Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Me: Of course I did.
I mean, I read most of it. Okay, fine, I skimmed enough of it to get all the important shit figured out.
Flynn: So, then you’re aware of the clause that states we need to show proof of our relationship, proof that we are living together, and in about three months, we’ll be asked to come in for an interview together at their New York office since that’s where I’m a resident?
This is the longest message, longest string of words that Flynn has ever said to me, and my only reaction is to blink roughly seven hundred times.
Proof of living together? Proof of relationship? An interview?! Gah, I’m terrible at lying in person!
Surely he’s mistaken and is just reading something wrong, even though he’s definitely not the kind of guy who seems like he reads things wrong.
Panic sets up residence in my chest, getting my heart all riled up and urging me to hop off the couch and grab my laptop from the dining table. Erratic fingers to the keys, I pull up the USCIS official website and read through everything I can find about applying for a visa after marrying a United States citizen.
I scour every single document at my fingertips, and after God knows how much time has passed, I’m aware of two things—Flynn is right, and I’m way more screwed than I originally thought.
Oh. My. God.
New York
Flynn
Fresh from my after-dinner shower, water dripping down my neck and chest, I step out onto my graphite-colored bath mat to the chorus of my phone chiming with a sound I’m not familiar with. My eyebrows draw together as I snag a towel from the rack at my side and hurriedly wrap it around my waist.
Quick, long strides eat up the distance between the bathroom and my bedroom nightstand, where my phone is dancing across the surface like a performer on America’s Got Talent. Incoming FaceTime Call Daisy flashes obnoxiously on the screen.
Instead of accepting or declining, I stare down at the screen until it disappears. I don’t FaceTime. Ever. Not with my brothers or my sister. Not even with my sister Winnie’s daughter—and my adorable niece—Lexi.
Daisy: I’m trying to FaceTime you.
Though it’s pretty apparent my Canadian wife isn’t privy to my FaceTime track record.
Me: I’m aware.
Daisy: What do you mean, you’re aware? Why aren’t you accepting?
Before I can even answer her text, she’s back at it again, attempting another damn FaceTime call.
Shit. Despite all the times before when someone tried to get me to do some stupid fucking video chat and I outright refused, I find myself tapping the screen on the green phone icon and accepting. I know from even my short-lived experience with this woman that she doesn’t give up.
In an instant, Daisy is right there, in all her glory. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips are full but set in a firm line, and her unforgettable wild curls fall across her shoulders like satin. It’s only been a week since we spent a wild night in Vegas together and got hitched, and yet, a sense of shock over her beauty takes up residence in my chest.
Fuck. She really is beautiful in a way that I’d almost convinced myself to forget.
But also, she has seriously crazy eyes right now. The depths of green are like a midnight forest, and her pupils are wide with anxiety.
“What are we going to do, Flynn?!” Daisy exclaims and tosses her hands up in the air. “I mean, how are we supposed to show that we’re living together when we’re not living together? That doesn’t seem like something we can fake, and I’m in LA and you’re in New York, and I just don’t even know what to do right now!”
She runs an erratic hand through her long curls, tossing strands over her shoulder once her fingers reach the bottom of the tresses, and when she’s finished fidgeting with her hair, she stands up—while still holding the phone in front of her face—and starts to pace in what I’m assuming is her living room and kitchen.
“This is completely fucked,” she mutters. “And since I’ve already sent in my application, it’s not like I can go back in time and say, ‘Oh, I’m just kidding! Ignore that application! It was just a joke!’ I’m pretty sure that would end up with me either in jail or deported or some horrible combination of both.”
“You’re not going to get deported,” I say from a deeply resolute place in my gut.
She meets my eyes, her stare firm. “You don’t know that.”
Truthfully, I don’t know that, but the urge to give her something that might help calm her down was overwhelming. Which, obviously, didn’t work at all. Plus, I don’t know… For whatever reason, I’m determined to ensure she makes it through this process with her life intact. And when I put my mind to something, I don’t fail.