17. Stevens

SEVENTEEN

Stevens

We are like islands on the sea,

separate on the surface, but connected in the deep.

~ William James

I t’s late when I get home from bringing Alana back from Los Angeles. She looked exhausted. I had brought her a sandwich on instinct after she described what kind of day she expected to have. She ate that thing with the gusto of a linebacker after a rough game. I loved watching her devour it.

It’s the most peculiar feeling, knowing Alana as I do after this week, and then trying to pair that knowledge with the movie star she definitely is. She feels like two different people. But they’re both her. And my reactions to her swing on a pendulum from wanting to give her a haven from all she obviously deals with, to feeling like I can’t form a sentence in the presence of her beauty and fame. What’s even stranger are the times I find myself relating to her more comfortably than I ever have with a woman who isn’t my sister or mom.

I get ready for bed and prop a few of my pillows behind my back. I’m at a good point in the octopus book and I want to read a bit to settle my brain. When I open my drawer to pull out my glasses, I smile. How on earth did Alana know I wear reading glasses? Perceptive. That’s what she is. I guess that’s what makes her such an incredible actress. She observes small details many of us might pass by.

I’m only a few paragraphs into this section of my book when my phone pings with a notification on my bedside table. Despite how tired I felt only moments ago, I’m re-energized thinking of a Play on Words match with SaturdayIslandGirl.

The board opens and she plays VISCOUS with the V on the double letter square. Then she types. What a day. I’m wiped out .

I feel my brow furrow in concern. Do you want to sleep? I don’t even know what time it is where you live. But it’s late here. We can pick this up tomorrow .

No. I need the distraction. I’m the kind of exhausted that means I shouldn’t operate heavy machinery, but also, I’m wired, if that makes sense. It’s nearly midnight here .

I chuckle. And, then it dawns on me. She must be so tired she didn’t realize she just gave away her time zone. I look at my clock. 11:25. Nearly midnight. She does not live in Bora Bora or the Caribbean. She’s in the Pacific Time Zone with me. She’s a car ride or short plane flight away. All this time, she’s been here on the west coast. I keep her revelation to myself for now.

So, do you regularly drive heavy machinery? Will this limitation affect your nightly routine of forklift operation?

Ha! No. I can’t even drive a car.

You’re joking, right?

I am not. It’s a long story. But I do not drive.

She must live in a city with fabulous public transportation, like San Francisco or possibly Seattle.

I am imagining your city has great public transportation, then.

Should I say this next thought? Yeah. Why not?

I had pictured you on Bora Bora or somewhere in the Caribbean. But then you said you lived in America, so I checked. There are over one hundred and fifty inhabited islands which are officially a part of America. I’m assuming you’re on an island from your gamer tag.

Are you stalking me, Wordivore?

I am not. I am doing research.

Hmmm. Sounds like stalking to me. She adds a winking emoji and my mouth pulls into a smile.

Friends don’t stalk friends.

If you say so. So now you picture me on one of the many islands in America.

What about San Juan Island in Washington? I take a stab, hoping she’ll divulge at least a clue.

Angh Angh Angh.

What does that mean?

It’s supposed to be the sound of a buzzer when you get an answer wrong.

I laugh out loud and the sound fills my bedroom. I haven’t even played my tiles, and neither of us seem eager for me to do so.

I think buzzers usually go something like, bzzzz.

Not ones that tell you you’re so very wrong.

I chuckle. So, not Washington then?

She doesn’t answer right away. But then her cursor blinks and the three dots appear, telling me she’s typing. I do not live in Washington .

But you do live on an island? I know I’m pressing my luck. But what is luck if not something you can press?

She pauses again. Then she types: I do live on an island, but that’s not the whole reason for my gamer tag.

You don’t want to share with the class, do you?

You always make me laugh. Do you know that?

Only when you tell me I do, since I can’t hear you.

Neither of us types anything. My statement implies a barrier we both dance around. We’ll never puncture it, even if she does live in the same time zone. Who meets a complete stranger on a gaming app and ends up meeting them later in real life? No one, that’s who.

Well, I’m laughing now , she types.

I’m glad .

And, I won’t tell you why I made that gamer tag. You now know I live on an American island.

I type: I do too.

What? You live on an island? Are you messing with me right now?

No. I’m not messing with you. I want her to know. Whether she ever tells me where she really is or not, I want her to know where I am. I’m on an island off the coast of California. It’s called Marbella.

The screen sits quiet. Her cursor doesn’t move. The dots don’t appear. I wait.

Are you still there? I ask. Maybe she had to leave her phone to go do something.

I lay down SCABBARD, making use of her C. Sixteen points.

Still nothing from her.

I read back through our chat, checking if I said anything that might have sounded different in print than it did in my head. Tone can be tricky when people are texting. Everything looks neutral.

SaturdayIslandGirl’s cursor blinks to life. The three dots start and stop a few times. Then the most incredible words appear on my screen.

I live on Marbella Island too.

I’ve always heard of people’s jaws actually dropping. Mostly, it’s a figure of speech. Right now, I have to remind myself to shut my mouth because it is gaping open as I read and reread her sentence.

