Thicker Than Water

by Dylan Allen

  “I don’t want to start thinking we’re friends if we’re not. I know you want this film made. And I’m afraid that’s the only reason you’re spending time with me. I’ve learned the hard way that life is too short for assumptions and innuendo. So, if it’s just to get the movie made, cool. I promise I want that, too. You don’t have to hang out with me, teach me how to swim, take me out to dinner, tell me I look nice, and act like you care that Coco hit on me just to keep me around. This,” she spreads her arms out as if she could hold the whole universe in them, yet she never takes her eyes off me, “is already more than I ever thought my life would amount to.”

  She brings her hands down, and rests them on the table. “So, if you’re doing this for any reason beside enjoying my company, you can stop. Tell me now, and there won’t be any hard feelings.”

  Her eyes are naked, and her vulnerability bared. So, I return her gaze, and hope she can see the sincerity in my eyes.

  “I want to make this film to honor the story you told in your book. It touched me. I have the ability to bring it to a huge audience. So, I’m doing it.” I sit back and look away as I speak less candid thoughts. “I also really enjoy your company. I think your honesty is refreshing and I admire that you’re not willing to compromise on anything that’s really important to you. So, yes, I want to be your friend, Lucía. And I want you to be my friend too.”

  She rewards me with one of those smiles that makes me feel like a fucking superhero. “That’s awesome. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Lucía. Now, that’s settled.” I lift my hand and signal our waitress. “Let’s eat, I’m starved.”

  We’re half way through dinner, and the company, food and view are the best I remember experiencing in a long time. The conversation has moved from less emotional things to progress on the screenplay. She asks me a lot of questions about my swimming career. I love talking about that. It was the most important part of my life for so many years. Throughout my entire childhood and until I was twenty-four and swam in my final Olympic trials. The injury I suffered in a car accident on the way to the airport, fractured my leg and tore a muscle in my rotator cuff. The injury cut my swimming career short. It meant downtime that I hadn’t had in years.

  “So, what sparked your interest in the issue of immigration. One minute you were a famous swimmer, the next you were setting up a foundation, attending rallies.” I wish I could tell her, but I’m not ready to yet. I want to know her better and have her know me better too. It makes what I did easier to explain.

  So, I give her my canned response. “While I was recuperating from my injuries, I started seeing stories in the news that bothered me. And when I did some reading to learn more, I discovered what a crisis it was, especially for the DREAMERs. I mean, you already know that. You wrote a whole book about it.” I shrug. “And I found that I had the right platform to elevate the conversation.”

  “You said the new driver would be here tomorrow? Haven’t you wondered why I don’t drive myself?”

  I’m perplexed, and I frown at her. “No, I haven’t wondered. A lot of people don’t drive here, even though I don’t understand how. I can teach you, it’s not hard. And then you can drive yourself.”

  And the smile that’s been dancing on her face for most of the night disappears, as quickly as an extinguished flame on a candle. “What did I say?” I ask her, the urgency in my tone not disguised.

  “I know how to drive, Reece,” she says softly, exasperation giving her voice an edge.

  “Okay, I’m not following, then, why don’t you?”

  Her hands, which had been moving fluidly between her wine glass and her cutlery are now balled into fists on the table.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No. I can’t guess. Tell me what I’m missing?”

  She looks at me like I should understand, but I don’t.

  I’m truly lost. “I don’t understand. What are you trying to say?”

  “Reece, I can’t get a driver’s license. California doesn’t allow undocumented immigrants to have one.”

  I scoff. I know this to be untrue. “Of course they do. The lady who worked for us had one.”

  She looks at me like I’m a moron and then what she said finally registers.

  “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.

  If yoga is where I find my center, my peace, the water is very clearly where he finds his. He looks almost amphibian in the way he moves. His muscles move in perfect concert with each other, barely disturbing the water around him. He only comes up for air right before he reaches me.

  He pushes the wet hair that’s fallen into his eyes back and grins up at me. “Well, are you getting in?”

  I want to say, “No, I’m not.” I’ve never voluntarily gotten into a pool except to dangle my legs or feet in the water. But I swallow my fear and say instead, “Yeah, I’m going to use the stairs.” I nod in their direction. “Can you meet me over there?” Without waiting for him to respond, I walk over and start my descent into the shallowest part of the pool. The depth marker says 3.5 feet. The water is warm, but refreshing after our light yoga workout. I try to relax as I walk until the water is just up to my ribs and stop.

  He swims to the center of the pool and then walks the rest of the way, each step bringing more of his body in focus. He stops a few feet away from me and crooks his finger at me, beckoning me to take a few more steps, to come into the water deeper than I feel ready for. I shake my head no, eyes closed. Partially because I want to try to forget that I’m in water, and partially because I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.

  “Lucía, you have to choose. Are you going to be afraid or are you going to do this?” My eyes pop open and the air rushes from my lungs. My brother, Julian used to say a variation of those words all the time. He would say, “Faith or fear, Luc. Choose one.”

