8. Alana

EIGHT

Alana

You're a beautiful woman.

You deserve a beautiful life.

~Water for Elephants

T he substitute water taxi driver is funny. And attractive. I don’t mention his appearance for any reason except that he’s one of the beautiful people. And I don’t think he even knows it. He could easily co-star in a major picture. Until he opens his mouth.

I grin to myself thinking of how he stumbled over himself when I approached the boat. Thankfully, this isn’t my first rodeo. People lose their marbles over me all the time. I don’t usually have to contend with the fan freak-outs from my inner circle of drivers and bodyguards, assistants, makeup artists or other people who are employed to surround and sustain my life. But someone having an attack like this guy, Stevens? Yes. I’ve dealt with more than my share of stuttering, screaming, and even fainting. Thankfully he didn’t faint. Things were awkward enough without that added bonus feature .

I finally decided to put him out of his misery. It was either going to go one of two ways. He’d crash the boat when I came up to sit next to him, or we’d talk. I’m glad we ended up in an easy conversation. I miss Joel. He reads me. And he knows when to initiate a conversation. Also, Joel was never ever impressed by me. Not even a little. But, to this guy’s credit, he’s made up for the heavy case of nerves with his sweetness and sensitivity. I really believe he’s “the chest.”

I smile again thinking of that whole interaction.

Stevens pulls into the slip and kills the engine. He walks to the side of the boat and extends me his hand. I grab my duffle, rest my palm in Stevens’ and step from the boat to the dock. His hands are strong and big, slightly calloused, clean. Nice hands. He watches me, and I’m pretty sure he’s more focused on my safety than my appearance. That’s more refreshing than I can say.

“You have a car waiting for you?” he asks.

He pockets the key to the boat and steps out next to me.

“I have a car. And …” I point toward the end of the finger of slips where Ken is standing in his typical stoic stance, doing a stellar impersonation of a statue entitled, Beefy Bodyguard Awaiting Starlet .

“Is that your security detail? Oh. Wow. Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” Stevens assesses Tank for more than a few seconds. Then he glances back at me. “He’s big.”

I chuckle. “He is. Massive. And he literally never smiles.”

“Never?”

“Not that I’ve seen, and he’s worked for our family for years.”

“Huh.”

I almost don’t say the next sentence, but history has shown me even the most seemingly trustworthy people can turn on you or be the opposite of what they appeared to be. Though, this guy seems pretty reliable. Still …

“I’m sorry. I just need to remind you. Please don’t tell anyone about me—or today.”

“No. Yeah. Of course. I won’t. ”

“No one.” I repeat, feeling instantly bad for insisting so hard.

I look up into his eyes—brown and warm, compassionate, even.

“You’d be surprised how many people say something about being with me or spotting me to that one person they can trust, and before you know it, one hundred people and the local press know where I am.”

“Wow.” His brow furrows with definite concern. “That must be horrible.”

I can only nod. I can’t explain it, but the way he’s looking at me could nearly draw up tears.

“I mean it. I’ll keep this whole morning a secret,” he assures me. “It sounds like you have no privacy. You can’t even ride over on the main ferry. That’s a big price tag for the life you live.”

I search his face for any hint that he’s being sarcastic.

Finding nothing but warmth in every feature of his, I answer, “Thank you. Yeah. There’s a heavy price tag.”

He looks me dead in the eyes. “I won’t tell anyone. Not even my mom, who loves you. I mean, she’s a superfan. She watched your shows religiously when you were on television. And she has every older movie of yours on DVD. She kept her DVD player just so she could have a full collection of your movies. Well, you and Jude Law. She loves that man. But that’s beside the point. She’d die if she knew I took you to the mainland today.”

It seems to suddenly dawn on both of us that I’ve already met his mom. She actually seemed to have tried to set Stevens up with me.

“Your mom. Yes. I remember her. Painting class?”

