Change has been my only constant. I’ve moved more times than I can count. Before I came to live with Jessica, I moved at least once a year So, I don’t know why, as Sol and I sit in the back of a chauffeured SUV, cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster straight to hell.

I want to tell our driver to turn around and take me back to the safety of my house. But, it’s too late. We’ve all signed the contract, they’ve already paid me my twenty-five percent advance. I made my choice and there’s no turning back. Sol’s got his headphones on and his eyes are closed. I try to breathe and relax as we speed down the 101 towards Malibu.

Every day this week, I’ve dreamed of Julian and the last time I saw him. I was eight. He was sixteen. He was leaving for school and told me that he had to do something for a friend after school and that he’d be home late.

My dream would then jump to later that evening; me coming in from playing to find my parents in a panic.

My father’s cousin was on the police force and he called to let us know that Julian had been arrested. They were throwing things in bags and screaming at each other in Spanish. When I asked them what was going on, my mother shouted that Immigration was going to deport us. She dissolved into tears. When I turned to my father to ask him where Julian was, he slapped me across the face and told me to go to my room and pack. He’d never hit me before, and a combination of fear and shock propelled me to my room where I obeyed his order. We hid in a neighbor’s garage that night, my mother’s wails keeping us up all night.

The next day, my dad went in search of my brother’s court-appointed attorney. He brought me along to translate for him. It took us almost two hours to locate the lawyer. All he told us was that Julian had been identified as a suspect in a crime by an eyewitness. He’d already been arraigned and then handed to Immigration Enforcement. They were preparing to take him to a detention center near San Diego where he’d await his deportation hearing.

He read from the file and closed it, then told us he was expecting a client. He didn’t even have the decency to look my father in the eye as he delivered the news. I could feel my father’s heart cracking as we stood there; the fear on his face turning to anguish with every word the lawyer spoke.

Julian was going to be deported and we couldn’t do anything about it. We couldn’t go to San Diego. We relied on my parents’ income. If they didn’t work, they didn’t get paid, and not getting paid meant risking homelessness.

Then, the crime he’d been initially arrested for was solved less than two weeks later. The real perpetrator struck again and was caught at the scene. His DNA matched DNA found on the first victim.

Not that it mattered for Julian. It didn’t matter whether he committed that particular crime or not, he was still here illegally and they were going to deport him. No one cared that he was a straight A student or that he had a little sister who worshiped him. When we got the news a few weeks later that Julian died in the detention center, my life spiraled so wildly off center that I’ve never recovered.

That was the first time I’d ever seen my father cry. He pulled his hair as he howled; it was an anguished, desperate sound that made my blood run cold with fear. He prowled the living room of our apartment sobbing and ranting. His son was gone, and there was nothing he could do. He had failed to protect him. His cousin offered to go and claim Julian’s body for us. But my father insisted on going himself. He didn’t care if it meant he would be detained, too. My mother begged him not to go. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. He was consumed by grief and guilt.

Scared, confused and feeling utterly alone, I stood and watched them have this battle, while I tried to absorb the fact that my big brother wasn’t coming home. Ever.

I miss my brother. He was the only person in the entire world who understood me and he’d been my only real friend. And when he died, my life as I knew it ended.

My father went to the morgue to claim the body. He got into an altercation with one of the medical examiner’s staff, was arrested and then detained. When his deportation order was issued a year later, he didn’t fight it.

He was sent back to Mexico and has never tried to return. He settled in the small resort town of Playa Del Rosarito and to this day works at one of the large resorts that dot the beach of that town. We saw him once when we drove to the border. We talked to him through a chain link fence that none of us dared cross. I only speak to him once a year, when I call him on his birthday. He and my mother never talk.

I wasn’t sure that I blamed him for not wanting to stay in touch. My parents came to this country to see us well-educated. My father broke his back cutting lawns, keeping flowerbeds mulched, pruning trees, cleaning gutters—whatever he needed to do to make sure that my brother and I went to school. My brother got a soccer scholarship to one of the best private Catholic schools in the city. My parents were so proud. I was only six and still enrolled in our public elementary school, but they had hopes that I’d get a scholarship for my art or music to the conservatory when it was my turn. But in the span of one day, everything he’d given his life to was destroyed. Once he was gone, and his income was gone, we couldn’t afford the rent on our little house any more.

