Thicker Than Water

by Dylan Allen

  “Reece. Thank you. I know I’m not the easiest person in the world. But I promise, I’ll work hard—”

  “And that’s all I ask, Luc.” His voice is gentle as he cuts me off and I’m actually relieved. I feel like I was about to reveal more of myself than I’m really ready to.

  Suddenly he snaps his fingers and points at me. “You need to learn how to swim,” he says excitedly.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I can teach you how to swim. Kill two birds with one stone. You can learn how to swim and it’s a great trust building exercise,” he says with a shrug.

  I can’t suppress the shocked bark of laughter. “Oh, no. I don’t want to learn how to swim. I’ve gone twenty-three years without knowing how and I don’t want to learn now.”

  Reece laughs, too. “Are you serious? I saw you looking at the water. You wanted to get in. Don’t let your fear stop you.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You absolutely are. Why else would you say no?”

  “Aren’t we going to be busy? When will we even have time?”

  “We’ll do it in the mornings. You only need thirty minutes a session. Come on. When will you ever get the chance to take lessons from an Olympic swimming champion?”

  I regard him. He looks sincere, despite the teasing note in his voice. He’s right. I do want to get into the water. I hate that I don’t know how to swim. I’ve always wanted to learn and haven’t ever had the chance. Spending time with him might be awkward at first, but I’m sure I’ll get over this silly crush. And it would be a good way to get to know each other. “Okay. That’s fine, but let me return the favor and give you some yoga lessons.”

  He leans back and groans.

  “I’m too big for yoga. Can’t you teach me to crochet or bake banana muffins? Something useful?” he says with a pained look on his face.

  “I can’t bake or crochet. And yoga is useful. It centers me and helps me get ready for each day.” I grin up at him as I pat my stomach. “It’s the reason I have such incredible core strength.”

  He stills and I worry that I’ve said something wrong. “What’s wrong? I mean, if you really don’t want to learn yoga, we can skip it.”

  He shakes his head, a slow smile spreading on his face, revealing that dimple again. “No, it’s not that. You smiled at me. Sincerely and with all your teeth. That’s a first. So, if yoga makes you feel like that, then hell, you can teach me yoga. We can even start with the yoga. Four weeks of yoga, four weeks of swimming.”

  “Okay . . .” I’m so surprised by his words that I can’t think of anything to say in return.

  He stands up, gathering his phone and keys and starts toward the front door. “Take the golf cart behind the house. The keys are in the ignition. Ride up the red brick path until you get to the third building with the huge parking lot on the side. You can’t miss it. Your team’s meeting room is on the second floor. They’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask, sad that he’s leaving just as the conversation was getting good.

  “To work. Where you should be going, too. I’ve got to change before I head in.” He gestures to his casual clothes with his hands. “I’ll see you later, Luc. Remember: you’re the leader.” And with that he turns around and walks out the door.

  I watch him go and try to collect my chaotic thoughts. It’s only eight in the morning and it already feels like I’ve had a full day. Reece surprised, confused and excited me this morning. And if it’s any indication of what the next few months will be like, I’m going to need to keep my wits about me. I look down at myself and head back to my bedroom to change. This is the first day of the rest of my life, and I want my team to know I’m serious and ready to work. I’ll save my cut offs for tomorrow.

  8

  Reece

  I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’ve only had three face-to-face conversations with Lucía and the lines are already blurring. I’m seeing her less as my screenwriter and more as Lucía Vega, the sexiest, smartest, most driven, and most sincere woman I’ve ever met.

  I don’t know why I offered to teach her how to swim. It means I’ll have my hands on her . . . while she’s wearing a bathing suit. I’ll need to beat one out every morning before I go meet her just to get through the lessons.

  I can’t believe she doesn’t know how to swim. You can’t live in California and not. Our lifestyle requires you be comfortable being in the water: days at the beach, out on the boat, pool parties. So, I really am doing her a favor.

  I meant it when I said I wanted us to break the ice. We can talk about the screenplay and discuss policy. I can make sure the screenplay is on track. I didn’t plan on being so attracted to Lucía. But it’s just a physical attraction. I’m not an animal. I can handle this. So swimming, yoga and talking. It should all go well.

  I just wrapped up a status meeting on one of our productions. We’re still under budget, but our lead has been getting some bad press for a DUI he just picked up. I don’t understand these actors. It makes me not want to take risks on unknowns, but this kid was perfect for the role. I had our executive producer talk to him. I’ve given him advice, introduced him to financial planners and hired him an excellent personal assistant. But apparently, that was all in vain.

  They get a lucky break. A once in a lifetime chance that millions would sell their soul for. Instead of keeping their heads down and working hard, they take their first check, the first real money they’ve ever had, and buy a house and car they can’t really afford, start drinking excessively, some even fall into drug use. It’s all such a headache.

  I’m just hanging up when Liza comes rushing into my office. Her blond corkscrew curls are more disheveled than normal and I can see she’s flushed even under the layers of makeup she wears every day.

  “Reece, you need to get to the second floor. The writers are screaming at each other.” She sounds panicked, and beckons me to follow her.

  I step into the hallway and am greeted by silence. “Hurry and get down there, Reece. They sound pissed,” she says as she rushes after me.

  I stop and turn to face her. I look at her and realize that what I thought was panic, is actually excitement. I narrow my eyes at her. “I can’t hear anything, Liza.”

  She lifts her chin and shrugs her shoulders. “Well, I could… when I rode the elevator down there.” She has the grace to blush when I shake my head at her. “What? Annelle called and told me she was afraid they were going to start brawling. Come on, we’re missing it,” she says, grabbing my arm, practically pulling me toward the stairs.

