Page 24 of Reel Love

She jolts backward a step.

So, I do the next best thing and start singing Rag'n'Bone Man’s alternative rock song,Human, as if screaming “Just human!” was somehow the crescendo to an anthem about humanity I’ve decided I need to belt out in the early morning hours, here, alone, on this dock, in my very mediocre singing voice.

Alana will never board this water taxi. I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t. I’m supposed to be stable, reliable. The man she can trust with her life and her privacy. I don’t know if I can even recommend myself at this point.

I close out the line from the song, figuring my humiliation is already at a record low. I won’t be able to come back from this, and the singing is only making things worse, like bleach on a red stain that turns the whole garment pink.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “Hello. And welcome … and … Good morning. Right. Yes. Hi. I’m Stevens. And, well, so … you’re Ms. Vargas, I take it?”

She nods, eyeing me like I’m a rabid racoon or one of the island’s rogue monkeys perched on her garbage cans. Rightfully so. Unhinged isn’t even an apt enough word to describe how I’m acting.

“Can we just …?” I run my hand through my hair. “Forget I reacted like that? I’m a certified dive instructor, not actually certifiable. I spend more time on or under the ocean than on land whenever given the choice. I could drive this boat in my sleep. And I don’t spill secrets—ever. If someone tells me something, I’m as sealed and unreachable as a chest fallen from the Titanic and lost to the depths. Well, unless someone finds that chest and digs it up. But let’s imagine the other chest—the one no one finds, ever. That’s me. I’m that chest. So. Yeah. Welcome aboard!”

I literally slap a hand over my face. When I dare to peek at Alana, or Ms. Vargas as she wants to be called, she’s smiling just a little.

“I need to get going, so …” She gestures to the spot where I’m blocking the point of entry to the boat.

“Right. Right. Of course. Hop on.”

I extend my hand.AND SHE TAKES IT. Alana Graves is holding my hand. My hand. Her hand. We’re touching and I’m instantly reduced to teen girl status at a Taylor Swift concert, trying not to faint or lose my ever-living mind because Alana Graves is touchingme.

I tuck my lips in to keep from saying something ridiculous like,I’ve always wanted to hold your hand. I haven’t, officially. I mean, the idea never occurred to me, or I would have very much wanted to hold her dainty, soft, perfect hand. But I don’t, of course, say that. Thankfully.

She releases our connection and walks to the back of the boat like she’s done this a hundred times, and I guess she has. Joel isfriendswith her. They shuttle across the channel together regularly. He talks about the girl he has a crush on withher. I, on the other hand, can barely breathe or focus. And I need to, since, you know, I’m the captain at the moment.

“Okay. I’ll just …” I thumb toward the captain’s chair and walk toward the helm. With my back to Alana and my hands on the steering wheel, I close my eyes and imagine I’m forty feet under water, tankless and floating. Fish are swimming around me. The water muffles all the noise of what’s above. I’m still. Suspended. Weightless. I take one deep breath, let it out, check my surroundings, and turn the key.

We ride in total silence, me glancing at Alana occasionally. Okay, more than occasionally. She often closes her eyes, seeming to enjoy the way the wind whips her hair all over and the slightspray of mist coming up from the water as it spritzes her skin. Once in a while, our eyes catch, but Alana always glances away with this effortlessly elegant movement. She’s not abrupt or annoyed. It’s obvious from the simple turn of her head what our positions are here. She’s a world-famous actress. I’m a guy who’s driving a boat.

We’ve probably got about fifteen minutes left before we reach Ventura Harbor. I’m in the zone, observing the water all around us, enjoying the feel of the boat under my control. I haven’t even glanced at Alana in at least five minutes. She could have fallen overboard and I wouldn’t know.

I check. Just to be sure.

And she’s doing the most surprising thing.

She’s walking toward me and taking a seat in the passenger chair right next to me.

“So,” she says, nonchalantly. “You and Joel are friends?”

“We both grew up on Marbella. I’ve known him forever. I guess you could say we’re friends, even though I’m a bit older than him so we had different friends growing up.”

Maybe it’s the effect of the water on me. I just got a full, coherent sentence out—more than one, actually. I fix my eyes on the horizon to make sure I don’t break my streak and start acting like a crazed fan again. Maybe if I don’t look at her beautiful windblown hair, her bright gray-blue eyes, the perfect line of her jaw or those rosy lips, I’ll be safe.

“Joel’s a good guy,” she adds.

“He’s a lot of fun. And sincere. Yeah. He’s a good guy.”

I should hang out with him more, maybe. Maybe not. I’ve already got the guys at watersports when I need some human connection. And I have my family. I sort of thrive on time alone. People tend to drain me if I’m around them too often or in large doses. I prefer smaller, intimate gatherings over large crowds. I’m a classic introvert, but definitely not averse to being with people—in moderation.

“Joelsaid he’d trust you with his life.” Alana looks toward the horizon as she speaks.

I study her exquisite profile. She’s mussed from the wind and water, but that only amplifies her attractiveness. She’s like a red crowntail betta among all the other fish. Some creatures are simply more stunning by nature. Captivating. Rare. Elevated above the rest of creation.

“So, you’re a marine biologist?”

“Yeah. Yes. That’s my line of work.”

She smiles, obviously picking up on the nerves that haven’t fully settled in her presence.

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