My mother took a live-in cleaning position and they let me stay with her. We shared her room, but it was spacious enough. She got to walk me to school every morning and pick me up in the afternoon. I stayed out of their way, and made sure they never saw me. Being invisible became part of who I was.

When I was twelve, the youngest son of the family cornered me in my room, tried to kiss me and touch me. My mother walked in and stopped him. He told us if we told on him, he’d “turn our illegal asses in.” That was enough to silence my mother.

A week later, she sent me to live with my father’s cousin and his wife. I still went to school, but when I got home I was their nanny, maid and cook. At fourteen they put me to work in the family restaurant he and his wife ran, and said I owed them the work for my room and board.

I didn’t complain. I kept my head down, worked hard and did as I was told. Every day my goal was just to survive.

I only saw my mother once a month after she sent me away. On the first Sunday of every month, she would come and take me to mass and then to get something to eat. Her bitterness was always palpable and it created a distance between us that felt impossible to bridge. But, she was my mother. And I clung to those visits, even when it was obvious she would rather be anywhere else than with me.

I graduated from high school the same year that the President of the United States created a way for people like me, who came to this country with their parents when they were minors, to work legally. And he deferred any action on deportation for two years. You just had to have a clean record and proof that you were a minor when you entered the US. My mother didn’t want me to apply, she said I’d be exposing myself, but I did it anyway. It was a chance to work legally, to earn a living that would allow me to support myself.

I looked for a job as soon as my work permit came through. I moved out of my uncle’s house and into a tiny studio I shared with another girl I met at a job I had cleaning offices in Beverly Hills overnight. During the day, I worked in a grocery store and on my days off, I wrote.

My apartment building was full of undocumented people from all over the world. The landlord overlooked our status as long as rent was paid a month in advance. It was small, crowded, loud and unbearably hot, but it got me away from my relatives. I even had enough money to start taking yoga classes instead of following along with a YouTube video I stumbled upon one day.

And that’s when my life started to change for the better. During my first class, I made friends with Jessica. She looked like a Barbie and sounded like a French bar maid. We bonded over our inability to pronounce the names of some of the moves. When she dropped out of yoga and moved on to spinning, we stayed friends.

I ran into her one evening when I was leaving yoga and she invited herself over for dinner. When we got to my apartment that night, I found my roommate, and my meager valuables, gone. I sat down in the middle of my empty apartment and cried when I realized she’d taken my small suitcase that had Julian’s class ring, a book of his drawings and most of the pictures I had of him inside. My neighbors told me that there’d been a raid by the immigration authorities at her day job and she got scared and decided to move. I was paralyzed by sadness; Jessica took charge, and took me home with her.

We’ve been roommates ever since. She charged me the same rent I was paying in my shitty shared studio. Living in Los Feliz was a game changer. Suddenly, I had the space and quiet I needed to write. And I finished Throw Away the Key.

The rest is history. Here I am, on my way to start writing the screenplay for the film adaptation of my book.

And I know that in many ways my life choices are still limited, but I was going to try to squeeze every last drop of life out of my existence. I’m only twenty-three, but life has shown me that moving past your fear is the only way forward.

So, as we sit in the back of the car that Artemis Film sent to bring me to Malibu, I grab Sol’s hand and give it a grateful squeeze. I didn’t even have to ask him to make this drive with me. He insisted on coming. He’s been so good to me.

His eyes pop open and he looks over at me. “This is it, kid. You ready?” He’s asking rhetorically. I smile in response, because I’m not so sure that I am.

He knows I don’t have an answer to that question. Since I signed the contract with Artemis, things have been moving at warp speed. The studio wanted me to get started writing as soon as possible. When the money hit my account, I got a call from Reece’s assistant, Liza, who told me she would be handling all my arrangements personally. She asked me what I ate (everything), what kind of mattress and pillows I needed (the regular kind), if I had any environmental allergies (who doesn’t?) and told me that I’d have a car and driver at my disposal in Malibu. I can’t believe all of this happening.

I’ll be living in my own guesthouse on the estate that the Carras family owns in Malibu. The writing team will be there first thing in the morning for us to get acquainted. The family’s private residence is part of the estate, but Sol said they only use it in the summer and are in Los Angeles this time of year. That’s a relief. I couldn’t handle seeing Reece every day. It’s mortifying that he’s gotten under my skin when my presence barely registers with him.

