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I pulled the chair out for Felicia, who sat down with a sigh, her seven-months-pregnant belly a tight little ball stretching her summer black cotton dress. I was in awe every time I looked at her. My wife. Our baby girl, who we were planning to name Amelia.
I shook the Immigration interviewer’s hand.
“We just need to ask a few questions.”
“Sure, of course,” I said. We were applying for the actual spousal license.
Felicia looked nervous, but I squeezed her knee to reassure her.
“Here’s our scrapbook,” she said, setting it down on the desk and pushing it toward him. “You can see our relationship has been documented from the beginning.”
She’d worked hard on that and ironically, though it had started all for show, we both enjoyed looking at it now.
The dude barely glanced at it. I could instantly see Felicia get annoyed with him. I could read her facial expressions much better after living together on and off over the last six months. We’d done a lot of back-and-forth travel between the US and the UK but once her fiancée visa had been approved in April, we’d been living together full-time.
“My first set of questions are for Ms. Hobbs only. Are you a communist? Are you coming to the US to engage in espionage or act as a spy?”
She’d be a hot spy, I wasn’t going to lie. I pictured her in black leather pants. Definitely a hot spy.
“No. And no.”
“Are you intending to be a polygamist?”
“Hell no. I don’t share well with others.”
“Are you sexually intimate with Dr. Kincaid?” the man asked.
“Uh…” I glanced at Felicia, amused. “She’s seven months pregnant. That’s pretty obvious.”
“I just need a yes or no answer from Ms. Hobbs.”
“Yes.” She gave me a wink as he wrote her response down. “Loads of sex.”
Lots and lots of sex. The best sex I’d ever had.
“Just yes or no will suffice.
“What does Felicia do on Tuesdays?” he asked me, switching up the format.
“What?” The question was so random I drew a blank as to how to even answer that. “She works. At home. We have a new house and the ground level is her office space.”
Then he went right back to Felicia. “Where did Dr. Kincaid attend college?”
“Stanford.” Her voice was triumphant that she’d gotten it right.
“What was his first pet’s name?”
“Bugsy. He had a pet rabbit at five years old.”
Wow. I didn’t even know she knew that. She’d clearly been talking to my mother again, which was fucking scary.
“Do you consider him to be a good driver?”
“A vehicle or a golf club?”
I laughed.
“Driving a car.”
