Our pastor was going to handle sending the marriage license to the county clerk’s office, and once the official marriage certificate was issued, we could start the immigration process.
“Have you looked up what we have to do to apply for your work visa?” I asked as we passed the harbor.
Ren breathed out heavily. “Yes. The lawyer who helped Vicky said that once we get the marriage certificate, we could apply for several things at once: my green card application and marriage petition, which is 10 to 18 months, and a work visa, which, thankfully, is much less, at three to six months. We could fill out that package from home, then wait for the immigration interview appointment. Citizenship could take up to three years or more.”
“Okay, well, we knew this would be a long process. I’ll check tomorrow with the clerk’s office, then get a packet with all the paperwork.” I leaned my hand over the center console and held her hand. One day at a time.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
Ren enjoyed our wedding, that much was clearly evident. The way she talked to me, that sweet second kiss, our banter all added up to what I hoped was her starting to feel something deeper than just our friendship.
Sneaking a quick look at her profile as I drove, I could see her mind whirling around. With the conversation of paperwork and long processes, it made sense. But I’d seen that same look a few times yesterday at the wedding. It was as if she couldn’t let herself go completely. I knew her confession that she didn’t know if she was capable of being in love had been worrisome to her. But everything since then had seemed to change. Or at least I had hoped so. My plan was to keep loving her, showing up for her, and praying she’d see we were meant to be together.
“How about I make you something really special for dinner tonight?” I offered.
She turned her head to face away from me, but not before I saw her smile. When I pulled up to a traffic light, I leaned over to see her face.
Ren looked over at me and said, “That sounds great, Mike. Just as long as it’s not stir-fry. I hate the stuff.” Her face was screwed up like she’d smelled something sour.
My face fell. “What?”
“Stir-fry. I’m up foranythingbut that,” she repeated, her body shuddering. I’d looked at her, heartbroken that I’d never be able to make her my special meal, when the car behind me honked impatiently.
I waved and kept driving, still unsure what to say.
Her shaking shoulders made me quickly glance at her again, and I realized she was silently laughing. When her eyes met mine, a loud laugh barreled out of her.
Understanding dawned, and I shook my head. “Are you serious, right now? Theytoldyou? When?”
Ren was still trying to compose herself, but every time she looked at me, she’d start up again. Soon, we were both laughing like hyenas.
Finally catching her breath and holding her chest, she spat out, “Last night after the wedding.”
“I’m gonna kill them.”
“I wish you could’ve seen your face,” she said with a snort, her curls bouncing as she shook her head.
“So not funny, Spitfire.Sonot funny.” I pulled up into our driveway (I really liked saying that), parked, and turned off the truck.
“I’m sorry, Mike. I couldn’t help it. I was going to go along with it and just enjoy your ‘special’ meal,” she said, her fingers wildly making quotes. “But this was so much better.”
“And you wonder where I got Spitfire from.” She scoffed as I slid out and walked around to help her down.
“The man who spoke vows to me in Italian can’t come up with a better nickname.” She said this as she carefully climbed down from the tall truck, refusing my help this time. I stoodthere with my eyebrows high, with a look that conveyed “see what I mean?”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, not moving fast enough to cover her smile.
We walked into the house, and I pulled out my phone to text my neighbor about picking up Max from him. His wedding gift was watching him for us last night.
“I’m getting Max back in about an hour. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
She pushed her purse higher on her shoulder and looked around. “Me too. I’ve never had a dog, so this will be fun. Mike, do you not have a bowl or something to put your keys in when you get home? You know, something decorative?”
I looked down at where I’d thrown them on the kitchen island. Her eyes followed, and she smiled. “If you’d like, I could get us some items that could help with organization. But only if you want.”
“Ren, this is your home, too, so yes. Please do what would make you comfortable.”
She squeezed my forearm when she passed, her eyes and hand lingering on it. I looked down too, unsure what held her attention once again. She’d looked at them strangely last night, too. If anything, I feared Ren wouldn’t like that I had so much hair. I had Grandpa to thank for that. Luckily, he had a full head of it even into his late seventies. I had teased her about my hairy chest when she mentioned how she liked her espresso strong, but her answer was not clear.
