The Professor's Green Card Marriage (Dreamspun Desires Book 98)

by Heidi Cullinan

  Peter, however, didn’t stop emailing.

  I hope you’re having a good day. Sorry I haven’t texted before this. Weirdly busy afternoon here. Got a clutch of prospective students and their parents, all wanting complicated coffee orders.

  Valentyn wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and typed a reply with a grim expression. Sorry to hear that.

  He sent it, then worried it came off flat and stiff. His fears were realized when Peter texted again.

  Am I bugging you? Apologies if I am.

  Valentyn groaned and forcibly dragged himself out of his funk. No. It’s not you.

  Are you having second thoughts about this? Because I’ve been worried about that. You’ve been different the past few days. Also you’ve stopped coming to Procaffeination.

  Valentyn’s first instinct was to lie, and then he remembered Dennis’s admonition. He grimaced, wiped his mouth, and forged on. I’m a bit of a brooder.

  I had a feeling. It’s okay. You can talk to me about it, you know.

  Sharing feelings made Valentyn itch. I don’t do that very well. I’m always worried I’ll say the wrong thing.

  How can you say the wrong thing when you’re sharing your feelings?

  Valentyn couldn’t help a small smile. You’re very American.

  Well, yes. A pause. I guess I don’t know any other way to be. I mean, not American, but the idea that I should be dishonest about my feelings. Maybe that’s because I put so much effort into finding a way to express myself, so there’s no room to mess around.

  Valentyn tapped the side of his phone. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t want it to come out as offensive. But perhaps there was no alternative. Anchoring his elbows on his desk, he settled in for some honest conversation. I’m afraid this is an insensitive thing to say, but I keep coming back to it. All my instincts are urging me to ask for a face-to-face meeting, because every time I try to type out a response I delete it. But my request feels… what’s the word? Ableist?

  A long, long period of dots. It’s natural for you to also want the type of communication easier for you. The problem is, I can’t give it to you, not as a back-and-forth. Not for a long time. Except I am able to listen. We can meet in person and you can talk. Later I’ll have a lot to say, but when we’re face-to-face, I’ll be able to offer a few words at best. I’ll be honest with you and confess that makes me scared, because I worry you’ll realize my limitation and consider it to be too big of an impasse. But if it is, then it is.

  Valentyn’s chest felt tight and strange. God, this was so intimate already, and it made him uncomfortable. Still, he pressed on. I’d like to think I’m not that kind of person. But I do think I could express myself better in person.

  Could you record yourself talking and send it?

  He considered this, then shook his head. No. I’d just delete it over and over. And feel silly for talking to myself. If you were in front of me, though, I couldn’t delete anything. I’d see your reaction.

  Okay—I’m sorry for this, but you won’t get one. Not like you’re wanting. I come off as wooden or awkward. Trust me, I am as frustrated by that limitation as you. I wish I could tell you the pressure of the moment would inspire me to break free of my chains or whatever, but the opposite in fact is true. I used to really hate this aspect of myself, and I was pretty low when it came back after I’d worked so hard to move forward. But it doesn’t help me to hate myself for who I am and the brain I got.

  Valentyn typed very quickly. I wouldn’t want you to do that. And I’m very sorry I have to ask for this.

  No, don’t be sorry. I’m not going to be sorry for being me, and you’re not going to be sorry for being you. We’ll work with each other on this, okay?

  Valentyn felt warm, partly from an awkward blush, partly because this was the strangest and most real conversation he’d ever had. For the first time in days, he felt tentatively hopeful again. He decided to take a leap. Can I ask you one thing?

  You can ask me fifty things. Ten thousand things.

  Why are you even considering doing this? Helping me, a stranger?

  At first he didn’t even see the reply-in-process dots. Then they started, stopped, then started again. It took more than four minutes before anything came through, and when it finally did, the entire wall of text, Valentyn scrolled to the top and read it with his pulse pounding in nervous anticipation.

