Roomies

I pull my hand from his and stand.

The silver lining, like it turned out to be convenient that the girl who found him at the subway looked like the girl he had pretended to marry. It fits into a perfect narrative he created. I want to scream.

I feel like the trust we’ve built in the past few weeks has been hurled against the wall.

“ ‘Will make it easier’? You’re asking me to play along . . . ?” I try it out in my head and, if possible, the hurt deepens. I can almost understand lying to his family for all these years out of a desire to protect them—after all, I haven’t told my parents, either. But I imagine spending the rest of the week responding to someone else’s name with a smile. Obviously it’s a temporary solution, but I guess the problem is that I didn’t think I was temporary anymore. If he wants to do away with our initial year plan, then isn’t it better for us to tell them the truth now?

I’m in this same spot again, playing a secondary role in Calvin’s life story. The role of Amanda.

His eyes track me as I move around the sofa. “It’s only a few days,” he says softly.

My heart is a deflating balloon. He’s fine with his family continuing to think I’m someone else? Isn’t he proud of me? Of what we’ve built together? Doesn’t that outweigh the shame in having to admit his lie?

I’m saved from replying when his phone rings, and use the excuse to walk into the bedroom to get some space, and some air.

The call lasts for only a second because when I look up, he’s in the doorway, moving toward me. With a finger under my chin, he tilts my face up.

“Hey,” he says, face softening when I meet his eyes. “I don’t think I’m doing this right.”

I nod, fixing my gaze on his jawline, his lips, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows. “Things lined up strangely, that’s all.” He leans forward, kissing me once. “It doesn’t change me and you.”

I have no idea what to say to this; it feels like this changes everything. I don’t even get my own name here.

“I want to talk more, but I need to run downstairs. A messenger dropped something off and I need to sign for it. We’ll finish this when I’m back, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Holland.”

He’s said it. He’s said it for the first time, and I feel numb. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats, and with another brush of his lips against mine, he’s out the door.

He’s gone less than five minutes, and when the door opens again, I know right away that something’s wrong. He’s staring in shock at the paper in his hands.

“What is it?”

His eyes jump to the top again. “It’s from immigration.”

A trapdoor opens and my stomach plummets. We’ve been expecting a letter—the official notification of his green card contingency details—but judging by the look on his face, it isn’t that letter.

Reaching up, he runs a hand over his mouth and in a hoarse voice adds, “They want us to come in for another interview.”

“Does it say why?” I move to his side to read over his shoulder.

Calvin shakes his head and hands me the letter. I scan the words, trying to make sense of them, to find some piece of information hidden in the handful of vague sentences.

In regards to your interview dated . . .

Further clarification . . .

My mind spins back to that drab gray office, and I’m trying to find some memory that might help explain what we did wrong. Calvin paces the living room.

Dropping the papers on the counter, I head straight to where my phone is charging on the bedside table, and press the tiny photo next to Jeff’s name. It only rings once before someone picks up.

“Hey, kiddo,” Robert says, answering his husband’s phone. “We thought you might call.”

“Calvin got a letter from—” I stop, processing what he said. “What?”

“Jeff woke up to a text from Sam Dougherty.” I imagine him standing in their cozy kitchen, having a lazy morning and his second cup of coffee. “He’s on the phone with him now.”

I’m not sure if I feel better or worse that Dougherty thought to contact Jeff about whatever is going on.

“Can you hear what he’s saying?” I ask. There’s a pause and I can hear the faint murmur of Jeff’s voice in the background. I chew on my fingernail, waiting for an answer.

“It looks like he’s hanging up, so hold on a second and you can ask him yourself.”

“Okay,” I whisper. Calvin appears in the doorway. The living room curtains are open, and with the sunlight streaming into the apartment behind him I can barely make out his face. But I can easily identify the rigid line of his shoulders and the tight clench of his hands at his sides.

“Hey, Hollsy,” Jeff says, startling me back to the call.

“I’m here. Dougherty texted you?”

“Yeah, early this morning. He said he needs you to come back in for a few more questions. Both of you.”

“Did they say what kind of questions?”

“He didn’t want to get into it, but didn’t sound all that concerned.” I want to curl in on myself in a paralyzing combination of anxiety and relief. “Now, Holland, listen. I’m sure this will be fine. They’re just doing their jobs and clarifying a few things, making sure everything’s on the up-and-up. Things are good between you and Calvin, so there’s nothing to lie about. It is a real marriage.”

I look up to where my husband is quietly listening to my end of the conversation, and quickly divert my eyes. “Right.”

“I know the letter said to call for an appointment,” Jeff says, and there’s the shuffling of paper. “But Sam’s moved some things around and can get you in at noon today. Can you guys make that work?”

“We’ll make it work,” I say. “Noon.”

We end the call, and the resulting silence feels oppressive. In unison, we glance to the clock on my bedside table: it’s eleven.

Calvin turns away, muttering, “Right.”

I watch him move to the door, pull his phone from his coat on the hook, and bend his head, dialing. The muscles beneath his shirt shift as he lifts his arm to place the phone by his ear. I have an acute memory of those muscles moving beneath my hands only this morning, with the sun barely filtering in through our bedroom window.

I really should look away, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll get to enjoy this view.

“Mam.” His voice is quiet. “Yeah, good, good.” A pause. “Right, so Amanda and I need to hop over to a meeting at noon.” Another pause, during which my heart bleeds into my stomach. “All’s good, but we’re not going to make lunch.” He goes quiet, nodding. “Sure. Sure. That’s fine. We’ll meet you outside the theater at half four.”

I watch him lower his phone and end the call. The name Amanda was a stone skipped across a lake; the ripples from it spread out across the room.

Calvin turns to look over his shoulder at me. He looks resigned, like he clearly doesn’t know where to start fixing this. Given the meeting we have less than an hour from now, I’m wondering whether we’ll even get the chance.

“Is there anything you want to take with you?” I ask him, hedging.

He startles a little. “You think it’s that kind of meeting?”