Page 2 of Reel Love

I smile to myself. Half the time Brigitte only makes sense to herself. She’s an excellent translator, though. So, eventually she’ll clue me in as to what her eccentric and quirky thoughts mean.

Brigitte:The pool guy. He tests the water, as pool guys do. If there’s too much acid, he has to add alkaline or alka seltzer or alcohol. Something like that ...

There’s a pause. Brigitte knows what the pool guy adds to the water. She’s just having fun with me, trying to make me smile since I just dealt with my mother.

Brigitte:I’m your alkaline. Your mom, beg my pardon, but you know I’m right, she’s acid.

No one—not one soul on this planet or in this solar system—even allows themselves to eventhinkthe thought that my mother is “acid.” And yet, here goes Brigitte. She’d probably say it straight to Mother’s face. She calls my mother by her first name, as if they grew up together, even though my mother is nearly old enough to be Brigitte’s grandmother.

I can hear it now. Brigitte would affect a cheery, over-the-top voice. “Angelique, you are acid.” Then she’d swat her hand in my mom’s direction as if they were sharing some private joke.

And Mother would laugh and tell Brigitte she’s adorable or sweet and such a gift to our family. It’s my assistant’s superpower. She can say the most offensive or overly direct thing to anyone, and they laugh and smile like she just buttered their toast. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I work in Hollywood, so I’ve seen just about everything there is to be seen.

Alana:I won’t bug you. Just wanted to check in.

Brigitte:Awww. You missed me. Well, I miss you too. Cheek kisses and all that other Hollywood mumbo jumbo. Now go eat that rabbit food of yours. Or is it actually a rabbit you’re eating? If it is, don’t. Eat the veggies. All the veggies. Throw a few in for me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ve got a hot date.

Alana:You can’t leave me with your last words being, hot date, and think I’m going to stop texting you.

Brigitte:Okay. Okay. It’s a blind date. My friend, Sarah, set me up with her boyfriend’s friend. He’s supposed to be cute and employed, so winner winner chicken dinner, he rings both bells..

I chuckle. This guy doesn’t know what he’s in for.

Alana:Okay. I’ve got plans anyway. Have a great date.

Brigitte:If by plans you mean those word games … you do you, boo.

Alana:I do mean the word games. They calm me.

Brigitte:Well, you deserve all the calm. Gotta run. I was putting on a fake eyelash while I was texting you and it fell onto my cheek and the glue stuck it there. I look like I’m being attacked by a very wooly species of exotic caterpillar or I’ve got a hairy mole like no other … and that’s not the look I’m going for here.

I laugh out loud and it echoes through the living room.

Alana:Go have fun. Be safe.

Brigitte:Okaaaayy, Mom. You be safe too. Don’t pop a blood vessel trying to wrack your brain for those fourteen letter words. I’ll text you tomorrow. You can fill me in on the script decision and I’ll update you on your schedule. It will be fun times.

Alana:(Peace sign fingers emoji)

Brigitte:(Kissy face emoji)

I set my phone down on the coffee table, still smiling.

It’s time to see if Wordivore is online. I started playing matches against Wordivore about six months or so ago. One day, he—or she—posted in the game chat,You’re going down this round. I chuckled and responded,Not likely. And the banter continued as if we were old friends or siblings. Who knew how much joy trash talking with a total stranger would bring me. Since then, we’ve baited one another, and kept the game far more interesting than playing some random competitor.

It’s odd that I know nothing about Wordivore—not their gender, what they look like, where they live, what they do when they aren’t challenging me to an online game. The anonymity of it all is so freeing. They don’t know me either. I’m just anotherplayer, an equal, a word-geek who escapes into online gaming when real life feels too weighty to face.

A minute passes with no challenge and I’m about to place a first move for Wordivore to find later and then enter the public arena to look for an opening to another match when my dashboard pings with a notification.

Wordivore has challenged you to a match. Do you accept the challenge?

I hit the “accept” button and a square playing board appears on my screen with my letters lined up at the bottom.

Today is my lucky day. Wordivore types before we even get started laying one word onto the board.

I don’t believe in luck. I answer with a revelation more personal than I’ve ever shared here.

It’s true. I don’t believe in luck. I was raised to believe we control our own destinies. It’s up to me to choose well, work harder than my male counterparts, befriend other women in the industry, but not to the point of trusting them. I’m to climb the ladder, focus on the end game, and eliminate distractions.

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