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I turn back to Lucía. “Okay, what do you think?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I disagree with them both. I want to tell the story chronologically. I’m not interested in shock value or rewriting the family’s history so that it sensationalizes what is already dramatic enough.” She speaks slowly and her voice is steady.
“Well then,” I look back at the two writers, “what’s the problem?”
They exchange a look that tells me they have at least one point on which they agree, they think she’s wrong.
Todd looks at me, apparently the designated spokesperson for them now. “Well, this is her first screenplay, so we understand her desire to write chronologically. She doesn’t understand the methodology of screenwriting. You can’t tell a story like this chronologically. The audience doesn’t have the patience a reader does. I think we need to decide whether this story is about policy or about people. Opening with the boy’s death will make the story more compelling.”
Dan groans. “I agree we can’t do this chronologically, but starting with his death gives so much away, too soon. Given the political climate in the country, we’re better off starting with the river crossing.”
Todd slams his fist on the table. “There was no fucking river crossing, Todd.”
“Just because she didn’t write it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen all the time. It’s dramatic and more compelling than the father’s deportation story.”
“If you add that to the beginning, it will ruin the rest of it. That’s not who the family in this story is,” Todd yells, as he pushes his chair back from the table and stands up.
I look at Lucía. She’s staring at her computer screen helplessly. I suppress a groan.
“Guys, she’s your boss. And she wrote the fucking book.” They both start talking again, at the same time. I cut them off.
“The screenplay will have to be green lighted by the studio once it’s completed. If the opening doesn’t work, you can fix it in re-writes.”
The gratitude in Lucía’s eyes makes it hard for me to hold eye contact. But I do. “I’m going back up to my office. I don’t want to be dragged down here to resolve disagreements. You need to manage your team.” I say firmly.
You can hear a pin drop as I leave. I want to look over my shoulder, but I don’t. I’m confident she’s capable of getting people to do what she wants. She’ll have to figure this out on her own. I witnessed her controlled, peaceful and powerful expression as she went through her yoga poses this morning. I know she’s got the strength in her to get them to follow her lead.
When I look back, the scene is less than inspiring. They’re all staring at the computer screens, not looking at each other. At least they’re not yelling. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
Before leaving the office later that evening, I stop by the second floor. Lucía is sitting there by herself. Her back is to me, and she’s pulled her hair up into a huge mess of a knot on top of her head. She has her headphones on and she’s singing “The Greatest” by Sia at the top of her lungs. Her singing voice is terrible. But she’s got the emotion right. I can hear her conviction and determination in her voice.
If I was a wagering man, this film’s success is a bet I’d gladly take. Everyone at the studio is treating me like it’s an early mid-life crisis or vanity project. I don’t give a fuck. I know what I’m doing and I think Lucía Vega is going to be my lucky charm. She’s beautiful, has a sexy voice, and, most importantly, has a real passion for this project. She’s going to be fantastic when we start doing the press for this.
I’m tempted to interrupt her. I want to hear about her day and what happened after I left.
And because I want to, I won’t. I let myself look at her one more time, watch the motion of her head as she sways with the music. The curve of her neck, the glints of light in her hair mesmerize me for a minute . . . and then I force myself to walk away.
9
Lucía
“You ready?” Reece asks as he drops down onto the yoga mat I laid out for him.
No, I’m not fucking ready. I don’t want to do any of this. I’m both tired and anxious. Yesterday with Dan and Todd was a disaster. I need today to be better. And I don’t feel like giving yoga lessons when what I need is a real session to make today bearable. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I smile pleasantly at him and say, “Sure thing.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Liar.” He’s in a good mood. Even though I’m irritated, his enthusiasm is contagious.
I let myself take a long look at him. From the tips of his toes, to his long, thick, muscled legs and thighs. He’s wearing swimming trunks, and a white T-shirt that exposes his tattoo.
“How long have you had that?” I ask him, breaking the quiet.
“Only a year.” He looks down at it and then smiles rakishly at me. “You like it?”.
I scoff. “It’s fine. Just wondering how I didn’t notice it before.”
“And when would you have seen it?” he asks and I try to look casual.
“I’ve seen pictures of you. From when you used to swim. That’s all. You didn’t have it then.”
