19. Alana

NINETEEN

Alana

In its purest form, dating is auditioning.

(And auditioning means

we may or may not get the part.)

~ Joy Browne

“ S o, it’s Kelly Clarkson, Jimmy Fallon, and Jimmy Kimmel. Two tomorrow and the second Jimmy the next day. Got it?” Brigitte asks. She sounds out of breath.

“What are you doing? Running from someone?”

“Oh, yes. You know me. I’m being chased down by hordes of hot men. I have to outrun them because, goodness knows, if they caught up to me, I’d have to date. And then I’d have to pick amongst them all …” she trails off. Then she shouts, “Hey! Watch it! Pedestrian right of way, dingus! That’s why I’m in a crosswalk! See me, the girl walking with a garment bag? Pedestrian!”

She returns her attention to me. “Where was I? I swear. These drivers. Oh. Yes. I was talking about men chasing me. As if.”

“Men would chase you, Bridge. You’re adorable, sharp, funny, and quirky in a way that makes you special. ”

“Special has sooo many meanings.”

“Special has one meaning when it comes to you. You’re one of a kind.”

She’s breathless, obviously rushing wherever she is. “Again, that could be good or bad. One of a kind, rare, or one of a kind as in God broke the mold because He knew the world could only take one of me.”

“All the good. Now, stop fishing for compliments. What’s got you out of breath?”

“I am running errands for the Queen of Hearts.”

“She’s got you running errands?”

“For you. Errands for you. It’s my job, you know? You have three talk show appearances over the next two days. You need the consummate outfits, pressed and ready. And a whole slew of other things. Things you don’t need to fret about. Trust me. And, yes. I have five minutes to get my car out of a space that is metered so I avoid a ticket.”

“I’ll pay the ticket. Slow down.”

Brigitte may not even hear me. She’s on one of her rolls, which are entertaining as long as she’s not actually suffering.

“Why do they have meters in Los Angeles? Also, why do some meters only allow parking until six p.m.? If you’re going to charge me, let me park here round-the-clock. It’s insanity. Meters are of the devil.” She pauses. Her voice turns cheery. “Hi!” Another pause. “Yes! It’s beautiful out.” Her voice goes up an octave. “Isn’t he a little cutie? Aren’t you cute? Awww. You’re the cutie patootie cutie badootie wootie. Yes, you are.” Her voice drops back to normal. “Have a nice day.”

Brigitte seamlessly returns her attention to me. “Sweet old lady out walking the absolutely cutest little Frenchie. Those dogs are the cutest. Anyway, I was saying, it could take me those precious five minutes left on my meter to stand in line at the dry cleaner on a busy day. Then what? I’d have to pay because some suit from West LA got in line before me and felt the need to complain about the level of starch in his shirt. It’s ludicrous, I tell you.”

She’s breathless, but doesn’t pause to take a breath. “Yet, we have to feed these insipid parking machines. Besides, isn’t living here costly enough? Not that I’m griping. I’m not. We have the best climate in the country. And the men are delicious to look at, though, too many of them know it. And you pay me plenty. Don’t you fret.”

“I don’t. But you can ask for a raise, you know.”

“What did I tell you about that? When I feel I’ve earned one, I’ll ask. I already make more than so many assistants in the business.”

She’s worth it. Note to self, give her a big, fat bonus this week for all these errands.

“It’s just a crime against humanity to have these parking meters everywhere. There’s like one open spot available for every hundred cars. It’s a design flaw, I tell you. If I were in charge, the first thing I’d do is have them rip out all these meters. We could melt the metal down and make something useful—like another parking garage!” She laughs at her own brilliance. “Whatever happened to survival of the fittest? We should be allowed to vie for parking spaces, and may the best man—or woman—win. Don’t you think?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Says the agreeable movie star who never drove a day in her life.” Brigitte pauses. “New mission. We are getting you a driver’s license.”

“Because you make driving seem oh so appealing,” I joke.

“Driving is amazing. Except for traffic. It’s the parking that kills me. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I have three more stops and my stomach is growling. You’ve got the itinerary? Rex is joining you on Kelly’s show. Not that I get to call her Kelly, though I have the feeling she’d be down for that. Anyway, he’s with you for Kelly. The other two are just you. We’ll prep potential questions and answers when you’re here. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m riding along with that beast of a bodyguard of yours and Miguel to come pick you up. Got all that?”

“Got it.” I smile. She is adorable. And I’m so lucky to have her. “And, Bridge?”

“Yeah.”

“Go eat. We’ll figure the rest out later. Don’t run yourself ragged on my behalf.”

“Okay. Yeah. I see a smoothie place. I’ll drop these clothes in my car, pay for more time—grrrrr—and stop to grab a smoothie. You’re right. And you? You better eat and then go get your beauty sleep.”

I smile.

