Page 9 of Reel Love

Maybe my opponent is a woman. Do men use that emoji? Idon’t know. The only texting I do with men has to do with filming and business meetings and not one of them uses emojis at all. Not even the thumbs up, which seems business appropriate.

I draw my tiles, ready to end this tempting interchange between me and my favorite opponent. Then I spot the word I can play from the tiles in my hand, and I smile. I lay down FEED-ARD around the Y in FOUDROYANT to make FEEDYARD.

Sixteen points!I type, gloating unabashedly.

Why do I sense you doing a victory dance right now?

I’m doing no such thing.

I’m not even finished typing when Wordivore sets an S at the end of my word, gaining all my points plus one, and earning a nine point lead over me.

The game continues for another thirty minutes in a similar trend. Every time I think I’ve gotten ahead, Wordivore bests me. Our banter continues too, though it’s more about the game than anything dangerously personal.

It’s past what should have been my scheduled dinner hour by the time we end. I run out of tiles and the game goes to Wordivore.

Well played, I say.

You too. Really.

You’re a gracious winner, I taunt.

I’d say you were a gracious loser, but I get the feeling you’re dying a little inside.

I’ll survive. If you lived through learning to spell in French, I’ll live through this defeat. I’ll live to fight another day.

That’s a relief.

I smile.Goodnight, Wordivore.

Bonne nuit, SaturdayIslandGirl.

I don’t know why I didn’t realize until just this moment that my gamer tag gives away my gender. Well, I know what I’m asking Wordivore the next time we play. It’s only fair that we both know one another’s gender. A playing field should be level, even thoughmost are not.

I’m heating up my baked chicken breast with quinoa and wilted spinach when there’s a knock at the door. I’m not supposed to eat this late, but I lost track of time playing our game. The knock sounds again. My brain sorts through the options of who it could be. My front gate has a code, so whoever it is got as far as my porch without buzzing me. That means it’s a friend, employee or family member—narrowing it down to a handful of possibilities.

Oh! Wait. Sunday evening. It’s my Trader Joe’s groceries. And, no. We don’t have Trader Joe’s on the island. I have a private delivery scheduled once a week from the mainland. The same guy, Joel, who pilots my water taxi when I need to go in to Hollywood does a weekly delivery. He’s signed an NDA and he does random errands for me—for a sizeable fee. It’s worth it. If I have to sequester myself like a hermit simply to enjoy a modicum of peace, at least I can use my wealth to pay people to shuttle whatever my heart desires to my secret hideaway.

I check the feed from the front security camera on my cell while I walk to the front door. I learned the habit of double-checking the hard way. More than once in my Hollywood condo, I thought someone I knew was at the front entrance, only to find a bevy of paparazzi silently awaiting my appearance. It’s amazing how utterly still they can be—like lions awaiting the movement of a gazelle. At the click of the lock, the silence turned to a frenzied chaos and my pursuers pounced with a ferocious hunger for one image, one word, one facial expression to feed their endless craving.

My face breaks into a wide grin when I see it’s actually not Joel with my Trader Joe’s delivery. I open the door for one of my closest friends on the island—actually, she’s one of my closest friends on earth.

Phyllis.

I don’t even get a greeting out before Phyllis is pushing past me, a plate covered in Saran in hand. I know what’s under the plastic wrap and I trail behind, my mouth nearly watering.

“Lemon bars?”

“Of course, dear. I have to make sure you don’t wither away on wilted greens and air or whatever they have you eating these days.”

“You know how it goes.” I follow Phyllis into my chef’s kitchen and watch her move through the room as if this were her own house. “Did you drive yourself up here?”

“You don’t see my chauffeur anywhere around here, do you?”

I laugh. Phyllis should not be driving. Even a golf cart. The woman is like the female version of Mister Magoo. But I know better than to argue with her. No one tells her what to do.

Phyllis did a stint in Hollywood years ago. Married a director. But she got out of the business in her thirties. She grew up on Marbella and came back here permanently after her acting career and marriage came to an end. She doesn’t talk about what happened. I get the feeling she’s worked through most of it and doesn’t want to dig up skeletons.

Phyllis sets the plate on my imported marble countertop and grabs down two dessert plates, chattering away the whole time.

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