CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
D mitri
I am not scared.
I am Dmitri, and I do not get scared.
My heart might be beating like crazy, but it’s always good to get some extra blood flow in. I give a curt nod in the direction of the middle-aged woman behind the desk. She’s wearing a bright green blazer.
See? Not scary. Green is a good color. Grass is green. Bushes are green. And plants too.
Her eyes are beady and look at me intently, as if I’m already doing the interview.
The point is that I am not scared. I am Dmitri Volkov. I made it all the way from Russia to play for the NHL. I’m not going to be sent back now. No way.
She gestures in the direction of some seats. Vince takes the seat in the back, between Oskar and me. I try to think of his presence as reassuring and not think that we’re being surrounded on all sides by people scrutinizing our relationship, and not thinking that they sort of maybe, maybe sort of definitely have a point.
But even though Vince is presenting me as his client, I can’t forget his distaste and horror when he found out that I’d married Oskar, and I can’t forget that he knows that he asked me in the meeting if there was someone I was considering marrying.
Sweat beads my forehead. The back of my neck itches, as does my lower back. I suddenly regret wearing a suit to this meeting. I wanted to show that I took this seriously, but I feel like I’m playing pretend, and I’m scared that they’ll think I’m playing pretend.
“So you’re Dmitri Volkov.” The immigration officer, whose name is Ruth Santoro, eyes me.
“Yes.”
She turns to Oskar. “And you’re the man who married him. Oskar Holberg.”
“Yes,” Oskar says, his voice clear and un-nervous sounding.
My shoulders ease. He’s doing great. But of course he is. He is Oskar and he is wonderful.
Ms. Santoro eyes glitter. “I see you haven’t changed your name?”
She addresses Oskar.
“No, that’s a bit old-fashioned,” Oskar says, his voice confident.
“But we might still do it!” I interject hastily.
Oskar tenses. Vince tenses.
Shit.
I guess interrupting isn’t highly regarded?
“Is that so, Mr. Volkov?” Ms. Santoro asks, her smirk growing. “I suppose you want your new husband to take your name?”
“Um, no.”
Vince pulls his legs more tightly toward him, and his feet slide across the thin, bumpy low-pile, tan-and-brown carpet tile.
“So you haven’t discussed this?” She blinks.
I swallow hard. God, why didn’t I bring a bottle of water here?
“I mean, Oskar wouldn’t take my name. There are enough Volkovs in the world. They’re not so great. But, um, I could take his name.” My voice rises too much at the end of the sentence, and my heart pounds.
Maybe Oskar will think this is a terrible idea. Maybe I shouldn’t be springing forever and matching last names and potential children to him. Especially since I said our future children would be misbehaved. I mean, is that actually appealing to Oskar? Why didn’t I say that our future children would be little wingless angels or something?
He slides his gaze over to me, and his blue eyes glitter.
“What do you say, Mr. Holberg?” Ms. Santoro asks.
“I think that sounds very nice,” Oskar asks, his voice still clear and steady, he reaches to me and squeezes my knee.
I gaze at my handsome, adorable husband.
God, imagine if we were Mr. And Mr. Holberg.
“Might get confused for brothers,” Ms. Santoro sniffs.
The mood shatters. Oskar withdraws his hand from my knee. The air is cold, the whirl of the air conditioner obviously broken, because why else would Arctic air flood the room. Just leave that air in Siberia.
“We don’t look similar,” I tell Ms. Santoro.
“And you’re not that similar,” she says, and I stiffen.
I didn’t think that statement would be a segue to all the reasons people doubt our relationship.
That so was not my intention.
Ms. Santoro opens a manila folder that Vince definitely did not give her. “You’ve made the news, Mr. Volkov.”
“Unintentionally.”
“Be that as it may, we don’t condone that.”
Vince clears his throat. “Perhaps we can constrain our discussion to normal interview questions?”
Ms. Santoro sniffs. “Yes, you would like that.” She looks at her papers. “In this case, the newspaper articles are highly relevant to this case.” She looks at me. “Most couples who come to me have been in relationships for at least months, most normally years. How long did you date before you decided to get married?”
My throat goes dry. I try to swallow, but my tongue has lost all function. My heart beats unsteadily.
I inhale and smooth my pants. This is fine. Completely fine.
“Oskar and I have been friends for years. Best friend, in fact.”
I smile, but Ms. Santoro does not follow me.
“In other words, you knew that Oskar Holberg might follow your scheme to defraud the US government?”
“Um...”
Vince leans forward. Maybe he’ll say the right thing. “Strictly speaking, they’re not doing anything to defraud the government. Financially speaking.”