I hear the opening of her car door. “Sweet dreams. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She seems to be done, but then she says, “Do they even have bedbugs on that beautiful island of yours? I bet they don’t.”

I chuckle. “Go eat. You’re getting hangry.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m going. I’m going. Love you, boss. See you tomorrow.”

I eat a salad, wash my bowl, and spend a half hour doing yoga. Then I brew a cup of tea and head to bed early. Tomorrow will be a whirlwind, starting with the boat ride to Los Angeles, then a few days of talk show appearances. I pick my phone up off the bedside table. I didn’t play the word game last night because Stevens was here past dinner. I read a little after he left and then went to sleep.

Wordivore might not even be online tonight, but I always secretly hope he will be. Knowing he’s here on the island makes me wonder so many things. Where is he right now? Does he live on the north shore near me, or in Descanso near the resort? What does he actually do for work? He said he’s on call. Is he an island doctor? His words were, Something like that , when I asked. A veterinarian? A nurse? EMT?

When I pull up the game on my phone, a board has already been started by Wordivore with an invite to join. I click, Accept , and when the screen comes to life with my tiles fanning out at the bottom, I nearly hold my breath waiting to see if he’s here or if he just played a word and signed out.

Hey there , he types. I was about to log off. Didn’t know if you were going to show up tonight.

I’m here . What an answer. Of course I’m here. Nothing like stating the obvious.

I see that. He pauses, and then he types, And, I’m glad .

What is this feeling in my belly? Nerves? Giddiness? Excitement? I feel like a high school girl with a crush. I try to talk sense to myself, but this small—no, not so small—part of me is feeling off-kilter over Wordivore. It’s pleasant and simultaneously disorienting.

I look at the board. MUZZLE with a Z on a double letter is already there.

Nice start , I say.

Some days you get all one-point vowels. Some days are double Zs.

You outdid yourself with thirty-six points.

It’s sheer skill. Not an ounce of luck involved.

Just as I always say.

Speaking of saying things …

He stops typing and I wait on pins and needles. I haven’t felt this nervous since my early days as an actress auditioning for a role I needed to land .

Okay. Let me start that over, he types. Speaking of saying things, what would you say to coming out to dinner with me?

I reread the sentence twice. Didn’t I want him to ask just that? But now that he’s said it, I’m faced with the reality. If we meet, he’ll know who I am. No more hiding behind SaturdayIslandGirl.

I chicken out and lay down F-U-T and then E-D around his Z to make FUTZED. Ironic, since I’m futzing around not answering him.

Let’s pretend I didn’t just ask that, he says.

Ugh.

No. No. It’s okay. I just have to think about it a minute .

Can I be totally honest with you? he asks.

I would hope so.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I found out you’re here on Marbella. Wondering if you’re someone I know or have seen. It’s distracting. So, I talked to a few friends—close friends, only a few of them—and they said I should go for it and ask you. So, this is what I get for listening to my guy friends. I wasn’t sure. Two of them are far bolder than I am. One is a bit more reserved, but even he thought I ought to ask. Please know there’s no pressure. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.

You don’t. Can I have a few minutes? I’ll be right back.

Man. I really blew it, didn’t I?

No. Not at all. I just need to think this through.

Going to call a friend?

I laugh. Basically, yes.

Go for it. I’ll be here. And … one more thing.

Yeah?

Call the friend that will tell you to say yes.

I can’t help but smile. I’ll take that under advisement.

I swipe my phone so the app lifts and my keypad is on the screen. Then I press Brigitte’s contact.

She answers on the first ring. “Yes. Yes. I had a smoothie, Mom. I feel much better, thank you.”

I chuckle. “I’m not calling to ask if you had the smoothie. I figured you would.”

“What are you calling for? Wait …” There’s a ruffling sound, then she says, “It’s eight thirty. You usually text if it’s this late. Are you sick? Do you need me to rally some remedies and have them shipped to you by drone drop? Did someone unearth your location? Is your mom flipping out about yet another detail for these interviews? No. No. She’d call me if she were. Ummm …”

“If you give me a minute, I’ll actually tell you so you don’t have to guess.”

“Good. Great. That’s a good idea. So?”

“So … that guy on the word game? ”

“The one you found out lives on your island?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“He wants to take me to dinner.”

“Um. Yes!”

“Wait. You don’t even know who he is. Shouldn’t I ask for a photo or something? Have him sign an NDA? Get him screened?”

“Are you planning on going to his house?”

“Definitely not.”

“You’ll meet him in public?”

“Yes. A restaurant, I guess.”

“On Marbella?”

“Yeah. I think so. Definitely. We’re both here. Yes.”

“Then, what’s the problem? Isn’t there like exactly no crime there? And if you’re at a restaurant you’ll have eyes on you. Want me to call your goon squad and have him show up there to keep an eye out?”

“Tank?”

“Yeah. That mountain of a man. He’d come over there for you if you need it. You’ve just never needed it.”

