Page 11 of The Spirit of Love

Somewhere past the unfathomably darling baby bald eagles and the ancient cave hollowed into the northernmost face of the island, I stopped asking myself, Who is this guy?

He’s Sam, and he probably only happens to women like me once in a lifetime. Which is why I’ve decided to say yes to all he offers. He wants to show me what’s beautiful about his world? Who am I to say no? It turns out, there’s a lot to see.

Sam cuts the motor as the Jet Ski draws close to a cluster of rocks. I can almost taste the salt on his skin, but it would be weird to lick him, right?

“You gotta meet my friends the garibaldi by the reef,” he says. “They’re going to love you.”

“Do we just jump in?” I ask. I’ve never swam anywhere so remote and pristine. He was right about letting me in on Catalina’s best secrets.

“You can wear your life jacket if you want,” Sam says, “but the water here is super salty, so you practically float on your own.”

I watch as he unclips his life jacket and drapes it over the handlebars of the Jet Ski.

The muscles I hadn’t wanted to let myself see from the front this morning now gleam in the sun.

His chest contains my dream amount of chest hair—lots—and he wears an oval-shaped stone charm on a chain around his neck. It’s hard to take my eyes off him.

“Do you want to swim, or should we just stare at each other?” he asks with a smile. “Honestly, I could go either way.”

I blush and drop my eyes, but I like the feel of his on me as I unclip my life jacket until I’m wearing just my red bikini.

“Staring contest it is,” Sam says.

“No,” I laugh. “Let’s snorkel. I need to meet your friends the garibaldi so they can give me the dirt on you.”

He shakes his head. “They’ll never tell. You have no idea the dirt I have on them.”

While Sam reaches into the compartment under the seat for the snorkeling gear, I face the water and dive in.

The cold braces me and fills the space around me with buoyant light.

I can’t remember the last time I totally submerged myself in the ocean.

It feels inaugural, like I’m ushering in a new season of life.

I break the surface, grab some air, and wipe my eyes to look up at Sam. He’s watching me. He’s smiling.

“Fenny?”

“Sam?”

“I’m glad you stayed,” he says, and before I can answer, he tosses me a snorkel set. “Keep staying, okay?”

My face mask stretches as I grin. “Okay.”

I feel a pulse of water come toward me when Sam dives in. He meets me underwater, hooking his fingers through mine. His mask magnifies his eyes, which makes meeting his gaze even more intense.

I want to spit out this snorkel and kiss him like he’s my oxygen source. But he’s tugging my hand toward the reef and then the two of us are flitting between schools of luminescent fish.

Reaching the reef is like crossing into another world, a hive of activity—golden garibaldi, turquoise sea anemone, pink and golden coral clusters. I’ve been to Catalina Island half a dozen times, but I’ve never snorkeled here. I never knew all this wonder was hidden away.

When we’ve snorkeled enough, Sam shows me where to climb the rock next to the Jet Ski. He takes out his backpack, unfolds a small blanket, and starts unpacking a picnic he’s made.

“I’ve got turkey on white or…turkey on white.”

“You said you could only make two dishes,” I tease, taking a big bite. It’s just bread and meat and mayonnaise, but it’s unequivocally delicious, as beach sandwiches always are. “You used just the right amount of sun, salt, and snorkel-induced hunger.”

“Your palate is very sophisticated,” Sam says after a bite. “Those are the secret ingredients.”

I’m happily chewing my second sandwich half when Sam pulls out a nylon bag and starts assembling something made of narrow aluminum poles.

“What’s happening now?” I ask.

“We’re fifty percent through with lunch,” he says, “which means it’s time to start thinking about dinner.” He twists one aluminum pole to fit inside another.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Sam holds out what appears to be a two-foot-long dart with a trigger attached to one end. “You’re about to throw your first spear.”

He places it in my hands and then leans behind me to help me position my fingers.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I say, feeling the electric sensation of warm water dripping off his skin and onto mine.

“All you have to do is see the fish, picture me grilling it tonight on our secret beach, and pull this trigger. Easy.”

Sam holds the spear as I slip back into the water and lower my mask again, fitting my snorkel in my mouth.

He hands over the spear carefully. I dip beneath the surface.

I’d feel more confident if I had my viewfinder to frame the shot of all these halibut gliding before me, but my viewfinder is tucked away with my clothes under the seat of Sam’s Jet Ski.

Besides, it probably would not love the salt water, so my snorkel mask will have to do.

See the fish , Sam said. Easy enough; they’re everywhere.

Picture me grilling it tonight on our secret beach .

I try to imagine Sam’s face lit by the glow of a campfire, and a warm swirl passes through me.

What will it be like between us when the sun sets and the stars come out and there’s still just one bed in his cabin?

I can see us laughing. I can see us inching closer to each other.

I can see the moment when I decide I can’t wait anymore to kiss this guy.

I pull the trigger, and the next thing I know, I hear Sam’s whoop above the surface, shouting “Bull’s-eye! That’s my girl!”

Sunset on the secret beach. We showered back at his cabin and changed into warmer clothes. I’m wearing Sam’s Taj Mahal hoodie, which I’m hoping he understands is now mine. We took a second thrilling zip line down the cliff. I’m watching Sam, who builds a fire with his hands.

“So, you’ve found your passion for zip-lining,” he says, his heather gray hoodie unzipped just enough to reveal a tempting triangle of dark chest hair.

“And jet-skiing. And snorkeling and spearfishing and watching me build this fire. Very soon, you’re going to be overwhelmed by my grilled fish.

I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Fenny. I think I get to keep you.”

I run my fingers through the sand, wanting to touch him, wanting to close every distance between our bodies. “It’s tempting.”

“Just tell me what else I have to do. Or…tell me how back home competes with all this.”

“You mean, my life?”

“Yeah,” he says, scooting closer so he’s right next to me, so our knees are touching, our shoulders brushing as we gaze into the fire. “What do you love about Venice? What do you love about your job?”

I think a moment. “What excites me about directing is helping the cast bring out the best version of their characters. It requires really getting to know the actors and what they want, both in and outside their roles. Like, most people think the one kid star on our show is a diva, but once you get to know him, he’s really more like a gangly Buddha.

Looking close enough to see that in Buster shows me how to lean in.

It shows me how to shape episodes around what he’s already great at doing, which maybe no one else has noticed—”

“Fenny.”

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m loving hearing about your work,” he says, his voice dropped to a whisper, “but right now I need you to shhhhh.”

“What?”

“Shhhhh,” he says, leaning closer, putting one hand on my chin, and looking into my eyes. He puts a finger to his lips. Is this the moment? Have I finally waited long enough to meet his lips?

He tilts my chin a few degrees to the left.

“Look,” he whispers.

There’s a hummingbird six inches from my face.

Sam and I both grow completely still to watch the creature sip nectar from the bud of a magenta thistle flower.

We stare at its wings, blurred in phosphorescent motion.

We watch its throat pulse as it swallows greedy gulps.

We watch its eyes focus on each bud before it plants its beak in the stamen.

We listen to the whir of its tiny, ferocious life before our eyes.

It’s one of those things that you know, even as it’s happening in the present tense, that you’ll never forget, no matter how far in the distance your future stretches.

And when Sam squeezes my hand, I get the feeling he’s thinking exactly the same thing.

It feels like eons pass before the hummingbird has had its fill, and when it flies off and disappears into the fading light, the moment is gone too soon.

“Tell me Buster competes with that,” Sam says.