  “Wait here.”

  She frowns at me but says, “Fine. I’ll just get the highlights from Annelle.” And walks off in a huff.

  I suck in a deep breath as I head to the stairs. As soon as I reach the door for the second floor, I hear it.

  They aren’t screaming, what I hear is more like a bellow. I glance at my watch. It’s ten in the morning. They haven’t even been working for two hours. What the fuck could have happened?

  I walk into the suite and gape at the scene in front of me.

  The two staff screenwriters, the so-called professionals, are standing on either side of her desk from one another yelling in each other’s faces. The only person not screaming is Lucía. She’s sitting at her desk typing away like nothing’s happening.

  I walk over to the desk and when the two see me, they stop speaking mid-word.

  “Mr. Carras. He’s being ridiculous.”

  “Reece, tell this shithead that I’ve actually read the book and understand it.”

  They speak simultaneously.

  “Both of you just stop talking,” I say in a scathing tone. Their shoulders slump at the same time and they comply.

  I pull up a chair and sit next to Lucía. She doesn’t look at me or even stop typing, but I can see that jaw working. “Lucía, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  I put a hand on her arm and she finally stops and looks up at m
e. The expression in her eyes is pained and she seems to be trying to tell me something. But I don’t know her well enough to understand what it is she wants to convey. Even if I did, I wouldn’t let her avoid this confrontation. If she can’t be direct with her team, then she’ll never get this screenplay written. I know Todd and Dan have different approaches to this story; I heard their pitches when I hired them. But, they’re also the talent I need for this project.

  “You’re going to have to tell me, Lucía.” I use the same tone I used with the men. I won’t coddle her. I won’t make this easy for her. She’ll have to toughen up. Quickly.

  She purses her lips in frustration and shuts her eyes for a few seconds. She opens, them, runs a hand through her hair, glances back at her screen and takes what appears to be a fortifying inhale.

  “Well, Todd thinks we should start the story on the night of Julio’s death. Dan thinks we should start the story with the family’s arrival to the United States. Show a dramatic river crossing and have the father drown and die in that scene.” Reciting words she’s clearly heard repeatedly.

  I glance up at them and nod to the chairs that are across from me.

  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.”

  I’m not going to confess that two nights ago I stayed up all night trying to find a picture of him where the tattoo was visible.

  Most of them were taken at premiers, award shows and fundraisers. A few were candid shots of him in street clothes taken while he was married, so his ex-wife was in the pictures, too.

  As I scrolled through them on my laptop, I felt the bitterness of jealousy in the back of my throat. They looked so good together. Both tall, beautiful, tanned and dressed in designer clothes.

  “I got it after my divorce. It’s a collection of symbols from all over the world. They all mean the same thing —freedom,” he says the last word with real relish.

  I’m mesmerized by the way freedom spills so easily from his mouth. I instinctually bring my hand up to cover my heart, where my own ode to freedom is also tattooed.

  “Well, then congratulations. Nothing feels better than emancipation,” I quip and I sit back down next to him.

  “Indeed . . . and what do you know about being shackled? From where I’m sitting you appear to very much be the master of your own destiny.”

  “If only you knew,” I mutter inaudibly.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Let’s get started,” I say with a forced frown. I couldn’t begin to explain, even if I tried. He’s found his freedom; I was only getting a taste of someone else’s. No matter how much I pretend, I won’t ever forget that Lucía’s life isn’t really mine.

  He closes his eyes as the rising sun kisses his face, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I wonder what that would be like.

  When our eyes meet, his are so open, so calm that I feel myself relax a little. He smiles at me gratefully as i
f he can feel the change. I try to focus on why we’re here.

  “I thought I’d start by demonstrating the twelve basic poses called Asanas. You don’t have to master them and you can modify them for now. After that, I’ll show you the Sun Salutations. Those are less challenging and you should be able to do them with me.

  Instead of waiting for his reply, I start with the headstand and move through the twelve poses, quickly, naming them as I go.

  When I finish, I find his gaze is riveted on me. “You’re strong. I’m impressed.” I know he’s paying me a compliment, but his scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me of why I stopped taking group classes.

  Yoga is where I open my mind, it’s where I leave all my stress. It’s where I can let my guard down in a way I can’t when I’m with other people. My time on my mat is where I find my sanity. It’s how I make it through each day. It grounds me, reminds me of who I really am. It’s a safe place for me to feel all my hurt, all my desires. The part of me that is desperate to be free and honest. The part that cries. The side I don’t let anyone see.

  I need yoga. I know that sharing my practice with him means he’ll catch glimpses of me that I don’t show to anyone. The thought leaves me slightly breathless.

  “Did you get all of that? I’ll write down the names of the poses for you so you can practice them later. But for now, let’s move to the Sun Salutations. You’ve got to sync your breathing to your movements. So you only inhale or exhale when you move.”

  He nods, his dark eyes are serious again. “Okay, I’ll follow your lead.”

  That comment feels loaded, but I only nod and say, “Fine.”

  So, we begin. We move through this exercise that I’ve done every day without fail for almost five years. He’s quiet and attentive and as we move together and breathe together. When we finish, my senses are heightened. I can feel fine hairs on my arms rustle in the light ocean breeze. I smell the salt in the air with each inhale. I can taste it in the back of my throat with each exhale. Reece’s scent is like sweat mixed with sun. Every single nerve ending in my body is aware of him.