I feel my eyebrows pinch together. I know this guy means to keep my confidence. He did sign an NDA, but I really, really don’t want to have to sue him for breach. I’m not even sure I would. But it would stink if he talked to his mom, even though a part of me wishes I could offer to officially meet her—as Alana, not Layna, hiding behind sunglasses and a ball cap just so I could get out of the house and do something creative for once. Brigitte set that painting class up too. I’m glad she did. On one hand, it was a great way to spend an afternoon. On the other hand, I could have been identified and that would have had ramifications I don’t even want to entertain.

I can’t officially meet any fan. Especially not when we both live on the island. Marbella is my sanctuary. I can’t afford to have rabid admirers knowing I’m residing there whenever I’m not filming.

Stevens reiterates his mom’s love of me. “She’d go crazy. Like … so crazy. I think you got a small sample of that Saturday. And she had no clue who you were then. I’m surprised, honestly. I guess your disguise did the trick.”

I muster up a smile. “If only I could pull off a mustache.”

Stevens smiles back. “It’s not just you. Most people can’t. Trust me.”

I laugh. It feels good to laugh a little, and I’m honestly surprised he’s drawn one out of me two or three times this morning.

It’s an honor to be loved by fans. I know that deep down. There’s also a fine line between love and psychotic idol worship. I don’t have the luxury of testing to find out which side of the line his mom lives on where I’m concerned.

“I won’t tell her,” Stevens reiterates. “Trust me.”

He smiles again. It’s a casual smile—handsome and soothing. He’s getting used to me. And I like the idea of that a lot. If he’s going to be my driver this week, I’d far prefer him to act like I’m just another passenger, and to lose the nerves. They make me edgy and I need my boat rides to be a place of solace.

“You’re the chest,” I say.

“I am.”

He winks again. It’s a great wink. His wink is one of those types that seems so easy to pull off but really isn’t. Winks can so easily cross the line to being downright creepy or try-hard.

His isn’t. It’s just sweet and a little sexy.

Single guy. Self-employed. Flexible work schedule. Recommended by Joel. Reliable and familiar with all aspects of boating. That’s all I know about this man who can wink like it’s his job. It’s all I need to know. He’s just another temp employee in my life.

“I’ll be here when you’re finished,” Stevens assures me. “Just running to Costco for my mom … My mom, who has no idea why I’m over here or who came with me. I promise.”

“I believe you.”

There’s a clearing of a throat at the end of the dock. Tank.

“Hold your horses, big guy. We’re just working out the details of my return ride,” I shout down to my stern statue of a bodyguard.

Tank doesn’t flinch. He just stares.

“That guy. Whew.” Stevens whistles.

“Yeah. He’s good at what he does.”

“Okay then. I’ll see you when you’re back here.”

“Thanks. Enjoy Costco.”

He chuckles. “Enjoy Hollywood.”

I turn and walk away to attend the meeting that will determine the trajectory of the next two years of my life. My father wants to talk about the film. He’s got ideas. And I’m going to either comply or decide to go rogue and do what my heart is yearning to do.

This day was … whew . I type in the chat next to my invite to Wordivore. I’m starting a new match, and secretly hoping he’s online.

I haven’t texted or spoken to Brigitte since I got in this afternoon. I will. She’ll want to know the upshot of the meeting from me before she hears it from someone else. I collapsed for a half hour on the couch when I got back from my day in LA. I went straight to my indoor pool and swam laps, and then I did a session of yoga with Aria. She’s my private yoga-pilates instructor and she comes up here three or four days a week to give me a workout that keeps me remembering her the following day.

Bad day? Wordivore types.

My smile is instant. He’s here.

It started out interesting. And then … yeah. Went from interesting to difficult within hours .

Sorry to hear that. Wordivore answers . I, too, had an interesting day. Not bad. Definitely interesting. Want to talk about it?

Our board sits idle. My initial word, FROGS sits out there with the F on a double point spot, giving me thirteen points right out the gate. I can’t even bring myself to gloat, I’m so preoccupied with the events of the day.

Do I want to talk about it? With Wordivore? I could. I’ll just keep everything super generic.

