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“Leave, Reece. Please,” she says through gritted teeth.
“We need to talk.”
All of a sudden the phone that was in her hand is flying in my direction, it lands at my feet, and the screen shatters.
“Whoa,” I say just as she grabs a basket of potpourri that’s sitting on the table in her foyer and hurls it in my direction. Her aim is way off and it lands three feet to my left. But I get her point and she’s running around her foyer, looking around for other things to throw as I rush past her and out the front door that’s now hanging open.
“Okay, Lucía, I’m out, but I’m not leaving. We need to talk.”
She leans out towards me. Her eyes are wild; her hair is flying.
“Fuck talking. Fuck you. I don’t care if you don’t leave. Stand there all night for all I care.” And then she slams the door so hard that the windows that frame it shudder.
Shit.
Just as I raise my fist to strike the door, the entire house falls into darkness. Every single light is extinguished. And for a beat, it is both dark and completely silent. A minute later, I hear sobs coming from the back of the house. I know if I follow the sound to its source I’ll find Lucía on her back deck. Her crying is mournful and unrestrained. She is crying, talking, screaming all at once. My ears burn with the heat of it. And I know I need to leave her to this. I wish I knew someone I could call to come be with her. She shouldn’t be alone. That I can’t be the one to comfort her makes me feel helpless.
I stand there until the violence of her sobs subside. And then, I leave to give her some privacy. I owe her at least that. But I’ll be back.
19
Lucía
I’m back in Los Feliz. I’m having dinner with Jessica and my mother. Jess is leaving for a date soon, so my mother and I will be alone for most of the evening. I called her when I got back home and finally told her about the screenplay. She was actually excited. So, I extended the proverbial olive branch and invited her to join us tonight. And I was shocked when she agreed. I haven’t seen her in almost two months and it’s her first time visiting me here. So, I’m nervous. I’m outside manning the grill and they’re inside getting the wine we’ve had chilling most of the afternoon.
She and Jess have hit it off, color me surprised, but I’m glad.
It’s been a week since Reece dropped his
bomb on me. I spent the first two days crying, praying for relief from the pain. Then, I got back to work and lost myself in it by working almost around the clock. I haven’t allowed myself the time to process what he told me. He’s called, emailed, texted. He even came back to my house the next day. I couldn’t find the courage to face him. I had no idea what to say. And this week, I’ve felt like I was trapped in a terrible purgatory.
Dan and Todd both hate me for being so demanding. But, I don’t feel bad. This presentation is important. It will decide the fate of this project and I haven’t left anything to chance. I also know that Reece will be there and I’ll have no choice but to face him. It’s just another layer of anxiety that has made this week more stressful.
When we finished ahead of schedule, we decided that we earned a break after the way we’d been working as of late. So, I came down to LA to try and relax. While I’ve been here, I’ve been trying to lose myself in the book I’m writing for my publisher. It’s a young adult fiction novel about a Syrian girl’s coming of age while living in a refugee camp in Greece. It’s a story I’m connecting with, so it’s been nice to have time to really work on it.
Yesterday, I spent the day at Artemis’ headquarters. I met with some of the other screenwriters and spent some time in their legendary museum. I managed to avoid Reece, but being in the building conjured so many feelings. Knowing I was sharing space with him made me crave him. But in trying to avoid seeing him, I only left the writer’s pit once the entire day.
At lunch, I’d gone to visit the on-site museum that takes up the entire tenth floor of the building. I wandered through the displays, looking at costumes, props and other collectibles from Artemis’ nearly seventy-year history. I’d found myself in the section dedicated to the Carras family history. It’s a fascinating story, told in pictures, of Reece’s grandfather’s immigration from Greece as a young man and how he headed West to start making movies. And from those humble beginnings, he started building what would become one of the largest media empires in the world. What the family accomplished in just one generation, is the epitome of the American Dream. And that’s all I want for myself, a chance to fulfill my potential.
The last photos in the collection were of Reece and his parents. His mother is a striking woman. Her dark hair and icy blue eyes give her a regal bearing. Even in the picture I find her intimidating. And Reece looks just like his father. Strong, bold features. Heavy brows, full lips, tall, broad and so serious. He was a teenager in that picture. Not older than sixteen. The same age my brother was when he was arrested and sent to jail.
My heart ached. What a cruel twist of fate. But is Reece to blame? Does it matter if he’s not? I know him. He is a good man. But is it a betrayal of my brother to feel this way?
These are the thoughts that have weighed me down all week and it’s still not clear to me what I should do.
I’m pulled back to the present by the spitting fire of the grill as a drop of oil falls from the cooking shrimp. I look at my backyard and take a deep, fortifying breath. The air here is not as clear as it is in Malibu, but it’s still so gorgeous. My neighbors to the right have this amazing lemon tree. The branches dangle over our fence when it’s bearing fruit and lemons, ripe and juicy, fall into our yard every day. We go outside each morning to collect them. The cool October air carries with it the sweet citrusy smell of the Frangipani tree we planted from a cutting our neighbor gave us. It’s a paradise back here.
I love being in Malibu, but Los Feliz, is my home. I feel anchored here. Sure of myself and safe. Being home the last few days has made the fracas of this week tolerable.
Jessica and my mother come outside with two big bottles of wine and three huge wine glasses. They are talking animatedly and I smile to see them getting along so well.
My mother is only ten years older than Jessica, but she looks old enough to be her mother. I feel a flash of guilt that she’s had to work so hard.
My mother wasn’t thrilled when I told her I was going to publish a book. She couldn’t believe I was “wasting” my income that way. She said, “We didn’t come here so you could follow your passions, mija. We came here so that you could find a profession. So that you could build a secure life. What does writing do?” I remember that day like it was yesterday. Even when I got my book deal and was able to give her more money, she’d asked, “Now that you’ve had your fun, are you going to focus on your real job?”
“It’s so nice to have you back. It hasn’t been the same without you. I’d started eating inside more,” Jessica says flashing me a quick smile as she lays everything out on the dining table we have outside.
“It feels so good to be home,” I say over my shoulder pulling the shrimp and vegetables off the grill, and piling them on the plate I’d planned to serve them on.
