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“You’re undocumented?” I ask dropping my voice to a whisper. I glance around us, even though I know our table’s isolated and private.
She looks nervous and says, “Yes. Should I have told you? I have a work permit. Through DACA, I swear it’s legal for me to work for—”
I cut her off. “Lucía, you don’t have to explain yourself. Legal wouldn’t have approved this deal if there were any issues in that regard. That’s the last thing I’m concerned with.”
She visibly relaxes and seems to regain her composure. But I’m still trying to process what that means as she continues to talk. “There was a time, yes. Now, you have to have documents, unexpired ones, from your country of origin to get one. My parents left Mexico when I was two years old. I haven’t been back since. My Mexican documents, my passport, my identification cards, the things I would need to get a driver’s license are gone. All I have is my DACA work permit. I’d have to go back to Mexico to get the documents I need and if I do that, I wouldn’t be allowed to return.”
I’m stunned, not just by what she’s telling me, but by her poise. She lives a life I can’t imagine. Driving, traveling and working are all things I don’t think about as privileges. I take so much for granted that she has to negotiate every single day. Yet here she sits, wanting to contribute. To serve a country that renders her invisible and believes she should stay that way.
I grab her hand across the table. It’s completely impromptu, but as soon as her hand is in mine, I feel that spark. The connection we make whenever we touch that tells me her hand was meant to be held by mine. She links our fingers and I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb.
“Lucía Vega is just a pen name.” She pre-empts my next question by adding “L. Vega is an LLC I created so I could do business and not have to sign legal documents with my real name.” She guessed my next question. “It’s Ana Maria. But, I’m living as Lucía now, and that’s how I want you to think of me.” Her tone is testy and it makes me smile.
“Okay, Lucía Vega, Let’s make this movie,” I say and I bring her hand, that delicate, beautiful, powerful hand to my mouth and press a kiss to the back of it. “And let’s be friends.” I want so much more from her, but right now, it’s all I know I can honestly take.
“Fuck, yeah.”
I laugh out loud and say, “Fuck, yeah, Fifty-five.”
“Don’t call me that,” she says with a frown and I just laugh again.
13
Lucía
This is our fourth week of writing. It’s been such an incredible experience. And since I told Reece that I was undocumented, the sky hasn’t fallen in. Ana Maria’s fearful existence hasn’t come back to claim Lucía’s. He’s still spending time with me. Coming to yoga practice and making a real effort and giving me a lot of guidance as we reach the half-way point in our writing. Sometimes it even feels like he’s flirting with me.
“Ready to switch places?” I say as we wrap up our yoga lesson. I’ve put off the swimming lessons every time he’s brought them up. But, I promised that we could start today, after a quick session of yoga.
I glance at him, and his tanned, muscled forearms flex as he reaches down to grab the hem of his shirt. “Hell yeah, it’s about time.” And then he proceeds to pull his T-shirt off. My eyes are glued his perfect torso, all that smooth, tanned skin making the blood rush through my ears so loudly, it drowns out the crash of the waves behind us. His eyes are glued to the pool, he looks eager to get in and only spares me a glance when he asks, rather brusquely, “Do you have a suit? You should probably go and get changed.”
“We’re getting into the water? Today?” I croak as my fear quickly overtakes the reaction I was having to watching him strip.
“It?
??s a swimming lesson, Lucía. Typically, you need to be in a body of water to swim. Air doesn’t have quite the same viscosity,” he responds sarcastically.
I want to run and hide. “I didn’t realize we’d be getting in the water today.” I’m stalling, but I’m not ready for this.
“So, go. I’ll wait.” He has stooped to roll up his mat and looks relaxed, but his tone is tense. I’m afraid I’ve annoyed him.
“I could just do it in my clothes,” I say quickly, and start rolling up my mat, too.
“You’d have to at least take off your T-shirt.” My head whips in his direction and even though he’s not looking at me, it’s like he can feel the protest forming on my lips. “Clothing adds weight and makes moving cumbersome. It’s not ideal. But since you’re wearing shorts you should be fine if you just take off your top. I assume you’re wearing one of those sports bra things, right?” He stuffs his mat into the bag that was lying on the deck chair next to us and stands up fully. He pulls his shorts off and reveals one of those itsy-bitsy speedos that I’d seen him wear in competition.
Unlike then, he’s got a healthy sprinkling of dark, wispy hairs all over his chest that thins into a silky and tantalizing trail before disappearing into the top of his very high-cut bottoms. Beside the tattoo, nothing else has changed—his body looks like he swims every day. His swim shorts leave very little to the imagination.
“Unfair, Lucía,” he mumbles, his voice low and silky.
My eyes shoot to his. He’s watching me watch him and he looks . . . hungry.
“What?” I ask a little dazed, mesmerized by the way his eyes are roaming my face.
“I’m practically naked and I’m still waiting for you to take your top off,” he says as he starts to walk toward the pool, not giving me a chance to respond. Which is fine; Witty comebacks aren’t my forte. And even if they were, he didn’t sound like he was being funny.
I take a deep breath and whip my T-shirt off. I try to act casual, but it’s the very first time in my life that I’ve taken off an article of clothing in front of a man. I can’t believe I’m having this experience with a man who won’t ever know or appreciate what a milestone this is for me. I walk toward the edge of the pool and stand beside him. He’s staring into the water and I don’t speak because he looks lost in thought. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“We’re going to start with breathing today,” he says, cutting into my thoughts. And then he dives head first into the water. His entry, graceful and fast, barely makes a ripple. He swims to the other end of the pool before he resurfaces and then he flips around and swims at a leisurely pace back to the edge where I’m standing.