You live on Marbella? I ask, even though her statement speaks for itself.

I do.

I’m sitting up, away from my pillows now. She’s here, right on this island. My body hums with the urge to leave my room, my home, my neighborhood. What if she’s across the street, or one block over? She’s here. Right here. All along, she’s been here.

You’re here. On Marbella.

I am.

Is your mind as blown as mine right now?

Hard to say. I don’t know how blown your mind is. But this is insanely coincidental. What’s the likelihood?

I’m a man of statistics and I still couldn’t tell you the likelihood. It’s got to be in the billions in probability. Well, no. Billions, based on the earth’s population. Although, probability isn’t a direct correlation to the exact number of one-to-one options. Anyway … I can’t believe this is real.

And yet, here we are.

Here we are, I echo, my mind still reeling in awe and disbelief.

She’s here. On my island.

I don’t dare ask her where on the island she is. Not tonight. Instinctively, I know I’ve pushed her far enough. She’d tell me if she wanted to. But from now on, every stranger, every person who isn’t attached to someone, will be a potential SaturdayIslandGirl to me. I’ll walk around with an invisible antenna, asking myself, Is that her? Could that be her?

What a coincidence , I type. Amazing .

It is.

She lays down BEATIFY off the B in SCABBARD. Between her mostly two-word answers since we discovered our proximity and the fact that she picked up the game instead of typing more about us both living here on Marbella, I get the feeling we’ve tiptoed—or bulldozed—right up to the edge of her comfort zone.

More than anything, I want to assure her we’re good—that I’m a good man and a safe person, not actually some stalker. Not that she thinks I am one, but I need to assure her.

Are you okay? I ask.

Still tired. Actually, my exhaustion is catching up with me. I think I’m going to call it a night. You can play your turn and I’ll pick up the game from my end when I’m free tomorrow .

I’m not going to try to figure out where you live—here on Marbella. I just want you to know that .

She types immediately and I settle back into my pillows when I read her response.

This may sound weird, but I trust you.

I smile. Good. That’s good. I wish I could provide you some tangible assurance, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. Go get some rest. We can play more tomorrow.

Goodnight, Marbella Man.

My grin breaks across my face to the point where I feel my cheeks tighten.

Goodnight , SaturdayMarbellaIslandGirl.

I’m back from a morning snorkeling the coves near the Alicante with a group using underwater scooters. It’s nearly lunchtime and Ben, Kai and Bodhi are working the shack.

“So, let me get this straight,” Ben says. “You’ve been playing your nerdy word games with this woman, chatting her up—which, by the way, is awesome and far beyond what I’d expect from you—and you find out she’s here? On Marbella?”

“Yep.” I nod, questioning the sanity of having spilled my dilemma to these three guys.

Kai, I’d trust with my life. He’s solid. Bodhi’s pretty mature too. But Ben is this perpetual puppy. He means well, but he might just knock your coffee off the side table with one exuberant wag of his tail.

“Man,” Bodhi says. “That’s so wild.”

“Tell me about it,” I agree. “If that group this morning had any local women in it, I would have been fixated on trying to guess if it’s her. I feel like I’m on a quest to find her now. But I don’t want to overstep.”

“Overstep?” Ben asks. “What is this overstep ?” He chuckles. “Man, you are going to be the most single guy on the island forever if you think like that. Pursuit. That’s what we’re wired for. You’re the scientist. Tell me if I’m wrong. What do the males of every species do? I’ll tell you. They pursue. I pursued the heck out of Summer.”

“He did,” Bodhi echoes. “It borderlined on pathetic at times.”

“Pathetic?” Ben postures. “So pathetic that she’s carrying our child right now? I think not. Pursuit, man. That’s the name of the game for males from the kangaroo rat to the dolphin. Haven’t you ever watched Animal Planet?” He turns his attention from Bodhi to me. “Don’t go all mamby-pamby on me now, bro. Man up, Stevens. You are in pursuit of this gamer girl.”

I chuckle. “Actually, in nature, most males strut to garner a female’s attention, or they set up an amazing display for her, like building a dwelling to impress her or providing an enticing meal. She does the choosing. For example, the male elephant seal stays along the central coast and waits for the females to migrate as far north as the Gulf of Alaska and the Aleutian Islands and then return a year later to mate. No pursuit there. Not a bit. You’ve seen them. The males stay on one beach. No pursuit, just patiently waiting for the female.”

“Well,” Ben says, completely undeterred by logic. “You, my handsome friend, are not an elephant seal. I mean, have you seen them?”

He takes his hand and makes a flap of it and dangles it from his nose and then he starts barking and braying. And then he flops around the shop, rearing his head up like male sea elephants do when they are battling another male. He continues to make loud aaarrh, pllbbtt, and snorting sounds. It’s so over the top that the three of us are cracking up at him.

Ben wobbles over to Bodhi. “Come on, Bodhi, let’s rumble like the ugly elephant seals.”

Bodhi chuckles, but he says, “Stay away from me, Ben. ”

“You’re afraid of me? You can’t take me in all my elephant seal awesomeness?”

