen. Then I hit Invite .

Wordivore shows up. I’m studying my tiles when he types a sentence in the chat.

Remember how I told you my siblings and I are close?

Usually we open with some taunt about the game, or another more neutral comment. I’m not averse to him making conversation. A part of me actually likes the fact that he feels comfortable to open with something this personal. And, I’ll admit it, I’m intrigued as to what he’s going to say.

Yes. Did something happen?

It most definitely did. Tonight, we were having a family dinner. My brother dropped a bomb. He’s moving away to another state here in America.

He pauses and then he types: Everything will be different when he leaves.

So, Wordivore’s in America. I figured as much, since we play in English. But with online things, you never know. I toss around whether I should answer him with what’s in my heart or keep things a little more neutral. Wordivore helped me so much with my last struggle. I sort of owe him the same kind of encouragement he gave me.

I decide to go all in. I won’t tell him who I am or what I do, but I’ll share from the heart.

In my line of work, I do a lot of short-term projects that last only a few months at a time. Just when I’m starting to get to know the people (who I’m spending ten to twelve hours a day with), my workload changes and I’m surrounded by a new group of people.

There are those people who are with me through it all, but I am constantly moving from one project to the next. My situation is not the same as having siblings. I just want you to know I do sort of relate to having to let go of someone before you’re ready to. And I don’t know where your sibling is going, but I imagine you can still visit. Am I right?

You are. And now you have me very, very curious as to what you do for a living.

Next question, please. That’s one I’m definitely not answering.

Are you a mural painter?

No. I chuckle .

Do you travel from farm to farm training goats?

No. My smile spreads across my face, filling me with an odd warmth.

You can’t be in the circus. Those people travel together. Maybe you’re a traveling saleswoman. Door to door sales of cleaning supplies, miracle diet products … No! Solar panels. Tell me you’re not a solar saleswoman. I don’t know if we could still be friends. Those people show up at all hours asking if you’ve considered solar.

Not solar, I type .

You’re in the rodeo.

Sorry to disappoint. Not in the rodeo. I turn the tables on him. This line of questioning has to be shut down. How about you? What do you do for work?

Ah ah ah. He playfully chides . I won’t show mine if you don’t show yours. Maybe you need to ask me something else.

Maybe. I think that’s enough disclosure for one night, though.

Fair enough, he answers .

I wouldn’t mind learning what he does—and a lot more about him. But I can’t tell him what I do because that will lead to who I am. And he can never know that.

We play for nearly two hours without any other personal conversation. Wordivore beats me by twelve points in the end. I’m more relaxed and content than I’ve been nearly all week.

When we go to say goodnight, he types: Have fun training goats tomorrow.

And you have fun doing whatever it is you do.

I’ll give you a hint, he says .

Okay. I sit up a little straighter waiting for one more detail about his life outside our online interactions.

He types: It’s not training goats. I leave that to the experts.

I smile. Goodnight, Wordivore.

Goodnight, SaturdayIslandGirl.

Brigitte arrived an hour ago like a cloud of rainbow smoke fireworks. She’s loud and bold and beautiful, filling my home with life.

“I love the dress you’re going to wear to the premier!” She lets out a low, appreciative whistle from her spot on one of my wicker porch chairs where we’ve been relaxing with homemade smoothies I whipped up for us. “Can’t wait to see it on you with your hair and makeup done. You are going to rock that thing like …” Brigitte raises both hands in the air and shimmies while she says “Come on … wobble wit it … Uh. Uh. Uh.”

I crack up. “You’re crazy. You know that.”

“That’s what my date said.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Jury’s out. He literally said some version of, ‘You’re crazy,’ like five or six times during our date. I started out agreeing with him, like he was complimenting me for my unique brand of personality. But by the end of the night I thought I might need to look over my shoulder to make sure he hadn’t called in the guys in white coats.”

I chuckle. “If he did, his loss. You are a catch and a half.”

“Right? Plus. I work for this awesome movie star.”

“That’s not your appeal. Trust me. You don’t want a guy that would want you because you’re close to me.”

“Which is why I tell people I’m a personal assistant. I don’t say to whom, and I definitely don’t divulge how actually I’m such a bad mammah jamma for keeping your life in order.” She curls her fingers into her palm, brushes her fist just below her shoulder and pulls her hand back to blow across her nails.

“You are the baddest mammah jamma,” I agree. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“As you should wonder. It would be a flaming hot mess. I even take calls from Mother Gothel all week long for you. That alone deserves a raise.”

