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“Where is this coming from?”
“It just seems between the timeline of you and Amelia breaking up… and then you getting married, inviting none of your friends—"
“Seven was there,” I argue.
“… and you didn’t invite your own mom. Not to mention that I know your visa is due around now.”
The timeline of everything spells a lot of this out. My four-year-old niece could probably put this puzzle together, but what Juliet and I do is no one else's business, and that’s how I plan to keep it. The fewer people who know, the better.
Juliet and I aren’t even close to being out of the woods yet, and though getting deported for a length of time and possibly never getting to apply for another visa for the rest of my life is a serious risk, Juliet’s possible prison time is the reason that keeping the list low is crucial. This arrangement is on a need-to-know basis. Everyone else can read it in my autobiography when I’m dead.
“Ok, what’s your point?” I ask, my breath starting to labor as we push ourselves for every step.
“Just that if you need anything,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “I’m here to listen.”
“Thanks, Conley, I appreciate it,” I tell him.
The rest of the run we do in silence as we push our bodies to make good time before circling back around to the hotel.
I get his concern, and keeping this from my friends isn’t what I want to do. But I’m doing this to make sure I can stay with the team for the championship and fulfill my four-year contract.
I know that any of my teammates would do whatever they could to help me, but hopefully, it never comes it that.
Chapter Seventeen
Juliet
“Knock knock,” I say as I open the door and head into the commons room on my brother’s floor.
It’s a large room with light grey walls, a couple of different areas to sit with sofas and TV’s. There’s a communal fridge and microwave, though it seems to be used mostly by family coming to visit since remnants of birthday cake and abandoned soda bottles seem to be all that’s in the fridge whenever I look inside.
And I don’t know if popcorn is just the snack of choice or if someone burned a really bad bag one time, because I swear this room always smells like buttered popcorn. Not that I mind, I love buttered popcorn.
Since Jerrin has a roommate, we usually take our card game to the commons room which is often vacant anyway and has a bigger TV than the one in his room.
My brother usually has something on as background sound and when I walk in, so I’m not surprised to find him streaming an old Hawkeyes game from earlier this season.
He's already sitting at a table with his cards out, prepping for our usual Texas Hold’em game. He looks up at me for a moment, his eyes registering it's me.
His eyebrows rise which is usually the closest thing I get to a smile, but that’s fine with me. My brother doesn’t have to fit any social norms to suit me. As long as I know he’s happy and that he wants me here, it’s all I care about. Based on the fact that the card game is set out, he’s looking forward to our game.
“I bought a little treat for us today,” I tell him.
“What?” he says simply, not looking up.
“Turkey and cranberry panini and mango smoothies.”
Another one of the things my brother loves, and when I get a chance to spend the afternoon at the park with him, that’s always the place he wants to go for picnic supplies.
“Are you ready for our game?” I ask, unwrapping his sandwich and grabbing his smoothie.
“You ready to lose?”
I laugh at his typical response.
“I'm always prepared to lose when I'm playing with you,” I tell him, dropping his sandwich and smoothie next to him on the table and pressing a kiss on the top of his head, feather soft as to not disrupt his focus.
He gives a small snicker, which is a win for me, since you don't get that many from Jerrin.
