4. Stevens

FOUR

Stevens

Life is more fun if you play games.

~ Roald Dahl

“ H ey!” Kai shouts from the rear doorway of the watersports shack.

I wave to Ben, who is helping a customer at the moment, and then walk through the shop.

The rear of the shack opens onto the end of a wooden dock. From here it’s just views of the ocean, the beach, and the harbor to our north with all the sailboats and smaller motorboats lined in slips and tethered to moorings.

“Long time no see,” Kai says, lifting a wetsuit from the stock tank and hosing it down.

It’s been three days since I’ve been around the shack. I arrived home from work on the mainland late last night and woke early to take Sea Ya out for a solo sail while the mist was still thick across the ocean. I snorkeled along a portion of a cove, checking on my project. My head is clear and I bet if we had taken my pulse when I got home from serving corporate America, and then again right now, my heart rate would have dropped after a morning doing what I love most.

“I had a job off the coast of Gaviota. Pipeline being extended.”

I always stay on the mainland when I’m working there. No use in making two trips across the channel daily when I can knock out a job and come home to stay once my obligation is fulfilled.

My face must reveal my true feelings about my occupation. Kai’s next comment isn’t even posed as a question. “Not your favorite assignment.”

“It’s not what I anticipated doing with my degree.” I smile despite the truth. “But my job affords me a life I love, so I really can’t start complaining any time soon.”

“I didn’t exactly picture myself running a watersports rental and giving lessons for a living,” Kai says, lifting another wetsuit and going through the same ritual to clean the saltwater off it before draping it over the wooden railing of the dock.

“Were you going to surf forever?”

“I still surf.”

“Right. But were you originally planning to stay on the pro circuit? Isn’t there a cutoff for that sport as your knees and body age?”

“Yeah. Of course. I left when I was at the top of my game. I knew it was time. This opportunity came up, and I’m glad it did. I would never have met Mila if I hadn’t moved here.”

“Funny how life works.”

“It’s like the waves.”

I wait for my friend to expound on his thoughts.

Kai looks up from his task. “The waves seem to wash up the most random collection of seaweed, shells, animals, and trash. But the ocean is also surprisingly consistent. The moon directs the ebb and flow of the tide in a steady rhythm; the water rarely encroaches on the shoreline past a given point; each portion of the sea provides a home to certain species. Those things are constants. Life is like that. Both predictable and random.”

“Like the waves. ”

One thing I appreciate about my friendship with Kai are these types of talks. Most surfers and divers have an innate respect for the ocean. But Kai’s a deep thinker, and I think our friendship is one of the few places where he gives voice to his more profound thoughts.

Ben walks out back, apparently finished with his customer.

“What are you two pontificating about?”

Kai smirks. “The way life mirrors the ocean.”

Ben takes both his hands and pinches his fingers together, placing them next to his temples. Then he blows his hands wide open. “You two philosophers are way over my pay grade.”

Kai smiles at me.

“On to more mundane and normal topics,” Ben says. “Are you coming to Bodhi’s Saturday?”

“The barbecue?” I ask. Bodhi extended me an invitation two days ago.

“Yeah. We’ll all be there.” Ben tips his chin toward Kai. “Kai and Mila, Cam and Riley, Bodhi and Kalaine, Summer and Me.”

“Is there such a thing as being the ninth wheel?” I half joke.

“We know women,” Ben wags his eyebrows. “Giselle’s still single. That yoga instructor friend of Riley and Summer’s, Aria, is still single, I think. Want us to invite some women?”

“No. No. I’m good.”

Ben chuckles. “It’s a waste of all that good rizz, my friend. You should be blessing the women of Marbella with some dates at the very least.”

Kai shakes his head. “Leave him alone, Ben.”

Kai’s forehead wrinkles with confusion when he looks at me. “Rizz?”

“It’s nothing. Trust me,” I glance at Ben, and Kai seems to read the room.

“It may be a bunch of couples at Bodhi’s, but we’ll just be hanging out,” Kai says. “These gatherings usually end up with all the girls on one end of the yard and all us guys around the grill anyway. Come over. We’d love to have you. ”

“I just might.” I concede.

Eventually, I may just have to give in and let the guys set me up with someone. My thoughts flick to SaturdayIslandGirl. I looked up Saturday Island the other day, hoping it was a location I had never heard of before. It’s not.