  Probably I should send this in an email, and I might send one later so I can get really particular in my word choices. For now, let’s say this. Just because I have social anxiety doesn’t mean I’m a shy, hesitant person. I feel things passionately. I yearn, a lot. I imagine myself reaching, leaping, shouting, often in ways absolutely no one would consider appropriate. I’ve spent the last two months inventing fantasies about you. I never anticipated anything would come of it. Then suddenly you needed something I could give you, plus you were gay, which made you available, and I wanted to leap so hard I actually did it. Well, that and somehow the conditions were all just right and I was able to say, in my own way, “this sounds a bit wild, I know, but how about you marry me?” In my head, I did it with a wink and a great flirtatious accompaniment. I’d been flirting with you this whole time. So I did it because for once I felt like I could grab that brass ring, and I held on for everything I could. I mean, I get this might not work. I understand you might want to ask someone else. But until that happens, I’m going to hold on as tight as I can and enjoy the moment.

  By the time he got to the end, Valentyn had covered his mouth with his hand, and it was difficult to breathe. He read the message through over and over. He didn’t know how to reply, not for some time.

  You have no trouble in either the flirting or charm department, he settled on at last.

  He received a sly smile emoji in reply.

  Peter’s next text came fast. I hate to do this, but I’ve already gone ten minutes over my break time, and Amy is out of patience. Would you be able to come to the coffee shop around nine? We can talk somewhere once I finish work. Well, you can talk, and I’ll reply later.

  I can.

  Great. I’ll see you then.

  Valentyn stroked the side of his phone. Thank you, he replied after a few moments to collect himself.

  This time he got the winking kiss emoji.

  Blushing, Valentyn tucked his phone away and made a vain attempt to grade some papers, willing nine o’clock to hurry up and arrive.

  PETER tried not to be apprehensive about meeting Valentyn after work. He didn’t succeed.

  On the one hand, he was eager to take whatever this was another step further. On the other hand, he knew Valentyn was nervous, which made him nervous. It was one of his deepest, oldest fears, that he was too much trouble to get close to. As Peter did the dishes, too lost in thought to play a video, he worried Valentyn was right, that he was weird for jumping into this. Well, it was an unconventional thing to do. Did that make it bad? He didn’t think so, but it wasn’t like he was the best judge of what was usual.

  Was he projecting what he wanted Valentyn to be onto him? Would he get to know him and change his mind? Probably he should approach this with more caution. And he would, but….

  God, the more he thought about it, the messier his head got.

  He went out to help Amy in the main room when there was another rush, and as he retreated to the kitchen again, he checked his phone for messages. The notification made his heart flutter, but then he saw it was just his mom.

  You haven’t called in a while. Everything okay?

  Leaning against the counter, he fired back a reply. Good.

  Okay, that’s not like you, to give me a one-word answer. What’s going on? Can I call you?

  No, I’m at work. Peter bit his lip, then went on. I met somebody. But it’s complicated.

  Honey, I’m so glad. But why is it complicated?

  It just is. The fact that he didn’t want to tell his mother about the potential marriage-of-convenience thing probably wa
sn’t a good sign. Hell, he didn’t know if Val was still interested. Maybe he was about to get dumped.

  He chose a different direction. How do you know if your feelings for someone are real? How can you be sure you’re not projecting?

  Well, I guess I’d say you don’t know, and probably at this stage they are projected to an extent. Have you ever researched the science of falling in love? It’s all about chemistry. When someone is in love, you can’t argue with them. We’re biologically wired to connect, and we don’t want anyone interfering with our potential connection. The tough part is when that blush wears off and you see who the person really is. Some people can’t make it past that stage because the disparity is too great.

  I don’t want that. I want to see him for who he is right now.

  Then look carefully. Open your heart, but cautiously.

  He was still musing over his mother’s words when Amy stuck her head back into the kitchen. “Everything good in here?”

  He nodded over his shoulder. “Y-yeah.”

