We left my parents’ house on my motorcycle. In Los Angeles, most guys drive Ducatis or BMWs, but my baby’s a Harley. I always love riding her; but, tonight with Lucía behind me, it’s a fucking joyride. Her thighs hug my hips, I can feel the heat of her body through my jacket. My most fervent wish is that we could go straight to my house and take all our clothes off and really get acquainted.

When we get there, there won’t be any going back for me. This tiny, vulnerable, woman with the courage of a lioness has become my hero. I’ve known her for such a short time, yet our relationship feels substantive and grounded. Watching her go after her dreams, has made me want to step up my game. I want to be as badass as she is. I made a decision this week and I’m going to tell her tonight.

We pull off the 101 at Whittier Boulevard in the part of the city that is usually known by the monolithic reference of “East Los Angeles.” I’m familiar with this part of town. I volunteered at a recreation center in Salazar Park before the city shut it down. When Lucía asked me to take us there, I didn’t need directions.

We pull up to the park and it’s as I suspected; the playground is still there, but the equipment is rusty and in desperate need of replacement. The recreation center, once a beautifully maintained building decorated with wall-sized murals has a tarnished chain holding the front doors together.

“See, it’s changed so much. It used to be so beautiful,” Lucía mumbles as she walks toward the playground. She sits down on one of the swings. I’m dubious about its ability to hold her up. The rusted chains creak as she uses her legs to propel herself forward, but it’s clearly sturdier than it looks.

“Push me?” she asks, shielding her eyes from the low afternoon sun. It shadows most of her face, but I can see a smile playing across her lips.

I stand behind her and give her a big shove. A little cry of excitement fills the air as she gains momentum.

“Faster!” She shouts as she swings back to me.

I push her harder and she soars, her hair flying, her laughter ringing out. If I close my eyes, I can imagine a five-year-old Lucía on these swings.

I push her until she tells me to stop and I grab the chain of the swing to slow her down. I hold onto the metal— warm from where her hands had grasped it. I slide my hands down and let them rest on her shoulders. She tips her head and leans back, turning my torso into a backrest. I start to sift my fingers through her hair, caressing her scalps. She moans her approval. A comfortable silence falls between us. We’re lost in our thoughts as we stare out at the park. I see possibility and I want to do something to make this a place that serves the community again.

“You feel okay?” I ask after a few minutes. I know she’d been anxious about coming here.

“Actually, yes. I’m fine. I thought we’d get here and someone would recognize me and call me Ana. I used to think about this park and remember the day that girl hit me and my mother did nothing. Now, I’ll think of it and remember today with you.” She laughs and it’s so light and melodic. “So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Luc.”

“I’m Ana,” she declares. “I’m Lucía, too. Neither one cancels out the other. Maybe they can even co-exist. Ana was actually a pretty remarkable girl. This neighborhood was my home. I’m glad to be back,” she says, wonder tingeing her tone.

I almost sag with relief. “I’m glad you feel that way because I have an idea.”

“Of course you do,” she says wryly as she uses her foot to push herself on the swings again.

I speak to her departing back. “I want to make a difference. I want to do more than put a Band-Aid on a problem. Knowing you, seeing how you’re putting yourself out there for the sake of what you believe in—it’s made me want to do the same.”

She uses her foot as a brake this time and stops herself mid-swing. She looks over her shoulder at me expectantly, her expression growing more worried as I speak.

“I’m going to run for City Council. Obviously, I couldn’t run in this district. But the First Council District has a long-time council member who’s retiring. I’ve decided to throw my hat in the ring.”

She pales. “You’re running for office. Public office?” she asks, sounding like she hopes she heard me wrong. There’s silence as I try to decide how to answer her.

I was prepared for this reaction, but actually seeing it makes me nervous. If she and I are really going to be a couple, I need her support in this. I walk around to stand in front of her. I bring her hands to my lips and press a kiss to each of them. I pull her into me, she doesn’t resist, but she’s stiff in my arms. Her hands rest lightly at my waist, and I can feel her heart beating a flagrant staccato against my torso.

“Tell me why that upsets you,” I ask her, hoping she can hear the sincerity in my voice. I won’t do this if she can’t get behind it. I run a hand soothingly up her back.

“Reece . . . I,” she shakes her head in a short, stuttering movement. “No, it’s not about me. I don’t want to make it about me. You should tell me why you want to do this.”

That’s a question that’s easy to answer. I push her back slightly so I can look at her. She closes her eyes and doesn’t open them. “Look at me, please.” I need to see how she’s feeling while we talk about this. She does as I ask, all of her apprehension sitting at the surface of her expression. My chest tightens, this is going to be a hard sell.

“It doesn’t feel like enough to just donate money or time anymore. I want to have a real stake in the future of this city and this country. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even run for Congress,” I say, my excitement building as I complete the sentence.

