Roomies

by Christina Lauren

  Calvin sets his bowl in the sink and steps around the counter. He is wearing boxers, but now I can see his legs, too. I’m not sure this is any better. Standing across from me in the doorway, he looks down, sheepish.

  “She kept asking and since she doesn’t know this is . . .”—he motions between us and I know what he’s implying: not real—“I figured it best to give in. I hope you’re not angry. She’s not much of a texter so you’ll probably barely hear from her.”

  “No, it’s fine. And you’re right, it would look weird if I didn’t interact with them at all.”

  Calvin leans against the doorway across from where I stand, and is entirely too naked to be this close. I push away and turn to face him in the hallway. On the one hand, it’s sort of lovely to have his sister’s information. Our lives are becoming interwoven; we are marking up each other’s history with permanent ink.

  On the other hand, he hasn’t been home in four years. It’s hard to know how much emotional currency he has really spent by connecting me with his sister.

  “She won’t get too personal,” he assures me. “It’s the McLoughlin way.”

  I laugh at this. “Clearly it’s the Bakker way, as well. And—upside—at least I won’t have to lie that I’m in touch with them.”

  “True.” His smile slips for a moment before it’s replaced with one that doesn’t crinkle his eyes the way I’m used to—it’s the absence that makes it so notable. “Speaking of . . . I guess we should get ready to go?”

  Calvin stares ahead at the federal building, and together we look up up up. “I have the same feeling right now that I did as a kid hearing, ‘Just wait till your father gets home.’ ”

  I nod in agreement, congratulating myself on having the foresight to skip breakfast. It would just be coming back up right around now.

  Calvin turns to me, and the faint color blooming across the tops of his cheekbones sets off a domino course of panic inside my chest. He looked completely calm at his audition, and only mildly anxious at our wedding. Seeing him nervous now only makes me more jittery.

  “Before we go in,” he says, “can we double-check that we have everything?”

  Between us, we’ve checked and rechecked at least a dozen times, but I’m soothed that Calvin’s need to be prepared is almost as obsessive as mine.

  We step out of the main walkway and off to the side, next to a half-moon planter with a set of trees on each end. In the spring there would be shade overhead and lush branches heavy with blooms. Right now they’re skeletal and stark against the looming gray sky.

  Calvin closes in to block the wind, and I pull out the binder, careful not to let anything slip to the wet ground at our feet. “Copies of everything we’ve already sent,” I say, turning past the first stack. “Photos, joint bills, copies of our applications.” I nod into the cold. “It’s all here.”

  He nods back and squints up at the building. “We ready?”

  “No.”

  At least this makes him laugh. “What else can we sort out in the next . . .”—he pulls my arm up, sliding my coat higher to peek at my watch—“four minutes?”

  Just this little gesture—that he knew I would be wearing a watch—gives me a measure of calm. “I guess we’re good.”

  I still don’t know that much about his family dynamic, I don’t know much about his childhood, I still don’t know that much about his time in the States. But I guess it’s understandable . . . as far as they know, we met only six months ago.

  He presses a single kiss to my brow—and my heart leaps into my throat—before he sucks in a breath and steps away, taking my hand. The flush in his cheeks has spread, and when he looks up again, I see that his neck is flushed now, too.

  He gives my arm a gentle tug. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  The gravity of what we’re about to do really hits home once we’re inside. There’s an austerity in the air—an impression that this is not the place to expect to be charming and get away with anything. A set of metal detectors sits just inside the doorway and a stoic security guard watches while we sign in and pull out our identification.

  We peel layers off in silence, placing coats and scarves and bags into gray plastic tubs that are shuttled away on a conveyor belt. Calvin motions for me to go first into the scanner. Once through, we silently find the elevator—my heart is a hammer now—we climb in—Calvin’s hand grows sweaty in mine—and he reaches with his free hand to press the button for our floor.