There’s an old 1950s movie with an island by that name located in the South Pacific. And there’s a book too—about a shipwreck near Jamaica. That doesn’t narrow things down at all. If I employ deductive reasoning based on those two pieces of information, my online friend either lives in the Caribbean or Bora Bora. Those two spots are nearly six thousand miles away from one another, and they each are three or four thousand away from me. I’m probably not going to end up dating her. Well, let’s be practical here. I will not be dating her.

For some inexplicable reason, SaturdayIslandGirl is the one woman I have any interest in pursuing even though I know nothing about her outside the ease of our connection, her wit, and the way she draws out my desire to banter. For now, I’d rather not date. I’m happy with my boats, my friends, and the curious relationship I’ve formed with SaturdayIslandGirl.

I have dated women in the past. I even had a pretty serious girlfriend in grad school. She dreamed of touring the world drumming up grants to fund research trips focused on furthering ocean conservation. She met an ecologist one summer and broke things off with me when she returned home from that expedition. I barely grieved. She was more of a companion than the love of my life. It was then I landed on an important discovery about myself. I don’t want a relationship that’s basically a convenience.

If I’m ever going to invest in something committed and romantic, I want the woman to be someone I can’t live without. I need to be swept away by her. She needs to challenge me and settle me. That woman may not exist, and that’s fine. I’m pretty good at being single. But if she does exist, I’ll pursue her until she’s mine. And she’ll be worth whatever I have to do or sacrifice to be with her.

Until then, I need to spend at least as much time with the actual people I know in real life as I do with anonymous acquaintances online.

“I’ll be there,” I tell Ben, snapping out of my spiraling thoughts about relationships.

He whoops enthusiastically. “Atta boy. And let me know if you change your mind. I’m sure we could come up with quite a few females who would want to show up if they knew the elusive Stevens was coming over.”

“I’m good,” I assure Ben. “I’ll see you two later. I’ve got to stop by my mom’s for a bit.”

“Give her a kiss on the cheek for the boy she wishes were her actual son,” Ben says. “I love that woman.”

“I’ll do just that.” I chuckle.

My mom unofficially adopted Ben once she found out his family lives in the Midwest. She’s always been like that, collecting stray friends of mine and treating them like extended family. Her extroversion knows no bounds.

The air outside the watersports shack is warm on my skin. A light breeze blows in, tempting me to consider taking my sailboat out for a second trip today. I don’t have any tours scheduled. I need to finalize my formal report for work. Otherwise, I’m a free man—until Bodhi’s barbecue, at least. Here’s hoping Ben doesn’t invite a random woman.

I pedal my bike back toward the north shore. When I arrive at my childhood home, Mom’s voice filters through the house out to the front porch. She’s singing an Adele song. My father can sing. My brother can sing like he was born to make music. I might be able to carry a tune. Mom … can’t. The women in our family are spunky, delightful, beautiful … and horrible singers. She’s giving it her all. And when she sings the word, “Hello,” I sing back “It’s me.”

“Ren!”

Mom shouts my childhood nickname. It’s a shortened form of my full name, which no, I’m not disclosing to you, or anyone for that matter. I follow the sound of her voice to the screened-in porch off the back of the house. Our home is in a hilly section of the island, about two-thirds of the way up the street. We have a small front yard, but a decent sized back yard with a porch up on stilts off the back of the house. Mom often sets up an easel or table out here, depending on her project, and loses herself in whatever she’s creating for hours.

She stands from the easel and sets her brush into a cup of water.

“What a sweet surprise!” Mom exclaims before squeezing me into one of her notorious hugs. She warned each of us kids when we entered our preteen years, “I’ll be hugging you. You’re my children and I’m going to hug you. That’s not negotiable. Get over any awkwardness you have right now. Some kids go through this, Mom, you’re embarrassing me stage. Not in our family. I’m a hugger and you need hugs.”

I believe each of us rolled our eyes at her when it was our turn to hear the speech. I distinctly remember trying to arrange for Mom to pick me up at discreet locations throughout my high school years so no one would witness her hugging me. Looking back, I now know I was one of the lucky ones.

When she steps back I glance over at her painting.

“What are you working on?”

“It’s a painting I started last weekend.”

“San Simeon?”

“You recognize it.”

“I’d probably be able to identify any part of the coast from Big Sur to Redondo Beach. That’s my office, so to speak.”

“What an office.” She sighs.

“I prefer Marbella.”

“Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”

Mom loosens her paint apron and drapes it over the back of the easel.