“No. I don’t need Tank. You’re right. Marbella is safe. It’s more the idea that Wordivore will know who I am after this.”

“I hear you, Alana.” Brigitte’s quiet for a beat. “Let me ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to end up in a relationship? No. Skip that. Forget about a relationship. That’s so next-level right now. Would you like to go to dinner with this guy—the guy you’ve been telling me about forever. The one you feel like you can trust and share things with. Would you like to go to dinner with him?”

“Yeah. I would.”

“There’s your answer. Now get off the phone, go tell him yes, and get your butt to bed. You have interviews tomorrow and Maleficent will have my finger poked with a spinning wheel needle that puts me to sleep for years if I don’t get you there without bags under your eyes. But, then again, maybe I’d meet my Prince Phillip if I went through all that.”

I laugh. “Okay. I’ll tell him yes and I’ll get to sleep.”

“Good. And, admit it. You’re just a teensie weensie bit excited now, aren’t you? Butterflies flitting around? A perma-smile?”

“Stop spying on me.”

“I knew it! You deserve this. Go be a normal girl on a dinner date. Love you, boss.”

“Love you too, goofball.”

“That’s one-of-a-kind goofball to you.”

We hang up and I tap to reopen the app. Sure enough, Wordivore is there, waiting … for me.

Hey, I type.

Hey , he answers. So, let me down slowly .

I’m not going to. I smile big, and then I type. It’s a yes .

I rarely dance, but picture me doing a happy dance. Scratch that if it sounded creepy. I’m just glad you said yes .

I smile and decide to tell him so. I’m smiling .

Me too.

A text comes through from Brigitte. I pause to read it.

Brigitte : Don’t give him your private cell number. New cell phone acquired one minute ago. It will be with me when we pick you up in Ventura tomorrow. Here’s the phone number …

She types the number and I sit there marveling at her mad skills.

Alana : I don’t pay you enough.

Brigitte : Okay, pay me more since you keep insinuating you want to.

Alana : Okay. I will.

Brigitte : Okay, then. Now get to bed .

I chuckle.

Alana : Night, Bridge. You’re the best.

Brigitte : So are you. Seriously. Now go get some rest.

I click over to the game.

Wordivore: Did I lose you?

Nope. Just getting a phone number for you .

It took you that long to get your phone number?

It’s complicated. You’ll understand when we meet.

So you ARE a spy. I knew it!

Lol. Not a spy. Well … not exactly.

Hmmm. So, when should we have this dinner? I’m off the island for a few more days and then I’m back by Saturday.

Saturday is good for me. I tell him, smiling again while my nerve endings buzz with a cocktail of so many emotions I can’t even identify them all.

So, here’s my number . He types it in the chat and I enter it in my phone for safe keeping. And I have a few questions. Are you ready?

That depends.

They’re harmless, I promise. Just some pre-date prep. Do you want something super-casual, moderately casual, or pretty swanky?

Wow. Swanky? I haven’t heard that word in a while.

There are a lot more words where that came from.

Promises, promises.

My grin could split my face. This is flirting, right? I’m so out of practice. Aside from scripted romance scenes with Rex, I haven’t flirted in real life in ages. I may not know how to do this. Then again, I just managed a pretty decent response.

I definitely don’t want something “swanky” on a first date . I’d say casual to moderate.

Great. That helps. Now, picnic on the beach, pizza and pasta place, tacos, or Thai ?

Stevens said his sister owns a taco place. What if we accidentally pick a night that he’s there? I’m going to go with pizza/pasta.

Perfect. I know just the place. I’m assuming you want to meet there.

Definitely. Did that sound abrupt? What I mean is … first date, we’ve never met …

Date? Is this a date?

Is it not a date? I’m sorry. I assumed.

I’m kidding. It’s whatever you want it to be. It’s dinner. We’ll meet and we’ll share a meal. My treat because I asked you. If you don’t want to flee after an hour or two over bolognese and drinks, we’ll decide if we have been on a date or a friendly meal with someone we’ve finally met in person.

It’s very much a date. I know it deep, deep down. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be going to these lengths to actually meet him. And I wouldn’t feel like I’m not going to be able to sleep until I actually see him in person. This is definitely the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in. And I’ve been in some weird situations—like fake-dating my co-star.

That sounds just right , I tell Wordivore. It does sound just right.

Okay, great. Saturday at six? Let’s meet at Cucina Descanso. I’ll grab a table when I get there.

Perfect .

I yawn. Then, I type, I’m sorry. Please don’t take this personally, but I have a huge day at work tomorrow and I’m yawning. Can we pick this game up later?

You sure this isn’t because I’m already seven points ahead of you and obviously going to win this match? He adds a winking emoji.

I’m certain. Because, for one thing, I’m only seven points behind you, and I’m the dark horse in this game .

Okay. Well, sweet dreams, dark horse .

You too, Wordivore .