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I stare at him through my tears.
“Doll, are you sure he doesn’t feel the same way? I mean, fake marriage or not, he sure seems like he was committed to you.”
“He’s just a loyal kind of guy, Dame. I promise you, this isn’t a romance movie where the girl and guy end up together in the end.”
Gwen lets out a soft sigh. “Darling, you can’t be sure about that until you actually tell him how you feel. Which, it sounds like, is the one thing you haven’t done. The man I talked to on the phone talked about you like he saw you, Daisy. The real you. Why do you think I got over the whole thing so quickly?” She snorts. “It wasn’t because of his six-pack abs and handsome smile, I can tell you that.”
It…it wasn’t? I just assumed Gwen understood because she has a thing for man candy herself. I never considered that she saw something more.
“I think you need to tell him, Daisy,” Damien agrees.
All I can do is nod. But it’s not because I agree. It’s because they both seem so hopeful that I can’t find the courage to tell them that my immigration interview is tomorrow, and thanks to me, Flynn won’t be there.
Yeah, but are you going to be there?
I look down at my stomach, where, I now know, sits a tiny baby that’s growing inside me. A baby who deserves a mom and a dad and a happy, healthy home.
“I’ve fucked this up for more than just myself,” I mutter, and both Gwen and Damien look at me in confusion.
But neither has time to say anything, because the battery on my phone chooses that exact moment to give up the good fight. The screen goes black, and I’m on my own again.
And all I can do is stare down at the wedding band that sits on my left hand. The ring I don’t seem to ever take off.
Now what are you going to do?
Friday, May 31st
Daisy
I stand outside the massive federal building and check the time on my phone again.
8:00 a.m. glares back at me.
Time is almost up, Daisy.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing outside the USCIS building, but considering I checked out of my room at six this morning, I know it’s been a while.
So long, in fact, the security guard at the door is probably starting to wonder if you’re casing the place…
“Hi,” I greet him from across the sidewalk, the courage to speak just barely popping out of its hole like a little prairie dog. “I have an interview. At nine.”
He doesn’t respond or alter the deadpan stare from his face. He’s all business, and I’m the furthest thing from it. Truth be told, I’m one small skip away from emotionally exploding all over this city sidewalk.
“I guess you could say I’m a little nervous.”
When I realize I’m not going to get anything out of Stone Cold Steve Austin at the door, I take a few steps away and force myself to sit on a bench that’s positioned off to the side of the building. Far away from Officer Serious but still close enough to actually walk into the building.
That is, if I decide to follow through with the interview.
I lean my head back and look up at the early morning sky. The clouds are shades of pinks and blues and silently make me wonder which color will soon become a staple in my life.
Pink or blue? A daughter or a son?
Hand to my stomach, I feel around my belly for any sign of pregnancy. I’d like to think I can feel a slight fullness in my lower abdomen, but truthfully, besides my out-of-whack emotions, the only reason I know I’m pregnant is because of Dr. Fields and the twenty or so sticks I peed on last night.
I’m pregnant. With Flynn’s baby. And I don’t know what to do.
You do know. You need to woman the hell up and go to that interview and make damn sure you can stay in this country long enough to tell Flynn you love him and you’re having his child.
But how do I explain the obvious reality that my husband isn’t at my interview?
The question urges me to stand back to my feet and play the all-too-familiar role of crazy-lady-pacing-outside-the-building.
My husband really wanted to be here, but see, there was an emergency. He fell off—
That is not going to work.
Flynn is very ill. We had Taco Bell last night, and I’m sure you can understand how that can end badly. You definitely wouldn’t want him here, stinking up your bathroom. Ha-ha…I’m an idiot.
My husband is—
Out of nowhere, two arms wrap around my shoulders and pull me back into a hard, firm chest. I shriek out in surprise and start to fling my arms at my attacker, but that’s quickly stopped when “Daisy, calm down. It’s me.” fills my ears.