  My heart aches at the thought of him, but it also renews my determination. I want to learn how to swim. I want one less thing to be afraid of. And I have the man who is possibly the best swimmer in the state of California willing to teach me.

  So, I take a step toward him. And I can see the flash of relief that crosses his face.

  He takes a step towards me, too and we do this, one after the other, until we are finally standing less than an arm’s length away from each other.

  “You ready?” he asks and I sense that he’s asking about more than just these lessons. I nod. He stretches out his hand toward me, palm up. I mimic the gesture.

  His laughter is unexpected. It’s melodious and genuine and comes from deep in his belly. With his head thrown back, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, he looks like a man ten years his junior as he laughs. I’m not even able to muster the annoyance I should. It doesn’t stop me from splashing water in his face and asking, “Share the joke?”

  His laughter dies to a chuckle. “Nothing. I was putting my hand out for you to take it. But you mimicked me instead. It was funny.”

  “Okay. Do it again.” The three words, said as one before I lose my nerve.

  “Do what again? Laugh?” he asks, his expression confused.

  “Hold out your hand,” I repeat. Quietly, shyly.

  His expression changes, softens a little and he does as I’ve asked. This time, as his hand extends toward me, he holds my eyes and says, “Give me your hand, Lucía.”

  The air changes. I feel it. As I reach for his hand, it feels like a step toward something more than just the hand of someone who’s teaching me to swim.

  As soon as our hands touch, I start to fear the moment we’ll have to pull them apart. I know that when he lets go, I’ll miss his touch.

  And it’s wrong being this close to a man who is essentially my boss. A man I’m intrigued by and attracted to and who is so far out of my league that it’s laughable. His fingers close around mine and he yanks me forward while spinning me around so that my back is to him.

  I let out a yelp of surprise as his other hand comes to rest on my stomach. He covers it with our joined hands. “What are you doing?” My voice has a breathless quality that I attribute to surprise, but it’s also partially due to the pleasure of having his hands on me like this. Why does this feel so good?

  “I’m going to teach you to breathe, and I want you to feel what I’m talking about as I explain.” He bends his head down so his mouth is beside my ear. It’s not touching, but it’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. The goose bumps take me by surprise. I feel my nipples harden and I have to close my eyes and concentrate so I don’t groan and lean into him.

  “The most important thing to remember is that you’re not holding your breath when you’re under water. You’re releasing the air you capture in your lungs with each exhale. When you put your head underwater, you should be at one hundred percent of your lung capacity and you shouldn’t come up for air again until you’re at zero.” He presses our layered hands into my torso and says, “Take a deep breath. As deep as you can.”

  I do as he instructs.

  “Your breath should fill your chest, not your abdomen.” The hand that was on top of mine moves up to sit on my chest, just above the rise of my breasts.

  “Do it again and this time, this hand,” he wiggles the fingers of the one on my chest, “should be the one that rises. The one on your stomach shouldn’t move at all.”

  I try and immediately feel the difference.

  He mumbles in my ear, which is closer now, “That’s it, Luc. Fill your lungs so that you have the air you need to let you make the most of your time underwater.”

  I nod and his lips brush my ear with every ascent and descent
of my head. He pulls his head away. And then I realize that I’m standing as close to him as I can without us touching. And without even thinking I take a step backward and bring us skin to skin.

  I feel the unfamiliar but unmistakable hardness of his erection in my ass for the briefest moment before he jumps away from me like he’s been burned by my touch. Humiliation from his rejection burns hot and fast through me. I don’t just think I’ve made a mistake. I know I have.

  14

  Reece

  This was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I touched her. I’m fucked. This is the woman whose legend I’ve been spinning since I laid eyes on her. She’s ambitious. She’s not a slave to her fears and she is sexy as fuck. In the month that I’ve known her, I’ve come to see that she’s special. And I’m so wildly attracted to her that it hurts. I shouldn’t be doing this. She’s my employee. She is so fucking young.

  But fuck if I can help how hard I am, being this close to her. I’m a selfish asshole. Because I can’t not do this.

  I was purposely keeping her body away from mine so she wouldn’t feel how little control I have. I didn’t anticipate her taking a step backward. And as soon as I felt that soft ass of hers cradle my cock, I jumped. And now she thinks I was rejecting her and she’s leaving.

  Fuck.

  “Lucía,” I begin, but she just turns around and starts walking toward the stairs.

  “Don’t worry about it, no big deal. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” she says without turning around.

  I swim after her and in a few strokes, I’m able to grab her by the waist, under water, just as she is putting her foot on the first step.

  “It is a big deal and I’m sorry,” I say as I come to standing and turn her around to face me. And when I see her eyes, those big brown, beautiful eyes, I know I should probably let her leave. I see the pain in them before she erases it and sets her entire expression to neutral; the last thing I want to do is hurt her. I should let her walk away because I can’t be thinking about fucking her when we both have so much riding on this whole experiment. But I know I won’t.