“Have you seen your brother? I wasn’t sure if he made it back yet. ”

“Dustin?”

“Do you have another brother I’m not aware of?”

I shake my head and chuckle.

“No. Just Dustin. I haven’t heard from him, but that’s how it is when he’s out on a fire. And when he comes back, he usually crashes. So we won’t hear from him right away anyway.”

My brother isn’t a full-time firefighter yet, but he’s a volunteer here and gets called out when there are wildfires in the California forests or other high-frequency areas. His life outside firefighting involves writing country music, singing at local bars and other venues, and working part-time as a bouncer at two of the clubs in Descanso on the south end of the island. How he ever came to love country music is beyond me. We’re a California island. Surf tunes. Pop. Even some R & B. Not country. But that’s Dustin. It’s like he was imported from the south.

“You might hear from him between naps once he’s home,” I assure my mom. “Since he has the typical short-term, post-traumatic symptom including an inability to regulate sleep due to the cortisol his adrenal glands over-emit during the fire response, he’s bound to wake intermittently. Maybe he’ll get the urge to let you know he’s home during one of his bouts of wakefulness. The maternal-child bond means he’ll think to call you first before anyone else in the family. So, you can relax.”

Mom stares at me. That same stunned expression passes over her face every time I lapse into scientist mode.

She squeezes her eyebrows together momentarily and then she asks, “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure. I’d love some. I came here just to hang out with you. I get bonus son points for that, right?”

She smiles at me. “Your points are maxed out. No need to earn more. And I see you’ve shaved that horrible thing off your lip. You’re such a handsome guy, Ren. Some people were not meant to sport the mustache. I’m just sayin’. Full facial hair? Maybe. But not the ’stache. Not for you.”

“Agreed. ”

The ’stache . My mom.

“Well, good. Speaking of your mustache, I wanted to talk to you about painting.”

“Painting? What does painting have to do with my ex-mustache?”

Mom doesn’t clarify her poor segue. Instead she veers into a completely unrelated subject. “There’s this painting class. Do you remember Harry?”

“Harriet Symes?”

“Yes. That’s her.”

Harriet and I have one thing in common. Our parents must have been smoking crack when they named us. Again. I’m not telling you my name. Ever. At least I can go by my middle name. Harry was forced to choose between a name that makes her sound like a seventy-year-old with knee pain and hearing aids that squeal when they aren’t properly adjusted, or that man who met Sally in the classic romcom movie.

“Yeah. I know Harry. She was two years older than me in high school. We didn’t really hang out, but I see her around the island from time to time.”

“Yes. Well, Harry’s single and self-employed as an art teacher. Did you know that? And she just started hosting outdoor painting classes in the cove every weekend. It’s called plein air painting. It means outdoors in French.”

“I know, Mom. I took French. Remember?”

“I know. I didn’t, as you well know. But I can pick things up here and there, like plein air. Which, to be fair, sounds like plain air. So, it’s logical. If only all French were logical. I’d be a whiz at it.”

“I’m sure you would,” I smile at her.

She wouldn’t. Mom has one of the most American accents I’ve ever heard. Even when she says things like burrito or salsa, she’s so obviously not Mexican. She says sahl-zah and breeto. We’ve tried to correct her. I mean, we live in California. Mexican food is as common as burgers and salads out here. Over half our state speaks Spanish. My mom is clearly not in that half.

And it didn’t pass by me that Mom mentioned Harry’s marital status. Mom always has to throw in when any female is single if she’s talking to me or my brother. Mom can be discussing the most irrelevant fact about a woman, and she’ll slip the detail of how this particular young woman is unattached. Like, Oh, did you know Susan Stearns fell while she was hiking the back side of the island? She’s single. And she sprained her ankle . If she’s feeling extra pushy, she might add, Poor Susan, she’ll have to recover all alone. It’s so much better when you have your person to go through life with.

“I’m just glad Harry can support herself with her art,” Mom says. “It’s hard on these single women, you know. And she’s just so pretty. And talented. Sweet too.”

There you have it. The push.

“That’s great for Harry. I’m glad she’s making a living with her art.”

“Well, I want you to come to Harry’s class.”

It’s not the oddest request my mother has ever made of me—not by a long shot.

“Because …?”

“Because nothing. Can’t a mom want her son to spend an afternoon outdoors with her?”

“She can. But you are not just any mom, and I think you’re up to something.”

Mom puts her hand to her chest and makes an overly dramatic face. “Moi, up to something? You wound me.”