  I curse the hard-soled Mary Janes I’m wearing as they alternately squeak and then clunk across the glossy tiled floor. I try to adjust my footfalls and end up doing an awkward shuffle-dance down the hallway.

  “Never a dull moment,” Calvin quips at my side.

  I growl through a laugh, trying to walk normally. “I’m not great with pressure.”

  “No,” he says in mock disbelief.

  I shove him a little. “At least I don’t have to pee. When I was a kid my mom knew where every bathroom in Des Moines was located. Even a hint of anxiety and I’d pee my pants.”

  He stifles a laugh. “I was a thumb sucker.”

  “Tons of kids do that.”

  “Not till they’re four. God, Mam tried everything to get me to stop. Socks on the hands, bribery, even painting my thumb with this clear stuff that tasted awful.” He scrunches his nose at the memory. “Then we visited my uncle and he told me to pluck on his old guitar when I felt the need to do it, and that was it. I never looked back.”

  We reach the office door and I tuck that piece of information away in my Calvin vault.

  Understandably, this room has none of the optimistic charm found at the Marriage Bureau. The carpet is standard industrial gray and a handful of other couples sit in metal-and-fabric reception chairs. One couple seems to have brought a lawyer with them. Jeff told us not to. He said more often than not it tends to make the immigration officer suspicious, and that there was no need. I hope he was right.

  At least twenty minutes go by. Calvin and I try to quiz each other in a way that looks more like flirting and less like cramming for a last-minute test—and get so caught up that we startle when our names are called. I’m assaulted by the mental image of cartoon characters with sweat spouting from their foreheads and the word LIARS flashing above. Calvin links his fingers with mine again when we stand, and we’re greeted by a smiling man with more forehead than hair who introduces himself as Sam Dougherty.

  Inside his office, Officer Dougherty sits down in a chair that creaks each time he shifts. “All right. Please repeat after me: ‘I swear that the information I am about to provide is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’ ”

  We repeat it in quiet unison, and I wipe my sweaty hand on my thigh when we’re done.

  With his eyes on the file in front of him, Dougherty begins, “Calvin, may I please have your passport and driver’s license, if applicable. And Holland, I need whatever proof of citizenship you’ve brought with you.”

  We huddle together, and despite knowing this file backward and forward, it takes a comical amount of time and repeated paper shuffling to find what he needs. I feel the tremor in my hands as I hand it over, and can see it in Calvin’s, too.

  “Thank you,” Dougherty says, taking them. “And thank you for making copies. That’s always appreciated.”

  Even though I sense that he’s going out of his way to be nice, my heart is pounding in my throat. But when I glance over to Calvin, any trace of nerves seems to have left him. He sits comfortably in his chair, hands loosely folded in his lap, with one leg easily crossed over the other. I take a breath, wishing he could funnel some of that calm into me.

  “When did you enter the country?”

  Calvin answers honestly—eight years ago—and I note the tiny quirk in Dougherty’s brow as he writes this down. I clench my own hands in my lap to keep from leaning forward and explaining, See, he’s a brilliant musician and kept thinking that the right opportunity would
come along, and then it didn’t, and before he knew it, he’d been here four years illegally and was terrified he’d lost any shot at playing music in the States.

  Calvin glances at me, lifting a brow as if he can tell that I’m on the verge of losing it. He winks, and my blood pressure backs off; the cold panic thaws along my skin.

  I tune back in, following their conversation. Where did you go to school? What did you study? When were you born? Where were you born? What do you do to make ends meet?

  Calvin nods, having prepared for this last question. Although street performance itself is protected under the First Amendment as artistic expression, we agreed with Jeff that busking didn’t lend credibility to Calvin’s plan to play the part of a classically trained musician. “I’ve been playing with a number of local bands,” he says, “performing at various venues.”

  “Such as?” Dougherty asks without looking up.

  “Hole in the Hall,” Calvin says, and winks at me. “Bowery. Café Wha?, Arlene’s Grocery. Tons of places.”

