Chapter 18
Max
I could tell he was lying. Takes one to know one.
What’s he hiding? What happened in his past?
He clearly thinks I can’t handle the truth.
I respect his right to privacy, but I got the sense that a part of him did want to tell me.
More than wanting all the answers, I find myself wanting to look after Hunter.
Wanting to help him in the ways he can’t help himself.
I think of what he said about me in his wedding vows.
How my attitude inspires him. Maybe I can help him discover a different side to himself. Maybe I can be what he needs.
It’s only as the first rays of dawn peep through my window the next morning that I start to think about the interview. You can’t say our preparations haven’t been comprehensive. We’ve invented a whole life for ourselves. I’ve run over the facts so many times that I’m starting to believe them.
Doily has volunteered to look after Mr Peanut while we’re out, specifically by taking him along to her charitable initiative teaching calligraphy to disadvantaged youths.
I’ve dropped him off with her and I’m making myself a good luck quadruple strength coffee when Hunter walks into the kitchen.
His hair has been tousled dry, and he has a small shaving cut on his chin.
How does he keep getting more beautiful?
I feel a rush of lust, but it comes with a bittersweet pang in light of our conversation yesterday.
Still, it has to be a good thing that I’m attracted to my husband on today of all days.
As Hunter and I step onto the street, he takes hold of my hand.
I give him a quizzical look, but he simply smiles.
I’m not sure if he’s comforting me or vice versa.
We barely talk on the way to the immigration office.
I can’t think what to say other than test each other on everything we’ve agreed, but getting a question wrong might throw us.
The immigration office is a dull, musty-smelling building that looks like it has been in bad need of refurbishment for years.
The receptionist is a bald Eastern European man who laughs intermittently as he checks us in, a habit that becomes less mystifying when I realise that he’s watching an endless loop of cat videos on a phone propped up in front of him.
He informs us that we may be in for a wait, but it’s only a few minutes before someone approaches us, a woman in her fifties with hair cropped so short it feels almost military, and an unreadable expression.
She sizes us up without a flicker of warmth.
‘Hunter?’ she says.
Hunter nods. She peers at him blankly.
‘Janet Pilcher. Would you like to follow me?’