Shit.
Maybe I’m not a native English speaker, but even I know that wasn’t a reassuring comment.
Ms. Santoro’ eyes gleam. She’s enjoying her job. And I’m pretty sure she’s not imagining how she’s going to make Oskar and me happy. No way.
“I like being married to Oskar,” I tell her. “He...”
She stares at me.
“He’s amazing. Obviously. He’s smart and adorable and fun.”
“Yes, you do like to have fun,” Ms. Santoro says smoothly. She flicks to another article. “You’re quite the partier. Different woman in each town?”
My heart beats. “They weren’t important.”
Her gaze narrows.
Shit.
“I mean, of course, they were important.”
Ms. Santoro eyes remain narrow. I realize I’m not helping myself any more with these statements.
“Everyone is important in this world. Cashiers are important. Moms are important. Um, government officials are important.”
I’m pretty sure I hear Vince muffle a groan behind me.
Shit.
“I just meant, it wasn’t that kind of a relationship. It was, um, fake. Like off-brand soda.”
“And the real relationship would have been, what, beer?”
“Maybe?” My voice is too high-pitched. I know that. We’ve gotten off track. “Look, that’s not important.”
“I’ll decide what’s important, Mr. Volkov.”
“Right. Of course.” I try to look contrite. Tension bubbles through me.
Ms. Santoro slides her gaze to Oskar. “So how much is he paying you?”
Oskar’s eyes widen, and his face is three shades paler than he was to begin with, as if someone put an instagram filter over him.
“He’s not paying me anything,” Oskar says.
“Looks like he moved you into his fancy apartment. I see the receipts for your wedding. You spent a lot of money on it.”
“Because Oskar deserved the best.”
“You have quite an expensive ring,” she tells Oskar. “I guess it’s yours to sell. After everything is over.”
Oskar’s nostrils flare.
I move my hand to Oskar’s thigh. “This won’t be over.”
Ms. Santoro watches us, her eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to say that if I decline your request for a visa due to your marriage, because I don’t see your marriage as valid, you would still be together.”
My throat dries. “Well, then I would be back in Russia. Where homosexuality is not permitted.”
She sighs. “Yes, your lawyer already requested to change this to an asylum application. Honestly, we can’t accept everyone in under that who claims they’re not straight suddenly.”
The oxygen slinks from the room. I inhale, but my action is too obvious. My hands tremble, and I slide them over my lap.
I don’t want her to confuse nervousness for hiding something. I don’t want her to confuse uncertainty and trying to say things correctly and failing for bad intent.
But I’m pretty sure Ms. Santoro knew how she was going to decide when someone handed her the manila folder with all my F-boy behavior.
God, I knew Oskar was my best friend months ago. Was that why it had felt strange when I went to bars? Was that why all my flirtatious chatter at bars felt forced, and why I was relieved when the women would scramble from the bed after we did some mutual moaning and screaming together, happy that I still had time to text or call Oskar?
I knew that I liked having him beside me. I knew that he was cute, but I thought it was in the vague way I think puppies are cute or something. I should have put it together that when I was thinking about the curve of his nose or the shape of his lips or the color of his eyes, that maybe I’d ventured into not completely friend territory. I’ve never pondered Axel’s muscles or Finn’s hair color or Troy’s narrow waist and not-so-narrow shoulders.
What if Vince had not said that immigration would be easier with an American citizen spouse? How long would it have taken me to realize that Oskar is the person for me?
I shiver. Part of me will always be grateful that the immigration process helped me realize this. Unfortunately, if I have to return to Russia, there is no happy ending for me. Not really. At some point Oskar will forget me, just like all my friends when I was boy in Russia and was sent to hockey camp. When I visited home, they acted confused when I wanted to hang out. I was some person from their past who they didn’t think about, and I couldn’t tell them that I thought about them all the time.
The women I met at bars wouldn’t disappoint me in that matter. There would never be any risk like that. There would only be short-lived pleasure, which seemed like a fine enough way to end a night after playing hockey.
“Oskar makes me be the person I want to be,” I say.
“A future American citizen?” Ms. Santoro asks, one eyebrow slanting up her wrinkled brow.
“A good person,” I say hastily.
Vince huffs behind me, and I have the horrible sensation that I’m not making this any better.
“Well,” Ms. Santoro says. “I have come to a decision. I will put you out of your misery.”
She gives a smile.
That has to be a good sign, right? I mean, she’s smiling. Smiles are...good.
But my heart beats ferociously, and the air thins.
We lean forward.