I shake my head at the thought of my mother hounding Brigitte. “Do you want a raise?”

“Shut up. Just hush. If I wanted a raise, you’d know it. I’d say, ‘Alana, give me a raise.’”

She rolls her eyes like I’m ridiculous for not knowing better. I love her unapologetic presence. She’s so unaffected by people.

As always, Brigitte shifts subjects like a roulette wheel, “I’d literally die to go a white party.”

“Well, I’d love it if you were at this party.”

“To see you with Rex?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. He’s great, and I’m thankful that he’s the one I’m shackled to. We could have done way, way worse. But … I hate that we’re back in this dance of faking it for the press.”

“I hear you. Really. But stop and see things from the point of view of one of the people who does their own dishes.”

“I do my own dishes,” I protest.

Brigitte rolls her eyes. “And laundry?”

I have no answer.

“That’s what I thought. And you do your dishes after you eat a meal curated and prepared for you by someone else.” She pauses. “I’m not berating you for that. You earn all of it. If you had round the clock servants, which you could obviously afford, and one of them had the sole job of filing your nails and picking your nose for you, it would be justified.”

“Ewww. And, no thank you. I’ll pick my own nose, thank you very much.”

We both laugh.

A breeze blows through the treetops—the kind that only blows in off the ocean, just to remind you how close the water is to wherever you are on this island. I breathe it in, closing my eyes for a moment to let Marbella work its magic on me.

“Anyway, from my POV,” Brigitte says. “Here you are, getting to dress up in this gorgeous gown, have your hair and makeup done by other people, and walk into an exclusive premier and then a rooftop party on the arm of one of the hottest bachelors on the planet. I’m not crying for you. Not even a drop.”

“Well, when you put it that way.”

“Right?! Suck it up, buttercup. Have some fun being the princess, even if you are locked in a tower by the evil mother. Just keep a frying pan with you at all times.”

“A frying pan?”

“Duh. Tangled?”

“What?”

“Do not even tell me you don’t know what Tangled is. The cartoon adaptation of the Rapunzel story?”

“Oh. Yeah. I heard of it.”

“Heard of it? Heard of it! What?!! You haven’t watched it, like a minimum of ten to one hundred times?”

I laugh at her outrage.

“Stand up. We’ve got a movie to watch. And then you’re taking me hiking so I can have a sighting of those wild monkeys that live on the uninhabited side of this island.”

After a few hours curled up on my couch watching a movie, that yes, does bear an uncanny resemblance to some aspects of my life, Brigitte and I take the golf cart she acquired at the resort and drive to a trailhead where the path traverses along hills and cliffs on the back side of Marbella.

It’s true, rogue wild monkeys inhabit this portion of the island, along with other non-native species who were brought here for a film years ago and now have populated the area.

Brigitte has her binoculars and is searching for wildlife while I’m along for the ride, hiking down the switchback that leads to a cove at the bottom of the trail. The coastline feels more rugged here and we seem to be the only two people out right now. It’s a fact that many residents of the island have never even been to this side of Marbella. They prefer staying on the developed side that faces California rather than the wilder areas facing the wide-open ocean.

We reach the bottom of the trail where jagged cliffs form a perfect semi-circle around a white-sand beach. Tide pools line one side of the cove and the water laps up onto shore and washes back out in a soothing rhythm.

“I want a selfie—the two of us!” Brigitte says. “This is the perfect spot with the crystal-clear water in the background. Come here.”

Brigitte climbs onto a large, flat rock near the water's edge and strikes a dramatic pose, then she curls her finger, inviting me to join her.

“Okay. Okay,” I concede.

I never mind taking photos with Brigitte. She doesn’t post them, and she always sends me a copy to keep for myself.

I hop up onto the rock next to Brigitte. But the surface is slicker than I anticipated. I start flailing around and lose my balance. Brigitte grabs for me, but that only serves to throw her off too. We cling to one another, screaming, eyes wide.

“Ahhhh!” I topple into the shallow water on the other side of the rock with a splash.

“Ohhhh my gosh! Alana!” Brigitte follows me only seconds later.

I sit up, my hair and clothes soaked.

Brigitte looks over from where she’s sitting up to her waist in water and starts laughing.

She holds up her phone. “I got that on film! And my camera’s still running!”

I try to stand, but I’m laughing too hard, so I fall back down, which only makes me laugh harder. My hair is dripping water down my face and neck. My shirt and pants are soaked. Brigitte and I look like twin drowned rats, but we’re both cracking up.