“Okay, well, congratulations,” she says, her eyes cast down. “I think that’s wonderful. You’ll win, of course. Who could stand a chance against you?” She’s trying so hard to smile, but I can see the effort it’s taking. I narrow my eyes and cross my arms.

“Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, why don’t you tell me how you really feel? Or was that promise to be honest you mentioned the other day only meant to apply to me?”

She flushes and pulls away. She walks back to the swing and sits down again, clutching her hands in her lap.

“I feel so selfish for even thinking this way, Reece. If you want to do this, then of course I’ll support you. I’m worried what that means for us.”

If she’d told me she was an alien, she couldn’t have surprised me more.

“What’s this got to do with us? Why would anything change?”

She steps back clearly exasperated. “If you’re running for office, you can’t have a girlfriend or significant other that’s undocumented.”

“Why the hell does anyone need to know? What’s that got to do with anything? I know it’s important to you, but it doesn’t always have to be an issue, Luc. Part of the problem in this country is that people don’t think about this issue. No one’s going to look at you and wonder if you here legally or not,” I say knowing that I sound agitated.

“Says the man dripping in privilege,” she returns acerbically. I flinch at that.

“That’s not fair, Lucía.” My voice is low, and curt.

“Maybe not, but it’s true,” she snaps. She sighs and looks up at me. Her eyes contrite and her lips pursed. “Of course most people don’t walk around thinking about immigration all the time, most people don’t have to.” She runs her fingers through her hair. “I wish I didn’t have to. But I do. And it’s frustrating to hear you say that I shouldn’t worry about something just because you don’t have to. I know that as soon as people hear I’m Mexican, that’ll be the first thing they wonder about.”

I acquiesce. I have no clue what that would feel like.

“I understand. But maybe we can just keep you out of the spotlight when I’m campaigning. If you want to just be there, but not play a public role, we could do that. How many City Council member’s girlfriends can you name? They’re not being drafted to be in the Real Housewives’ shows or anything.”

“Right, but I know the Governor of New York dates some Food Television Network star. I know that the Senator from New Jersey is married to some actress. If their significant others are well-known, they are in the news, too. Reece, you’ve just asked me to stand in an international spotlight to do promo for the film. I won’t be able to step out of the spotlight once I’m in it, will I?”

She bites her lip in frustration. “I know you are on the right side of this issue, but you don’t understand. I don’t want people to know. It’s not even about shame or pride; it’s survival. I’m an American. I’ve lived here since I was two years old. This country is all I know and I don’t want my life to be even more distilled than it is. I want to have a place where I can just be Lucía, the girl who loves yoga, tacos and writing.”

She puts a hand over heart. She rubs the spot, slowly. “I have a tattoo. Over my heart. It says Libertad. It’s Spanish for freedom. I got it when my first DACA application was approved. Suddenly, I could go to work, rent an apartment—all of that. I promised myself I’d never live like a prisoner again. If I can earn money, support myself and live quietly, then maybe I can stay here and no one will notice.” She stops talking. Her shoulders heave like she’s out of breath. I feel her fatigue and her hurt.

There’s a new distance between us. Borne out of her recitation of all the reasons why not. “I didn’t know . . . I haven’t seen your tattoo. I didn’t know they were the same,” I say, desperate to make a connection, to soothe her . . . and myself.

“They’re not the same,” she says quietly. “Yours is a declaration.” She points her chest. “Mine is a plea.” Her shoulders square and she looks at me.

“I don’t want to call attention to myself. Every decision I make has real consequences and I need to weigh them. See if they’re worth the risk. If they see me as an agitator, I could be detained at any moment. And they wouldn’t have any trouble finding me. Let’s go to YouTube and we can watch prominent activists being detained outside of speaking engagements, even outside their offices.”

I’m alarmed at the picture she paints, but confused.

“Why would they deport you? You’re enrolled in DACA. You’re productive, you’re contributing.”

She bows her head and says softly, “I applied to renew my DACA application four months ago, Reece. It’s still pending. They might not approve it.”

These words send a shot of real fear down my spine. “Why wouldn’t they? You haven’t committed a crime, you’re not on any social services,” I say, trying to fight my own rising fear.

“They can do whatever they want. It’s not guaranteed and it’s never taken this long for an approval. This is my third application in five years. I’d planned on leaving when this project was over. If I leave before they deport me, there’s a good chance I can come back in a few years.”

My heart skips a beat. “You planned to leave? Were you going to tell me that?”

“Of course I was. But, I haven’t thought about leaving since I met you.”

I walk over to her, not letting myself even think about the possibility she would have to leave. I’d do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t come to that. I cup her cheek, tilt her face up to mine.

“We’ll face that if it comes to it, and I know you’re worried, but trust me, I wouldn’t let you be deported. I don’t throw my weight around, but I will if I need to. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to do this by yourself anymore.”