  Officer Dougherty turns to me and smiles. He seems completely satisfied with all of this so far. “Is this your first marriage?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you have the marriage certificate with you?”

  I fumble through the papers again and Calvin leans forward, gently pointing out the right document. “Right there, mo croi.”

  I manage to mutter some breathy version of thanks, and hand it over.

  “Were your parents at the ceremony, Holland?”

  “My parents . . . no,” I say. “They don’t like to fly, and it was all sort of a whirlwind.” I swallow down my nerves. “It was just us, and our best friends.”

  “No family there?”

  A tiny stab to my heart. “No.”

  He writes something down on a sheet of paper, nodding. I suspect he already knew this.

  “And what about your parents, Mr. McLoughlin?”

  Calvin shifts in his seat. “No, sir.”

  Dougherty pauses, taking this in, before writing something down.

  Defensiveness rises in me. “Calvin’s youngest sister has cerebral palsy. Her medical expenses are enormous, and the family couldn’t afford to come out. Our hope is to travel to see them this summer to celebrate.”

  Dougherty looks at me, and then turns sympathetic eyes to Calvin. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. McLoughlin. But I hear Ireland is beautiful in the summer.”

  Calvin reaches over, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Dougherty goes through another round of questioning, where this time the goal is to verify that Calvin is of “good moral character,” and he answers with flying colors. I’m just beginning to relax, to think, Holy shit, what was I so worried about?—when Officer Dougherty clears his throat, puts his notebook down, and looks us in the eye in turn.

  “So, Calvin and Holland. Now we move on to the final part of the interview, and the part I’m sure you’ve heard the most about, where we hope to determine the authenticity of this marriage.”

  That sound? That was my heart falling like a brick from the sky and crumbling on impact.

  “Believe it or not, some people aren’t actually in love.” He leans back in his chair—squeak, squeeeeeak. “They come in here trying to obtain a fraudulent green card.” He says this like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. Calvin and I make a show of looking at each other, attempting to mirror his disbelief.

  “And it’s my job to figure that out, and identify red flags. I am required to remind you that you are under oath, and the penalty for perjury is up to five years in a federal prison, and/or a fine of up to $250,000.”

  I swallow, and then swallow again. A vision of me in an orange jumpsuit flashes in my thoughts and I have to resist the urge to laugh hysterically.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions to assess whether or not you can satisfy your burden of proof as to whether your marriage is real. First of all, do you have documents to substantiate the marriage?”

  “You have our certificate.” I pull a stack of papers from my folder. “And here’s the lease agreement.” I slide it in front of him, followed by several more papers. “A copy of our utility bills and our joint account.”

  “So you have checks in both your names?”

  “Yes, we have sex—CHECKS!” My face explodes in a fireball.

  Beside me, Calvin lifts a hand to casually cover his smile.

  “One would hope so.” With a smile, Dougherty searches through a list of information. “Calvin, where did Holland study?”

  “She went to Yale and then Columbia,” he says. “She has a degree in English and her MFA in creative writing.”

  Dougherty looks up, surprised. “MFA. Wow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Holland, where did you and Calvin meet?”

  “We met . . .” My brain is a slow-motion train wreck, coming around a curve too fast before completely careening off the rails. “At the subway.” Our plan is to say we met on the subway, riding together. Our plan is to avoid mentioning that he was busking for money, and instead focus on his various musical gigs with local bands.

  Our plan is to be smooth, for Christ’s sake.

  So I have no idea what’s happening when the next words fly out of my mouth: “I used to watch him play.”

  I mentally scream as our carefully crafted, simple story somehow flies out of my brain.

  “At one of the clubs?” Dougherty asks, brows raised.

  Fix this, Holland. Say yes. “No.” Shiiiiiit. “At the Fiftieth Street station.”