Brigitte jumps up. “Something tickled me! Or nibbled! What is it? What is it? It’s near my ankles. I’m being attacked!” She snaps up and then she’s doing some sort of high-knee run out of the waves, flailing her arms and squealing. “Ahhh! Is it following me? What is that slimy tickle fish? Get it away from me!” She runs onto shore and turns to look back where she came from.

I walk toward the spot where she had landed and see her “assailant” just beneath the surface.

I grab a hold of it and hold it in the air. “This?”

“Uh. Yeah.” She places a palm on her abdomen and bends in laughter.

“Seaweed, Bridge. It’s seaweed.” I chuckle, tossing it back where it came from.

A deep male voice surprises me. “Yes, but that’s a particularly dangerous variety. The seaweed around here has a reputation for sneak attacks on unsuspecting women."

I turn toward the voice.

Stevens, the guy who has been taxiing me from Marbella to the mainland this week is waist-deep in the gentle waves, shirtless. The top of his board shorts are just barely visible above the sloshing of the water around him. A snorkeling mask is perched on his wet hair while the snorkel dangles next to his face.

He looks different. Relaxed. Scrumptious. What? No. Well, yes. But, no. Obviously, no.

Brigitte is looking between me and Stevens, realizing we know one another.

She sticks her hand out. “Hi. Brigitte. And you are?”

Stevens sluices through the water with purposeful strides. He’d never fall off a rock. He’s far too surefooted and seemingly built for the ocean. He’s like Poseidon, emerging from the depths with a swagger and confidence that belies the fifteen minutes of our first encounter at Joel’s boat. This man is not that man—not at all— and yet, he is.

“Stevens,” he says, shaking Brigitte’s hand. “Wait. Brigitte?”

“Stevens?”

“Yes!” They both exclaim at the same time.

“Alana,” he smiles broadly at me. “Forgot your suit?”

I laugh, tipping my head to the side to wring some water from my hair and then scrunching it out of habit, to shape the curls as they dry.

“We weren’t exactly planning on swimming,” Brigitte says, beaming up at Stevens.

“We were taking a selfie and I slipped,” I explain.

He smiles and his mouth tips up on one side, revealing a dimple I hadn’t noticed before.

“Did you get the selfie?”

“We did!” Brigitte exclaims.

“Good. Good. Well, next time you want to check out this cove, let me know. I’m glad to take you two out in proper gear.”

“Snorkeling?” Brigitte asks.

“Yeah. Or diving. Whatever you want.”

“Sounds amazing.” She looks over at me. “Doesn’t it, Alana?”

“Yeah. Amazing. Right. That would be great.”

Stevens looks at me with a question on his face.

“We’d better head back,” I say. “Brigitte has to catch the ferry this afternoon.”

Stevens nods in that calm, steady way of his. “Sounds good. I’ll see you later, Alana. If you need a ride, that is.”

“Nice to meet you,” Brigitte gushes.

We’re only halfway across the sand when my assistant turns and glances over her shoulder at Stevens again. “That man is beautiful. Why didn’t you say something? You’ve been riding back and forth across the channel with him all week and you never told me he was a hottie.”

I chuckle. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Oh, it’s relevant, alright. Gah. Did you see him coming up out of that water like some merman returning to land? What a vision. He’s gorgeous. And he seems so kind. ”

“He is,” I agree.

“Too bad,” she coos.

We reach the trail and turn up the first switchback, giving me the perfect vantage point to watch as Stevens grabs a towel that was sitting on a rock where I didn’t even notice it before. He runs it across his hair, ruffling it dry and then shakes the rest of the droplets loose while he drapes the towel over his shoulders. Then he turns and picks his snorkel and mask off the rock where he set them. I’m imagining he’s going to follow us up the trail, but he stays on the beach, staring out at the ocean with the look of a man in love written all over his face. He loves the ocean. And the feeling seems to be mutual.

“What’s too bad?” I ask Brigitte, shaking myself from watching my substitute water taxi pilot.

“Too bad you’re a movie star. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. And I’m certain it wasn’t because you’re Alana Graves. He likes you.”

“He’s been good to me this week. I think that’s just his way with everyone. You did it again, Brigitte. As always. You found a great man to transport me.”

“Hmmm,” she hums thoughtfully. Then she adds, “Stinks to be you sometimes.”

I don’t even ask her to elaborate. Instead, I take one more glance down into the cove to see Stevens sitting on the sand in his swim trunks, his arms wrapped loosely around his knees as he gazes off into the ocean.