“I’m sure. And you are definitely up to something. I just don’t know what yet.”

“But you’ll come? Saturday?”

“Sure. Why not?”

I follow Mom into the kitchen. She pours me tea and we spend the rest of the visit on the porch. She paints and I watch her while I sip my tea. I pull out my phone and open Play on Words . Might as well start a game even if SaturdayIslandGirl isn’t online. I can leave a board open for her to respond to and then we’ll finish the game later. It’s not as fun playing that way, waiting for her to play and answering with my own move. I far prefer when we’re online together for hours, bantering and trash talking.

I initiate a game, am dealt tiles, and lay down the word EAGLET. It’s not a strong start: seven points for a six-letter word, but I can play off a lot of those letters if I get the right tiles.

To my surprise, SaturdayIslandGirl responds right away.

A midday game? Okay, then. I’ll slay you in the sunlight as well as I do at night.

“Well, hello there,” I say out loud without thinking.

“Hello to you, too,” Mom says from her stool by the easel. “Who’s that?”

“Who’s who?”

“Whoever got you to speak in that tone of voice.”

“Oh. It’s nothing. Just a gamer. Online.”

“Oh.”

The disappointment in Mom’s voice is palpable. Poor woman wants daughters-in-law, a son-in-law, grandkids and all the chaos of extended family running around her at all times. The three of us have failed her utterly so far.

SaturdayIslandGirl uses the G in EAGLET and adds E-Y-S-E-R-S, making GEYSERS.

Eleven points right out the gate .

Well played . I smile.

I feel like asking, Are you by any chance in either Bora Bora or the Caribbean? , but I obviously don’t.

I’m surprised at what appears next in the chat box next to our board.

I’m studying my tiles for my next move when SaturdayIsland Girl types, I want to ask you a personal question. Is that alright?

I temporarily abandon my thoughts about letter combinations. Maybe. What would you like to know?

Her response pops up immediately. Right. Of course. It’s nothing too intrusive. I just realized my gamer tag reveals that I’m a woman. To level the playing field I wanted to know …

She pauses and her sentence stops at the three bouncing dots. I’ll spare her the suspense.

I chuckle and type, I’m a woman.

Oh. Good. Okay. That’s what I was wondering. Well, now I know .

I’m smiling, wondering if she thought I was a woman all along.

I’m kidding. I’m a man .

Seriously?

I am.

Now I have to wonder.

I was just joking around. I am a man.

Maybe I shouldn’t have joked. Now she can’t believe me. I was just having fun, the way we do. Short of offering to send her to a website where she could see a photo of me after I won an award for my field of work, there’s no way to assure her. And how would she know if the photo I sent her to check out was actually me? I could be one of those guys posing with a poodle, roses and a yacht. You just know the guy behind that kind of picture actually drives a beater car and has a beer gut. No. I have to think of something else. The board sits idle while I wrack my brain for proof.

My mom is blissfully painting in the corner of the porch, unaware of my self-inflicted predicament. Then I hit on the perfect thing to say, or at least the best I’ve got short of a video chat which would probably not be something SaturdayIslandGirl would agree to. Besides, could you imagine a video chat with my mom in the same room? No. Not happening.

Remember how I told you I thought my French tutor was cute?

Yes. I do.

Well, she was a grade older than me. A girl named Charise. She lived a few blocks over from us. My parents hired her because my grades in my French class were going to decimate my GPA. I did think she was cute—had a serious crush on her. But she had a boyfriend. Does that give you enough proof?

SaturdayIslandGirl answers me . For this platform, short of you showing me a photo of yourself, which you could drag up from anywhere on the web and pretend is you anyway, I’ll have to take your word for it.

I thought of a photo, but you’re right. I could pull up any random picture and claim it’s me. Is the playing field level now?

Never. I’ve got a distinct advantage. Four points and growing.

She boasts as usual. Even when she’s losing, she’s got confidence to spare. I love that about her. It reminds me of Mitzi a little. But the unusual feelings I have about SaturdayIslandGirl are not the kind of affection I feel for my sister. It’s a problem, but not one I want to dwell on. We share this online space. It’s fun. I’ll enjoy it for what it is.

Advantage depends on what tiles you’re holding, I retort.

Maybe it’s not the tiles, but how you use them that matters.

She adds a winking emoji.

It’s the first time she’s virtually winked at me. Is this flirting? Will something change between us now that she believes I’m a man?