Chapter 14
DUSTIN
I booked Cat a flight back on Tuesday night since she had to work on Wednesday, and also reached out to an old college friend of mine, a lawyer, who worked in immigration.
Late January in Chicago wasn’t exactly prime sight-seeing, but Cat said she wanted to see the city so we breezed around for a bit in the morning.
She’d never been to Chicago but she said it reminded her of Buenos Aires, Argentina, except with taller buildings.
I asked her what she thought about the different areas of Chicago and she had much to say.
We drove through Lower Whacker drive (creepy), Lake Shore Drive (prettiest street she’d ever been on) and around Wrigleyville (Dios mio, do they really need so many bars here?), before we stopped at a Greek place in Lakeview for brunch.
It was a bar called Three Nine One and when our food arrived we were both so ravenous it wasn’t until about five minutes later that one of us spoke again.
“I never thought bacon and eggs could be so outrageously satisfying,” she said.
“Well, that can happen when you work out as much as we did this morning.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Work out this morning? But we didn’t go to the gy. . . ohhh. I see what you did there.”
“I’m glad you’re starting to understand me.”
She stopped and raised her eyebrows deadpan, but couldn’t help cracking a little smile. “Well, I am a little sore. And a little slow, still. I need more coffee.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s been quite the weekend.” I waved the bartender over to refill our coffees.
“What?” she said. “You mean you don’t have a shotgun Vegas wedding every weekend?”
“Nah. Every other weekend.”
She laughed. “Is January always this cold and snowy here?”
“Usually colder and snowier.”
“Your comment about the lake last night has me thinking . . . I really don’t know anything about you, Dustin. Or should I call you ‘Dusty?’”
I felt my insides clench up. “Nah. No Dusty. Dustin is perfect.” My phone buzzed in my pocket and I picked it out. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t usually text and eat but I’m expecting something important.”
I checked and saw that I had a message from my lawyer, Jenny.
Jenny: Alright I pulled some strings and got everything set in motion, considering your current arrangement. You’re welcome. You’ve got a meeting with an immigration officer on Thursday. You owe me big time for this. :) Dinner soon?
I turned my phone on silent, put it back in my pocket, and told Cat about the immigration officer. She nodded and took a long sip of her coffee.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m worried, D,” she said, and now I had a nickname.
D.
“Why would you be worried? Things are being taken care of. We’re in the clear.”
She frowned and leaned in toward me. “They are going to ask us questions. Personal ones. That’s what immigration does. And if they’re smart—”
“They’ll double down on their inquisitiveness since this is a shotgun, Vegas wedding.”
“Yes. And, honestly, why shouldn’t they? All I know about you is that you’re thirty years old, live in Chicago, and play professional hockey. What about your family? Favorite movies? They’re going to ask us stuff like that. Friends who have married U.S. citizens have been put through the wringer.”
“So, let’s start asking questions. What’s your spirit animal?”
Cat rolled her eyes. “This is serious.”
“I am serious. I’m sure that’s on their list.”
She crossed her arms. “It’s a dog.”
“But your name’s Cat.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“Cat-dog. Love it.”
“What’s yours?”
“The Wolverine.”
“Makes sense. Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“One sister. Older. Named Wynona. You?”
“Norma. She’s younger. Works in advertising in Madrid.”
Her foot touched me under the table. “So I have to ask,” she added. “Why are you still single?”
I clenched up. “I’m not, though. I’m with you now.”
“Well, sort of. Do you plan on seeing anyone else? You know. While we’re . . .”
My muscles tensed. “No. Wouldn’t that be a violation of the marital agreement?”
“I’m just curious. Do you plan on seeing anyone else? Actually, let me rephrase that. We shouldn’t see anyone else while we’re in the thick of this.”
My eyes drifted to my ring on my finger, resting on top of the table. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
“Well,” she said. “Marriage doesn’t mean what it used to, right? It used to be one person for life and there was a huge stigma around divorce. Now—does the Catholic church even really care?”
“I’m half-Catholic and half Lutheran,” I said.
She stiffened. “Oh, my grandmother would not be okay with this right now.”
“You keep saying that. She was super Catholic?”
Cat nodded. “Both of my parents are. My dad was from Ireland, and his parents were very Catholic. Same with my Spanish Catalan grandparents.”
“Your dad was Irish,” I remarked.
“Yeah. Can you see my freckles?” she pointed to a tiny red dot on her cheek just below her glasses.
The server brought the check, and I smiled as I leaned back in my chair.
Cat had on one of my black team hoodies, frosty blue colored yoga pants and the new boots she’d gotten as part of our tour around town today. My coffee buzz kicked in and I had a pleasant thought. This was the soberest I’d been—we’d been—all weekend.
With most girls, this was the time when I’d start pushing them away.
Coming up with an excuse not to hang out with them after an all-star weekend.
After all, this was temporary. We had, what, five months to go until we were in June and it was the end of the season?
Cat and I could quietly divorce and she’d have her visa squared away and I’d have won my Stanley cup with the Tigers.
A month after the season, in July, we’d be done.
And Cat herself was stressing the temporariness of this arrangement.
It was perfect.
Strangely—maybe this was a testament to just how commitment averse my heart was—knowing how temporary this would be set me at ease, and I wanted to get to know every last detail about Cat in the time we had together.
“More coffee, sir?” the bartender said.
“You know what? Yes, I’ll have some.”
“So cold out there today,” she said offhandedly, refilling our mugs. “Great for a Netflix marathon.”
When she left, I cleared my throat and turned to Cat. “I think we’ve learned enough about each other for today. The bartender is right. How about we head home for a quickie and a Netflix marathon before your flight leaves tomorrow?”
Her lips parted, and she made full eye contact. “Why, are you tired?”
“Not really. Why would you ask that?”
“Because I’d rather we do a marathon and a Netflix quickie. But if you’re tired . . . that’s okay.”
I felt adrenaline rush through me. She was baiting me. And I liked it.
“Marathon it is,” I smirked. I’d teach her a lesson for this. Lucky for her, it would be the fun kind.