I’d like that. But, ground rules first: No sharing the specifics of where we live, what we do for a living, our names, our dates of birth, our appearance or cultural identification. Here, we’re just Wordivore and SaturdayIslandGirl. Deal?

His cursor moves immediately. Deal. I’m great with anonymity.

I smile thinking of how Stevens said he was the chest. This morning feels like light-years ago. So much has happened since that boat ride.

I stare at my keypad, and then I type, Have you ever felt like you’re living your life for everyone else around you? Like you are meant for one thing, or maybe a whole bunch of things, but you have to do what’s expected of you instead? And if you don’t there’s a world of people who will feel let down by you? I stare at what I just typed, take a deep breath, and hit send.

A rush of relief flows through me immediately. I don’t even know what Wordivore will say, but getting that out of my head feels like dropping a weighted pack. I’m taken aback by the lightness I experience just knowing someone else now knows all the thoughts rattling around in my head.

I definitely know what that’s like. I’d say more, but it would give specifics away. Suffice it to say, I’m disappointing my mother deeply by not living up to certain dreams she has for me. I have a job I am qualified for, but it’s something I would never have chosen for myself, exactly. It pays the bills, but it goes against the bigger reason I even started pursuing the field I’m in. So, yeah. I get it.

If I thought I felt relief when I hit send, that’s nothing compared to what I feel reading Wordivore’s response to me. I feel seen.

Today, I had a choice to make. If you want to call it a choice. On one hand, I could do the expected thing, the thing everyone wants me to do. On the other, I could choose to veer a little and do this other thing that is really what I think I want to try. Option two feels right to me. I can’t explain it any other way. I had a meeting with an influential person—one who matters deeply to me. And by the time we were sitting together a half hour or so, I had conceded and let him talk me into the expected thing. Thing one, not thing two. (And now I’m thinking about Cat in the Hat!) Option one isn’t bad. It’s just one more time where I said yes to the pressure, yes to being what others want of me. And those yes answers feel like a no to me. I sacrificed my current dream and my preferences to make other people around me happy—again.

I stare at the screen after I hit send. That paragraph says more than I’ve ever shared with a therapist or even with Brigitte.

Wordivore’s cursor blinks. I wait eagerly to see what he’ll type. And then it comes: I’m sorry you let yourself down .

Yeah. I did.

Can I say something? I love that he asks that instead of barreling forward like so many men do, mansplaining and solving before even wiping their feet on the proverbial mat.

Sure. Shoot . I sit back, taking a long pull from my water. I read along as Wordivore types out his thoughts.

We tend to view things as this or that. Option A or B. No middle ground. Most things in life aren’t that cut and dry. We also expect ourselves to change overnight. It sounds like you have a history of bending to please the people who matter to you. And that’s not bad—not until you feel like you’re selling out (preaching to the choir over here, and I know I need to hear this as much as I need to say it).

So, let’s say we both decide we’ve had enough of the back-bending, conceding, disregarding ourselves and our dreams for the sake of the bigger picture. What if we decide we matter enough to pursue a goal or a dream that is a little unpopular (or a lot)? We won’t make those changes in leaps and bounds. Change happens over time—like the seasons. Like a plant growing. Like a child becoming an adult. We don’t change overnight. We change by increments.

So, you decided your dream matters. That’s huge. You listened to yourself. Next time, you might stand your ground a little more. And the time after that, you might even say no to a part of something—find a compromise, or at least let your voice be heard. In time you’ll be the woman who chases her dreams with both hands. But for now, you did a big thing. You listened to yourself and you decided your dreams matter.

I feel the warm prick of tears behind my eyes, and I don’t even swipe them as they swell, forming a watery lens and blurring my view of the screen slightly.

Wordivore sees me.

The one person who has no idea who I am or what I do just affirmed me in a way I don’t think anyone ever has before. And the patient tone of his voice came through even though I’ve never met him in real life.

And I never will.

I can’t, of course.

And tonight, that feels like a bigger loss than the starring role I wish I had taken in the modern Shakespeare adaptation.