“What?”
“I said…”
And then, nothing.
A few seconds later, the line clicks dead. Immediately, I try to call her back, but it goes straight to voice mail.
Well, shit. This certainly isn’t helping me work through my existential, I-got-married-for-a-green-card crisis. I try to call her back another three times, but eventually, I give up when a text message from an unknown number chimes through on my phone.
Unknown: Daisy, darling, it’s Gwen. My phone isn’t working on the boat. I think we’re too far out to sea for me to get service.
Too far out to sea? What the heck is she talking about?
Me: Huh? Where are you?
Unknown: Me and the girls found a half-off Groupon for an Alaskan cruise.
Me: You’re on a flipping discount cruise right now?
Unknown: Don’t worry, darling. It’s a Norwegian.
Like that’s supposed to make me feel better?
Unknown: I’ll be back in two weeks.
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Unknown: Is everything okay?
Um, no. Everything is not okay, but there’s no way I’m going to unload all my drama on her while she’s supposed to be enjoying a cruise with her friends. And I’m certainly not going to do it via text message.
Truthfully, this is all so crazy that I don’t even know what her reaction will be, but it looks like I’m going to have to wait to find out.
Me: Everything is fine. Have fun and be safe! Love you.
Unknown: Love you too, Daisy.
On a sigh, I set my phone back down on my desk and try to get back to finishing up what I’ve spent the majority of my workday on—getting a damn green card.
Let me tell you, the application process to obtain a green card through marrying a United States citizen is anything but the simplistic process I imagined it to be. Several forms, over fifty pages of information to read through, and a bunch of other shit that my brain is having a hard time comprehending are what I’ve been sorting through since I sat down at my desk in my small office inside the EllisGrey downtown LA building.
Just…forget everything else and focus. The sooner this gets done, the sooner your life won’t feel like such a clusterfuck.
As I scroll through the mostly filled-out application I downloaded onto my laptop, I try to pinpoint the areas of weakness. Apparently, when you want to obtain a green card, they want to know everything they possibly can about you. It’s all understandable, but it’s nerve-racking as hell when you’re doing it under the pretense otherwise known as my-marriage-is-an-immigration-fraud.
Racing heart. Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Is this what criminals feel like?
Pretty sure, legally, once you send in this application, you are a criminal…
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is why criminals have to find a way to remove their conscience. I roll my eyes at myself, ignore all the red flags my yet-to-flee inner voice is throwing my way, and refocus my attention on the application.
Part 1: Information About You
I scan the long section closely and verify that I’ve dotted all my i’s and crossed all my t’s. It’s pretty standard stuff, and I take heart in the fact that it doesn’t require even a single lie.
On to the next.
Part 2: Application Type or Filing Category
Welp. I married a US citizen for a green card.
I cringe over the reality, but I bite my lip and check off the box that applies—immediate relative of a US Citizen. You know, because, as of a few days ago, I have a husband. I also remind myself that he offered to marry me. Not the other way around, so if anything, this is all my husband’s fault.
A husband who is probably the most reserved man I’ve ever met and have known for all of twenty-four hours, tops, and who gave me the kind of sex that made my toes curl back so far, I’m surprised they’re not permanently stuck to my heels.
Dear God, the sex. With Flynn Winslow. My husband. Memories of that night roll behind my eyes like the trailer for a movie.
The way his big hands felt on my body.
The multitude of bad and dirty things he said into my ear.
How insanely good his cock felt inside me.
How deep he was inside me.
Holy hot-sex-sundae-with-a-cherry-on-top.
When a persistent throb tries to set up shop between my thighs, I shift in my seat and cross my bare legs beneath my black pencil skirt. It doesn’t do shit to curb the confusing discomfort, and it definitely doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads across my cheeks or the fact that I dig my teeth into my bottom lip so hard, I almost draw blood.
Holy hell, what am I doing?
Oh, you know, just fantasizing about having sex with your husband whom you barely know and married on a whim because you’re a desperate illegal alien in the eyes of United States law…
“Ugh. Stop trying to have a mental spiral, Dais. Now is not the time,” I quietly coach myself and run a frustrated hand down my face. “Just finish filling out the damn application.”
No matter how uncomfortable this whole ordeal is, I need to finish this application. My job, my life, it all depends on it. Also, you know, it’s imperative to avoid deportation.
My brain wants to fixate on that last word, the scary D-word that I’m refusing to give any merit to, but I shake it off and put my eyes back on the screen.
Part 3: Additional Information About You
A little bit of work history. Education history. Current and past addresses. It’s all easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy and done a few minutes later.
Part 4: Information About Your Parents
Well, hell. If only I knew who my biological parents even were…
Growing up in the Canadian foster system and not finding a permanent living situation and guardian until I was fifteen have made answering these questions impossible. I don’t know anything about my parents—who they were, if they’re still alive, where they live, why they put me up for adoption.
All I know is that I started in the foster system at birth, and while I did stay with a family for the first two years of my life, I mostly jumped around from foster home to foster home until Gwen took me under her wing as a teenager.
And to be honest, I don’t have a desire to find my biological parents. I know a lot of people might feel strongly about this, but to me, it’s not something I want to do or feel that I have to do.
I am the reason I am who I am today, and any information about my absentee biological parents isn’t going to change any of that.
“Uh oh, someone has a very serious look on their face.”
I pull my eyes away from the screen of my laptop to find Damien standing in front of my desk. He searches my face closely, tilts his head to the side, and opens his mouth again before I can find a reason for my studious expression that doesn’t revolve around the sad truth—letting my work visa lapse and putting my career at risk.
“What’s wrong?” he questions and starts to walk around my desk so he can take a gander at what has me looking so “serious.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Quickly, I tap my fingers against the track pad to minimize the application that sits front and center. The very last thing I need right now is my boss finding out that not only did I fuck up my visa, but I impulsively married an American in Vegas just so I could un-fuck it up.
“N-nothing,” I answer as he comes to stand beside my chair and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Everything is just fine and dandy.”