Page 8 of Thicker Than Water

His left eyebrow quirks up and he smiles as if surprised. A dimple I didn’t noticed before appears in his right cheek. “Forgive the mispronunciation, Lucía.” He says my name correctly this time. He runs his fingers through his closely cropped dark hair and sighs. My eyes are drawn to his gorgeous mouth; fascinated at the way it purses on his exhale.

“Tell me why you said no,” he asks, his voice still demanding, but gentler this time.

My heart thuds against my chest so hard that I’m sure he can hear it. I glance down at my hands and try to gather my thoughts.

This man, who until yesterday, I’d only seen on television or in magazines is standing on my doorstep because he wants to make my book into a movie. It’s surreal and intimidating. My reason for saying no now feels very flimsy. I force myself to look at him and answer his question.

His handsome face is impassive, but his eyes are anything but. The urgency in them only heightens my anxiety. I clear my throat. “I thought Sol told you. I can’t move to Malibu for an undetermined amount of time. I pay rent here.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say and? I sigh.

“I can’t leave my roommate high and dry. It doesn’t matter how much you pay me, I can’t afford to pay rent here and at some place in Malibu. I need to work a commutable distance from where I live.” I cross my arms, stick out my chin as I admit, “I don’t drive.”

He doesn’t hesitate when he responds. “‘That clause was not a random whim. Our Malibu office is where our screenwriting team always collaborates. Most of them live in Malibu or close by and it’s just always been an easy central place. The studio can provide your accommodation while you’re there.”

“You’d house me?” I say hesitantly. I didn’t expect that.

“Yes, if that’s what it takes.”

Shit. I don’t want to move to Malibu. It’s so far away from what I’ve come to think of as my home. I’ve never lived anywhere but this city. I feel safe here. Although, at times, my inability to leave makes me feel like a captive. A change of scenery might not be a bad thing. “I won’t work weekends; I’ll want to come home every Friday night.”

His eyes roll and he sighs. But he doesn’t miss a beat before responding. “You won’t be a prisoner. You can leave whenever you want. But you’ll need to build a writing schedule with your team and stick to it.” I don’t have any other excuses at this point and as if he knows it, he laughs. The rich, deep, triumphant sound washes over me, mingling with my anxiety, creating a feeling of trepidation that I can’t tamp down.

I feel cornered. I don’t know why, because what I want the most is finally within reach. I’m letting my fear keep me from grabbing a hold of it. Nothing in my life has ever been this easy. It’s all too good to be true. And that makes me very nervous.

I have one more thing to add. I take a deep breath and let it out.

“Sol’s warned me about how some of these things work. I’m not interested in sleeping with you, so if all of this is a ploy to make that happen, you’re wasting your time.”

He mumbles

something under his breath and stands up straight and he narrows his eyes at me in anger. “You’re the third person who’s suggested that I’m doing this to sleep with you.” His eyes flick over me again. “Yes, Ms. Vega, you’re very beautiful.” I’m grateful for the setting sun as I feel my entire body flush. “But I don’t need to spend millions of dollars to get a beautiful woman to sleep with me.” His dark, lushly lashed eyes rake over me. He grins sardonically and says, “Honestly, you’re not my type.” His frank eyes don’t leave mine and I can feel my chin jut out as I try to pretend that his words didn’t feel like a slap to my face. “No offense,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Glad it’s mutual,” I scoff.

He runs a hand over his face. “Look, I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for. Stop making excuses. Come to Malibu. Write the screenplay. Let’s see if we can get past that.” He puts his sunglasses on. “You’ve made a lot of demands. I’ve met them all. It’s time for you to deliver.” He turns to walk down the steps. I watch his long, denim clad legs eating up my pavement. Just as he reaches his car—which looks like something from the future, all black and smoky gray—he looks over his shoulder at me. I haven’t moved. I’m not sure that I can. His sunglasses are shielding his eyes, but I can still feel them on me and I wish he would just leave.

“Let me know by tomorrow at noon,” he calls. Then he gives me a two-finger salute and pulls away.

I stand there for a few minutes feeling like such a fool. Of course I’m not his type. I don’t know what possessed me to say that. I step back inside and sit down. My taco is soggy and cold, and my margarita is no longer frozen.

I can’t waste food, so I force myself to eat everything and that just sours my mood even further. I decide The Walking Dead can wait and get ready for bed.

As I start to drift into what will prove to be a fitful sleep, I tell myself that I’m going to sleep on it. But my heart knows that I’ve already made a decision. I can’t turn this down because I don’t want to spend a couple of months in Malibu. This is a once in a lifetime chance, and I know it. I’ll call him in the morning and get the ball rolling. I pray I don’t regret it.

5

Lucía

Change has been my only constant. I’ve moved more times than I can count. Before I came to live with Jessica, I moved at least once a year So, I don’t know why, as Sol and I sit in the back of a chauffeured SUV, cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster straight to hell.

I want to tell our driver to turn around and take me back to the safety of my house. But, it’s too late. We’ve all signed the contract, they’ve already paid me my twenty-five percent advance. I made my choice and there’s no turning back. Sol’s got his headphones on and his eyes are closed. I try to breathe and relax as we speed down the 101 towards Malibu.

Every day this week, I’ve dreamed of Julian and the last time I saw him. I was eight. He was sixteen. He was leaving for school and told me that he had to do something for a friend after school and that he’d be home late.

My dream would then jump to later that evening; me coming in from playing to find my parents in a panic.

My father’s cousin was on the police force and he called to let us know that Julian had been arrested. They were throwing things in bags and screaming at each other in Spanish. When I asked them what was going on, my mother shouted that Immigration was going to deport us. She dissolved into tears. When I turned to my father to ask him where Julian was, he slapped me across the face and told me to go to my room and pack. He’d never hit me before, and a combination of fear and shock propelled me to my room where I obeyed his order. We hid in a neighbor’s garage that night, my mother’s wails keeping us up all night.

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