  Amy stood in the doorway, one eye on him, the other on the dining room. “Thanks for helping out so much today. I feel like we make a good team, don’t you?”

  Peter nodded again.

  He knew his uncle kept putting him with Amy so they could make a deeper connection faster. He appreciated it, and he liked her, but he didn’t have any interest in being super close. So why, he wondered, had he just looked at Valentyn and known he wanted whatever he could get with him, as deep and wild as he could reach for?

  That had to be projection, didn’t it?

  He tried to think what questions he wanted to ask Valentyn. What did he want to know so he could see him better? He wrote things down as he thought of them.

  Would it help if he put himself in front of Valentyn more often? Or would that simply hasten Valentyn’s realization he wasn’t worth the work?

  Maybe Peter was so into this because he knew Valentyn couldn’t be that picky. That didn’t seem good, either.

  Probably what he should do was just take this step by step. View it as a connection, plain and simple. If it didn’t work out for them to date, or if Valentyn wanted a different partner for his fake marriage….

  God, he couldn’t finish that thought. Peter wanted them to date. And he’d be damned if he let anyone else marry his Valentyn.

  After cueing up his favorite playlist on YouTube, Peter shoved up his sleeves, filled the sink with dishes, and set his mind to thinking confident, persuasive thoughts.

  Chapter Five

  VALENTYN arrived at Procaffeination at eight thirty. Peter worked behind the counter, making coffee for a group of customers. Valentyn didn’t go to place an order, instead moving to the edge of Peter’s line of sight.

  He knew the exact second Peter saw him. The man he’d come to see stiffened, then blushed, his hands unsteady as he maneuvered a cup. But as he’d warned, Peter didn’t look at Valentyn at all, or acknowledge him in any other way. Not until he brought the coffees he’d been making over to the pickup bar. Then he lingered, trembling slightly.

  Valentyn smiled. “Hi, Peter. Good to see you.”

  He realized as Peter remained silent and quietly vibrating that there were tells that Peter was reacting to you. Peter wasn’t completely frozen. He seemed to be playing out something intense and complicated that Valentyn couldn’t be a part of.

  Peter had warned him that some days he was able to speak more easily than others, that sometimes when he most wanted to communicate, that meant he couldn’t. Clearly this was one of the days he struggled more. Valentyn’s heart swelled. He didn’t feel pity for Peter, but he did feel a complex wave of emotions. He knew well how smart and funny and articulate this man was. He vowed to put his own anxieties aside as much as possible, to help Peter communicate in any way he could.

  After it became clear Peter wouldn’t be able to speak, he continued. “In your honor, I plan to sit and do the crossword puzzle while I wait for you to finish. If you need me to sit outside while you close up, just let me know.” He put his hand on the raised counter between them. “You can text me when you get a chance.”

  He started to lift his hand, but Peter went from nearly perfectly still to immediately in motion, his hand coming down on top of Valentyn’s. A thrill raced through Valentyn at the contact, and when Peter’s thumb curled sensually against his own, it was Valentyn who trembled.

  Peter let him go, but as he backed away, he hovered.

  Valentyn took a leap. “I won’t go anywhere until you tell me.”

  Peter returned to the espresso machine, grabbing a cup on his way. As Valentyn saw Peter grab the half-and-half, he had an idea of what was happening, and his suspicions were confirmed as Peter came over with a steaming, perfect breve.

  The customers around Valentyn, all who had ordered before him, looked annoyed, but Peter paid them no mind. He only placed the cup and saucer on the raised counter. Though when Valentyn pulled out his wallet and reached for a bill, Peter closed his hands over it and pushed it back at Valentyn’s chest.

  Now Valentyn blushed. “I can pay—”

  Peter pushed again. His jaw was tight. He darted a glance at Valentyn. His hand still closed over Valentyn’s, he rubbed his thumb against his again. Insistently.