That’s probably for the best. I’m finally financially secure, but I still feel like my life is too unsettled to bring anyone into it. I don’t date because that would mean I’d have to share my status and I’m afraid to do that. Jessica had an employee, Kelvin, who worked for her at Amour. He was from Germany and came to LA to study, but overstayed his visa. His “best friend” from college agreed to marry him so that he could stay. But as soon as they were married, she began blackmailing him. She demanded money, made him buy her a new car. She even had him pay rent on an apartment where her boyfriend lived. After a year of scrambling to meet her demands, he eventually filed for divorce and went back to Germany. Those are the kinds of things that happen when you tell people about your status.

I can’t take the risk, so I keep it to myself.

By the time we arrive at the wrought iron gate, the sun has set. All I can see are the two giant Cs that adorn each side, which our headlights are illuminating.

Our driver, Constantine, rolls the window down, punches a code into the little keypad to open the gate. We drive down what must be the longest and best-lit driveway in the world. It’s lined with dozens of torches on either side. At the top of the driveway, we stop in front of a beautiful house. It’s a modern structure made of glass and white stone. Constantine kills the engine and hops out of the car.

Sol’s dozed off and I nudge him awake. His eyes shoot open and before he can speak, I demand, “I thought they were putting me up in a guest house?” He shrugs sleepily and stretches.

“This is your guesthouse, Ms. Vega,” Constantine says as he opens my door.

“This is a guesthouse? All of this is for me?” I say as I step out of the car and look around. This guesthouse is three times the size of our house in Los Feliz.

He nods. “Yes, this is part of the Carras Estate, and the offices are also on the property.”

“Where’s the main house?” I ask him, unable to tear my eyes away from the beautiful structure that is going to be my home for the next few months.

“It’s farther down the beach, about a quarter of a mile away. It’s a quick jog but you can also take the golf cart that’s in the garage.” He holds up a pair of keys and jingles them. “These are for you. House, golf cart and access fob for the office building. It’s another half a mile beyond the main house so you should definitely use the cart to get to and from the office.”

I can hear the unmistakable crash of the ocean. The first thought I have is that I’ll be doing my yoga to that sound every morning.

“Sol, I think things are going to be okay,” I say with a smile before I start to walk up the steps that lead to the house. I peer inside through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that sit on either side of two huge white wood doors. They are battered and look like they were salvaged from the original structure that this modern structure replaced.

It’s a single-story, open-plan home. All the lights are on inside and I can see furniture in a style I’ve heard called shabby chic dotting the huge open-plan space. I can see straight through to another wall of glass that leads to what looks like a back deck. It’s dark, but there are two fire pits burning, and beyond them I see a pool with a ledge that looks like it’s meeting the horizon. “It’s nice, right?” Constantine says as he comes to stand behind me.

I turn around to face him. He doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five, but he told us he’s Reece’s older cousin. I can see a resemblance. They have the same coloring and similar facial structures. He has a huge friendly grin on his face. I’ve not yet seen one like that on Reece’s face. And . . . I’m thinking about Reece again. I frown and Constantine misreads it and says, “There is a porch that wraps around the entire house so you can access the back deck without going inside. Even though you can’t see it from here, beach access is just down those stairs at the end of the deck.”

I walk over to look, and indeed, there are steps built into the side of the hill leading down to the beach.

He comes to stand next to me and smiles down at me. “You’ll like it here, Ms. Vega.”

I return his smile, “I hope so, Constantine. And please, call me Lucía.”

“Okay, Lucía. But only if you call me Coco.”

Sol comes to stand beside us. “Coco,” he says mockingly, “I want to get back to LA tonight. Can we get Ms. Vega settled and be on our way?” His voice is gruff and unfriendly.

Coco’s smile disappears and he mumbles a quick, “Yes, sir,” before he jogs back to the car to get my bags out.

I bump Sol with my hip and whisper, “That wasn’t nice, Sol. He was just being friendly.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, kiddo. But friends like him are usually the ones named as ‘a source close to the star’ when you hear juicy tidbits in the news. I don’t have to remind you that you’ve got a lot to lose here, Lucía. Focus on what you’re here for. Be careful who you talk to.” After giving me that bitter pill to swallow, he tests the door, finds it unlocked and walks inside.

Coco returns with my luggage in both hands. As he passes me, he gives me a friendly wink and I try to smile easily back at him.