Page 5 of Reel Love

“Do you think of marine biologists often?” I ask her.

“I … Well, not exactly, I guess. But when Sharon told us we were going on a marine biology cruise, I sort of pictured my high school biology teacher.”

“And what was he like?”

“Old. Thinning gray hair. Thick glasses. His teeth were a little yellow. He had a lazy eye …” She trails off.

I’m tempted to cross my eyes and buck out my top teeth, just for a second. But I don’t.

“You’re definitely nothing like him,” she adds, as if her recounting didn’t make her point abundantly clear. “I mean, you’re …” She flicks her hand in my direction and then actually fans her face.

“You okay over there?” I ask.

She titters. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Then she blushes a little.

But her embarrassment unfortunately doesn’t serve as a deterrent.

“You don’t happen to be single?” She looks up hopefully into my eyes.

“I’m in a very committed relationship.” I give her my stock answer.

Yes. It’s true. My committed relationship is with my boats, my secret project, and my belief that one day I’ll meet a woman who isn’t intimidated by my use of multisyllabic words of Latin origin—preferably one who doesn’t fan herself at the mere sight of me.

Mustache experiment: a total and utter fail.

I’d consider the Dali, but I don’t think that would fly with the corporate people I have to interface with in order to support myself. Unfortunately, they determine too many aspects of my life. As Mom would say,hashtag adulting, am I right?

Ben’s walking a good distance ahead of me, thankfully. If he overheard this conversation between me and my most recent admirer, he’d be making light of it for weeks to come. The guys at the watersports shack entertain themselves by poking fun at me and one another.

By the time the eight passengers and Ben are all aboard my trawler, I’ve already decided I’m shaving this mustache as soon as I’m home.

My phone pings. I hold my pointer finger up to Ben. He nods.

I pull my cell out of my pocket, tossing the last line into the boat from the cleat on the dock with my free hand.

A text from Mom.

Mom:It’s been three days since we’ve seen you up here and rumor has it you have a mustache. This I need to see.

I smile. My mom is a character. She thinks she knows current slang, but misuses it half the time. She job shares as an art teacher at the island high school. Mom and Dad still live in the only house I’ve ever called home. Yes. I moved out when I went off to college nearly twelve years ago. When I came back, I got my own place, and it serves me. I have somewhere to sleep, shower and eat. My parents’ house is still home to me though, even if I only visit once or twice a week.

Stevens:Who told you I have a mustache?

Mom:Your sister.

Stevens:Taking a tour out. I’ll call you later. But I haven’t seen Mitzi in a week, so I’m curious how she’d know.

Mom doesn’t share how my baby sister knows about my facial hair. She heard it somewhere, I imagine. The volume of insignificant gossip around Marbella rivals a pandemonium of macaws in the morning. And my sister runs the most popular taco place on the south shores. She gets plenty of opportunity to hear the island chatter.

My mom and sister are always in cahoots. Mitzi’s the middle child and only girl in our family. You’d think having a double X chromosome was an actual accomplishment. My parents act likeMitzi performed some feat by coming out female. I guess the sperm who won the race during her inception might get an award. And since that half of Mitzi’s genetic formulation was ambitious or cunning enough to outrace the other gametes … Scientifically speaking, she does actually win. Go, Mitzi.

Ben waves me toward the boat, indicating I should board.

Mom:Pics or it didn’t happen.

I’m not quite sure that’s the way that phrase is meant to be used, but I grin, take a selfie, hit send, and hop ontoCatching Wishes.

I’m pocketing my phone when Mom’s last text flashes on the screen.

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