Kai looks at me and shakes his head. “This. This is where you come for relationship advice?”

I laugh and shrug. Where else am I supposed to go? Besides, this is the most entertainment I’ve had in a while.

Ben’s about to say something else in his rant about pursuing a woman when my phone rings. I look at the caller and hold up a finger. “I have to take this.”

I step outside, making sure I’m out of earshot and then I answer the call from Joel.

“Hey, Joel. What’s up?”

“Hey.” His voice sounds raspy and he’s congested. “I got sick. Airplanes, man. And sleeping in that airport. You’re breathing everyone else’s air. The germs travel from all over and we just share them in the airplane. It’s a wonder all travelers don’t get sick more often.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Can I bring you anything?”

“Nah. I’m good. But I do need something from you.”

“I’m free for the rest of the day. What do you need?”

“Layna gets a routine Trader Joe’s order. I run to Ventura to pick it up for her once a week.”

“You do her shopping?”

“Once a week. Trader Joe’s. If she needs something else, I get that too. She has a lot of stuff shipped here, but some things she can only find on the mainland. I bring all those things to her in a weekly delivery.”

“You want me to go shopping for her?”

“Yeah, man. If you can.” He moves his mouth away from the phone and coughs.

“Sure. I’m glad to.”

“Great. Brigitte will send you the list.”

“You sure you don’t need anything? Mom would make her bone broth chicken noodle soup in a heartbeat if I asked.”

“That doesn’t sound bad, actually. But I hate to impose. ”

“She lives to be the mother hen to as many island guys as she can. You know that. Let her do this for you.”

“Okay, man. I will. Thanks for pitching in. I’ll text Brigitte and she’ll get you what you need.”

I think Joel’s going to hang up, but then he asks. “How’d it go, anyway?”

“Driving the woman we call Layna?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. It was good.”

“She’s special, huh? Surprisingly normal for a woman of her status.”

“Yeah. She is. All that.”

I take off from the shack, clean up and take Joel’s boat to Ventura after Brigitte sends me a list. She also sends me Alana’s private address on the island, along with a stern reminder that I’m not to ever tell a soul where this house is, or that I’ve been there. I would never, but I appreciate the fierceness of Brigitte’s loyalty and protection of Alana.

Five hours after I left the shack, I’m driving a golf cart up into the remote hills on the North Shore. The properties here are spread out. Many of the residences are tucked back so you can’t even see the primary dwelling from the road. The trees grow thicker here, providing shade and privacy. At the peak of a winding road, I see the address I’m looking for. A wrought iron gate with a call box outside it blocks the driveway. I punch in the code Brigitte sent me. The gate swings open and I drive the rest of the way up to the house.

The home appears to be one level on the front, a small stoop leading to an extra-tall door with panes of glass going from top to bottom. Around the side of the house, there’s a deck which is built on stilts supported on the hill that runs down that side of the property. There’s a lower level below the deck which I don’t explore, since it’s obviously not my place to scope out her home.

I grab two of the three paper bags full of groceries out of the back of the cart and walk to the front door. Alana’s already opening the door before my finger hits the doorbell.

She smiles at me. “Security alert on my phone.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Thank you for running this errand for me. I hate to put you out.”

“No problem. I had a free day. I’m going to be working tomorrow and then off the island for the next four days for a job, but you caught me on a day when I had nothing planned for the afternoon.”

She smiles and extends her hands for the bags.

I walk past her, “Tell me where to set these.”

I realize my error only a beat later. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume I can just walk into your house.”

“No. No. It’s fine. I’ll just grab the last of the stuff from the cart. Straight through to the kitchen.”

I let out a surprisingly shaky breath. What was I thinking, just walking past her like that? It’s what I would do if I were bringing groceries to anyone else. But she’s not just anyone else.

Her home is spacious and clean, with windows everywhere making it feel like the outdoors is a part of the home. The views to the east lead out her deck, over treetops and toward the ocean. The rest of the home has a private woods surrounding it.

Her kitchen is stunning. All high-end appliances. I chuckle when I remember her saying someone else cooks most of her meals for her. This space begs to be used by someone who knows how to prepare cuisine. I set the bags on the island and start to remove items and set them on the granite countertops.

“Oh! Thank you. Wow. Joel is going to have to step up his delivery game. He usually just hands me the bags at the door and heads off.”

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I can just …” I abandon my unpacking and take a step toward the living room I just passed through.

“No. No. Stay. I’m about to eat anyway. Want to join me? ”

“To eat?”

“That is what I had in mind.” She laughs lightly, that melodic laugh of hers. “After all, you fed me a sandwich yesterday.”

“Was that only yesterday?”

“I know. It feels like a lifetime. What a day. But that’s over and we’re here in my haven. Have you eaten?”

I have to admit the truth. “I haven’t.”

“Then stay. I’ll feed you and then you can get back to whatever you were going to do with your evening.”

“Reading about octopi.”

She smiles. It’s not a condescending smile. Just warm. And I’m back to seeing her as simply another woman, not Alana Graves, world-renowned actress.