Fackkkk.
Head straight to my desk, I let my forehead hit the hard surface with a bang.
God, I’m an idiot.
You’re also an idiot who doesn’t have time to wallow in misery…
On a deep sigh, I find the will to lift my head back up, run a hand down my face, and pull myself together enough to face my application again. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before I have it ready to print out and sign and mail off to the scary immigration overlords at USCIS.
But it doesn’t end there. Oh, no. There are more steps. Not only did I have to fill out an application, but my American husband does, too.
Cell phone out, I scroll through my contacts until I come to a stop at the name Flynn Winslow, open a fresh message box, and start to type out a text.
Hey, it’s me. Daisy. Daisy Diaz.
Ugh. That sounds so dumb. Delete.
Hi, there! I hope you’re doing fantastic!
Goodness. No need to shout at the guy. Delete.
Stop overcomplicating this and just be yourself. It’s not like the man married you because he’s in love with you. He married you because he’s trying to help you. No need to put up some façade.
Resigned to just handle shit like I normally do, I proceed to type out a few texts I can actually hit send on.
Me: Hey, American hubby. It’s me, Daisy, your lovely Canadian wife. I’ve downloaded all of the pertinent documentation and applications for my visa. We’re going to have to send everything in via the good-old-fashioned mail. The first application that needs to be mailed in is mine, which I’ve filled out and will be sending out soon. The next is your application, along with the pertinent documentation you need to provide to USCIS.
Me: Just FYI: There’s A LOT of information to read through. Like, over fifty pages of very boring, mundane things. And I know this is all just a hassle for you, but I want to make sure I say thank you for doing this. That is, if you’re still planning on helping me get a visa, which I hope you are, because hell’s bells, I really, really need the help…
Me: So…I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re still game, either I send you the forms you need to fill out and a copy of the application I’ll be mailing in tomorrow morning, OR I can try to fill them out for you and forge your signature. Personally, I think the former is the best option because, while I’m pretty good at forging signatures, I’m not that great at forging official documentation.
Suddenly panicked that the NSA is going to read these messages, I type out all the things I need to say to cover my tracks.
Me: I’m kidding. LOL. I’ve never forged anything in my life. And obviously, I’m joking about the visa thing too because ha-ha-ha, we’re in love. Wild, wonderful love.
Uncomfortable with all the lying, even when I’m smack-dab in the middle of the biggest lie in the universe, I blather on.
Me: Okay, fine. Once, I forged something ONE TIME, and it was no big deal. Just a minor date change on a document for a travel refund when I was eighteen. I deserved the refund, btw. That spring break trip was something nightmares are made of, and the date mistake was a legitimate typo. I was just making it right.
Once I hit send on the final message, I set my phone down on my desk and tap my fingers across the surface as I wait for him to respond. I also silently wonder why I always seem to word vomit all over this guy.
When my phone lights up with two incoming text messages from the man of the immigration application hour, I grab my phone so fast I nearly drop it.
The first text? Only four words—Mail them to me.
And the second? A New York address.
Damn, Flynn Winslow is certainly a man of few words, isn’t he?
Yeah, Mrs. Winslow. He sure is.
So…he lives in New York full time? Not Vegas? Obviously, since I was in his swanky Vegas home, this is new information. You mean the home that you had the wildest sex of your life in?
I shake my head, ignore my snarky inner voice, and wait a little longer, thinking that maybe he’ll add to the messages. But when nothing comes, I remember that with all the things I don’t know about my American husband, there’s certainly something I do—he doesn’t converse just for the sake of it. When he speaks, it’s because it’s necessary or it means something, period. If the world would handle food and recycling like Flynn Winslow handles words, there’d never be any food shortages, and all of the oceans would be devoid of garbage.
As I stare down at his New York address, the seed of curiosity that’s planted into my belly starts to grow. Clearly, I’ve seen his Las Vegas house, but there’s something inside me that can’t stop myself from Google searching this new nugget of a peek into Flynn’s life.
Technology and the internet make it pathetically easy to enable my nosiness, and within a few typed words and clicks on my keyboard, my screen showcases an aerial view of a swanky building located in Midtown. Certified proof that Flynn Winslow has done really fucking well for himself.
Which only makes me more curious about this man and where he lives and what his life is like…
Me: Okay…so…I have two questions… Is New York where you live full time? And what do you do for a living?
Flynn: Yes. Electrical engineer.
Me: That’s cool. Way above my head, I’m sure, but cool. LOL. I’m an interior designer and stager for EllisGrey. That’s a big real estate firm based out of LA.
I’m not shocked when he doesn’t respond, but I’m also not done asking questions.
Me: Is that the only thing you do to make money?
I’m well aware that electrical engineers—any engineers, really—make a very healthy living. But from what I’ve seen of Flynn’s life so far, it feels like there’s more to his financial story.
Flynn: Investments
Short and to the point. Always.
Me: So, not to sound stalkerish, but I Googled your NYC address, and your building is pretty damn swanky. It also makes the designer in me VERY curious what it looks like on the inside… Did you use the same color palette in your New York apartment as in your Vegas home?
Don’t get me wrong, his Vegas home is a stunner. But it could certainly use little eye-catching pops of color here and there to break up the constant use of bland neutrals. Seriously, Flynn, a little color won’t kill ya.
Flynn: Daisy?
Me: Yeah?
Flynn: Stop talking to me about color palettes.
His response makes me grin. And it also gives me a brilliant idea…
Friday, April 12th, New York
Flynn
A little after eight in the evening, I step beneath the awning of my building entrance, offer a curt smile to Carl the evening doorman, and head inside the doors. After a quick stop at the small alcove with the mailboxes, I find a stack of mail inside my metal box and a large package sitting right below it on the floor.
The label is written in very pretty, feminine handwriting, and beside the sender’s name—Daisy Winslow—sits a little smiley face.
I don’t know why that makes me smile, but it does. It also makes me shake my head. The woman is a trip.
I tuck the box under my arm, and instead of being lazy and taking the elevator, I jog up the fifteen flights of stairs to my apartment. I might’ve just finished a grueling workout with my brother Jude, but I’m always game for more cardio. It keeps me young, fit, and focused.