  How could someone not saying a word make him so flustered? It was Valentyn who looked away now, nodding meekly. “Very well. Thank you.”

  He took his drink to his usual table, got out the paper he’d brought with him, and tried to do the puzzle. He couldn’t get anywhere, though, because he kept thinking of the power Peter had managed to put in those thumb strokes. He kept thinking of Peter, period. The words he’d spoken to Valentyn over the past few days, all over email and text. It was surreal to be so caught up with someone and yet at the same time be unable to remember the exact sound of his voice. Peter was wonderful, so passionate, so bright. Had Valentyn ever been that way? Sometimes he felt as if he’d been born tired.

  But look at Peter. He literally couldn’t speak most of the time, and only a handful of other humans could ever see the kind of expressiveness he’d shown Valentyn electronically.

  Though, hold on. Didn’t he mention being expressive on social media? Valentyn logged on to Facebook and hunted him down. He found him easily, and after sending a friend request, he tried Twitter. That proved tricky, but on a whim he tried searching by the handle at the beginning of his email from the night before.

  Bingo.

  It could only be his Peter. His cover photo was a startling montage of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, and his profile picture was a shadow outline of a great green leafy tree and the phrase mottainai written with Latin letters and what Valentyn was fairly sure was Japanese. After searching for the phrase, he saw he’d been correct. It was the Japanese saying meaning, loosely, “waste not, want not,” or “what a waste.” There was even a book about a Japanese grandmother who kept saying mottainai and nudging everyone to recycle and reduce waste.

  And good grief, but Peter wasn’t kidding about being a social media firebrand. He had ten thousand followers, and he posted constantly. His retweets were focused on the environment, but he offered a lot of commentary on articles and hot takes about the environment in general. There were several callouts to legislators for not doing enough or not taking the environment seriously at all, and he got in endless scraps with trolls, usually telling them to go say hi to Vlad. Valentyn recoiled at the mere thought of that many people coming after him, but Peter was practically gleeful about it.

  He was a brilliant puzzle box, Valentyn thought, scrolling through endless pages of tweets. A puzzle box Valentyn didn’t begin to know how to unlock, but also couldn’t wait to try.

  He was in the middle of reading one of Peter’s retweeted articles on deforestation and was considering retweeting it to his own account with commentary when a text notification interrupted him.

  The store is closing soon, but just stay here. I need about fifteen minutes of cleanup, but th
en we can go.

  Valentyn opened up the text application to reply. Can I help in any way?

  No, it’s not a big deal. Amy will mop the front room and put up the chairs while I do the dishes. You keep doing your crossword.

  Well, that was something of a problem, since he hadn’t gotten anywhere with it. He applied himself with renewed zeal now, losing himself so completely it felt like thirty seconds later that Peter pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

  It was, Valentyn realized, the first time they’d done anything like this. Their first interaction had been Peter’s proposal, and they were the only words he’d said out loud since. They’d become quickly intimate in text and email, but this was something new, this right here. This was what Valentyn had been craving, this quiet one-on-one where little things could speak instead of words.

  He saw, immediately, what Peter had meant when he’d said he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

  His furtive research into selective mutism had been clear this was some sort of anxiety disorder, and Peter had confirmed this, but he hadn’t understood until now. It didn’t seem like Peter was anxious. If anything he appeared aloof, disconnected. It’s not autism, Peter had told him, and yet it would have been the assumption Valentyn leapt to.

  Somewhere inside the man in front of him was the man who routinely thumbed his nose at trolls and made Valentyn blush in text. Everything Valentyn knew about negotiating conversation felt stilted and wrong, because he didn’t get any cues. Peter only stared at the table, or out the window, or very pointedly over Valentyn’s shoulder. It wasn’t even like when Valentyn had first come to the United States as an undergraduate and everyone spoke in accents he didn’t understand with English far, far faster than anything he’d ever experienced. That had been terrifying, but at least they’d used body language to give him cues. Peter was almost completely wooden.