  “I would play there a couple times a week,” Calvin covers easily. “It was more for fun than anything.”

  Dougherty nods and makes note of this.

  “I could hear music when I’d pass, and one day I decided to see who it was.” I swallow, wondering if that’s the end of what has to be my complete mental breakdown. No such luck. “I couldn’t take my eyes off him and so . . . I’d sometimes take the train when I didn’t need to just to hear him play.”

  I’m afraid to look at Calvin, and instead keep my eyes straight ahead, to where the fluorescent bulbs are reflecting off Officer Dougherty’s bald head.

  “I have heard a lot of stories, but that is a new one,” he says. “Very romantic. And how long before you talked to him?”

  For Christ’s sake, shut up, Holland.

  “Six months.”

  Calvin slowly turns to me.

  Ughhhhhhhhh.

  “My goodness, that is a crush.” Dougherty makes a few notes in his file, and I swear I am sweating through my chair. “And Calvin, what did you first notice about Holland?”

  “Her eyes,” he says without hesitation, even though our story has dramatically changed. “The first time she talked to me we didn’t say much, but I remember her eyes. They’re hypnotizing.”

  He noticed my eyes? They’re hypnotizing? Does he actually remember that I spoke to him that night before the zombie attack, or is he playing along? I don’t even get time to savor this moment because the officer looks up at me as if to verify this. “And Holland, do you remember what you said?”

  I feel the embarrassment all over again. “I think I blurted out something about his music.”

  Calvin nods. “She said, ‘I love your music’ and then sort of . . . shuffled away.”

  I look over at him and laugh. I feel jubilant: he remembers. “I’d been drinking in Brooklyn with Lulu,” I tell him.

  “I’ve figured that out in the time since, mo stóirín.”

  Officer Dougherty chuckles down at his papers. “A love story as old as time.”

  We walk to the elevator in silence, and our steps reverberate down the hall.

  I think we did it.

  I think we did it.

  I am mortified that I admitted to essentially stalking him, but it doesn’t seem to have fazed him at all.

  And who cares? Because we did it.

  The elevator doors open and we step in
side; thank God it’s empty. I fall back against the back wall, stunned.

  “Holy shit.” He pushes a hand into his hair. “Holy shit. That was amazing.”

  I open my mouth. My body hasn’t caught up with my brain yet; I still feel like I’m on high alert. “Oh my God.”

  “I almost lost it for a second when you blanked on how we met,” he says, “but then you came up with that brilliant story about watching me for months.”

  Oh, shit. “I . . .”

  “The idea of you coming to the station every day just to hear me play,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s insane. He ate it up like cake.”

  “Total cake,” I mumble.

  Would he like me less if he knew that it was the truth? That I watched him for six months? That I wanted him, in painful silence, for too many subway rides to remember?

  He moves a step closer, crowding me against the elevator wall. “Do you know what happens now?”

  With him so close, I want to tell him every embarrassing time I wondered what color his eyes were, what he’d sound like when he opened his mouth, what he looked like when he smiled. With him this close, my brain becomes a film reel of every second Calvin was naked in my bed. The smell of him and the sight of his face at this distance triggers the memory of how his skin felt sliding over mine, of him above me, moving.

  “What?” I say, eyes glazed over.

  His teeth press down on his bottom lip before his mouth curves into a beaming smile. “Now, we celebrate.”

  twenty-one

  The plan is to go out for a celebratory lunch, but Calvin wants to stop at the apartment first. This morning I was too nervous to contemplate eating; now I’m too excited. We are both behaving like goofballs—racing from the subway station to the corner, play-wrestling outside the building, running up the stairs with enormous grins. I am aware, in this sharp sweep of clarity, how much fun I have with him.

  In the time since we got married, I’ve discovered that I don’t only appreciate his awesome face and hot body, but I genuinely adore being around him. We have fun because he is fun, and there’s a little ache that chases that realization because I wonder where this can actually go.