“Canada, eh?”
“Wow,” I remark. “I guess that joke really transcends all Americans. Even the ones who otherwise barely speak.”
He laughs but doesn’t say anything else, instead taking a sip of his own water. For a couple of people at a bar, we make quite the boring pair.
“Well, as it turns out, I’m kind of challenged when it comes to keeping up with my mail and important documents and such, and I just got notice tonight that I let my visa lapse. You know, just the very essential visa that was making sure I was in this country legally.”
His eyebrows lift, more than they have before, a sign that he realizes how serious my situation is, and I nod vigorously. “Yeah, it’s bad. It’s, like, end my career at my dream company, go back to my sad life in Canada with no clear direction for my future bad. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to fix it. I don’t have connections with the overlords at the immigration office, and processing times to get a new visa are over a year. I have zero options. Hell, I never even date, so there’s no American man in the picture who would be willing to make some kind of marry-me-to-save-my-ass-from-deportation pact. Basically, I’m just waiting for ICE to come take me away in handcuffs and put me on a plane back to Vancouver.”
I take a huge swig of my water and slam it back down on the bar before turning to face him again, my whole face collapsing. “So, yeah. You’re kind of stuck dealing with me on one of my worst nights, and if I had any kind of inner peace whatsoever, I would apologize to you. As it is, though, all I can do is sit here and whine. And hydrate, though I’m considering switching to vodka. And quite possibly, go on the lam.”
He leans forward into the bar, puts his elbows onto the surface, and lets out a quiet breath that I’m surprised I can hear over my own breakdown. It’s easy—not at all troubled like my own—and I think that might have something to do with just how caught off guard I am when he speaks.
“Fuck it. I’ll make that pact.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll marry you.”
I whip my head toward him violently, so much so that a pop in a tendon of my neck makes stars flash on the surface of my eyes. Still, the beginning stages of an aneurysm or stroke or whatever can wait.
“I’m sorry, what?”
He looks at me closely, his eyes reading mine with careful intent. His posture is calm, his stature poised, and he doesn’t repeat himself. I know he doesn’t waste words, ever, and so I can only assume he doesn’t reiterate the same ones when he doesn’t need to.
“You just said you’d marry me.”
He just stares. Relaxed, cool as a cucumber, and not all freaked out by what he just offered.
“You just said you’d marry me, and you don’t even know me. How does that make any sense?”
He shrugs. “Because you don’t need a husband. You need a green card. And I don’t have any plans to have a real wife.”
“You don’t even really speak.”
He shrugs. “You talk enough for the both of us.”
That’s…well, that’s true. Especially right now, in the midst of my freak-out. But should I really make the completely insane, rash, life-altering decision to get married while I’m this mentally unstable? I don’t even know anything about this man! Nothing. Zilch. Zero.
“I don’t even know your last name.”
“And?” He smirks. “You worried it’s not going to go with Daisy or something?”
“You want to make a marriage pact with me, a woman you don’t know anything about? I’m starting to think I’m having a stroke or I’ve suffered some serious accident and I’m actually in a coma.” I laugh. Almost hysterically, really. I am one of the hyenas from The Lion King, and I can’t seem to stop it. “We just…we can’t…”
He raises his eyebrows and takes a drink of water before standing up from his stool and holding out a hand.
“Flynn. This is crazy.”
But just crazy enough to get you a green card…
I stare into his magnificent eyes and try to find a shred of doubt or worry in them that matches the absolute scrambled-egg feeling going on in my insides, but try as I might, I can’t see anything in there but steadiness.
My hand, shocking me to my core, doesn’t even shake as I slide it into the hollow of his. As his fingers close around mine, so does the reality of the impending domino effect my lapsed work visa will create.
Awesome job? Done for.
All my goals and hopes and dreams? Poof. Gone.
I take a deep breath. “And what are the terms of this marriage…well, fake marriage pact? You marry me so I can get a green card? And that’s it, no strings attached?”
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“This really is crazy.” I giggle through a shaky smile. But also, I can’t bring myself to do anything but accept the life vest he’s just tossed into my ocean of chaos. “Okay, yeah, count me in.”
“Winslow,” he says, and I quirk a brow. “My last name.”
Winslow. Flynn Winslow, I silently recite his name. Welp, at least it actually goes with Daisy and doesn’t put you in a Julia Gulia situation…
“Right. Next stop…Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”
Flynn
Neon lights that read Happy Chapel flash obnoxiously in front of us, and I pull my bike to a stop in a small parking lot just off the main drag of the Strip. Just as I push my foot against the kickstand, I cut the engine and plunge us into pseudosilence. It’s not quiet—not with the buzz of the Vegas nightlife so close by—but without the sound of the engine rumbling in my chest, it’s damn near tranquil.
Daisy’s arms don’t loosen like I expect them to, so I prompt her with a couple generous words I’d usually not bother with.
“We’re here.”
I feel the edge of her chin in my back as she nods against it, but still, the hold of her grip doesn’t loosen.
Rather than rush her, I put the weight of my bike onto the kickstand and wait. Red neon lights outline the chapel’s big sign, and a pair of kissing doves are painted on the side of the white brick.
Given our proximity to the desert, the spring night is more balmy than cool, but I swear I feel a shiver run up my clinging companion’s spine.
It’s only afterward that her iron grip softens, and one of her toned legs makes a move to step down onto her sky-high heels.
I stay still, acting as a steady brace as she finds her feet off a leaning bike, and climb off only when she backs away several steps and wraps her arms around herself.
Her curls poke out from the bottom of my helmet, and I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning as I take a couple steps toward her and help her remove it.
“Oh,” she says through a laugh as the padding scrapes over her ears on the helmet’s way off her head. “Right. I’m supposed to take that off, I guess.”
She’s nervous, obviously, but after living with my sister Winnie for as many years as I did, I’m not sure there’d ever be a woman who wasn’t when in this scenario.
And most men would be, too.
I set my helmet on the bike and lock the ignition, and then I head for the door, placing a hand on the small of her back and gently guiding her along with me as I go.