by Lexi Scott
“Listen, man, you’re freaking me out. Go home, get some sleep. Whatever this idea is, it can wait.” He looks like he’s debating calling in for backup.
“I’m fine. I am. I really am…fine,” I reassure him as I try to peel my lab coat off. I flap one arm, then the other, then finally manage to throw it on my chair. “I have to meet someone.”
“Is it important?” Cody asks.
“Life or death, man. Life or death.” I turn to walk out, and Cody grabs my arm, his usually laid-back features locked tight.
“No. Let me take you to eat. Or let me drive you home to get some rest. You’re cagey as all hell, Adam. Whatever you want to do, you’re gonna screw it up if you go and try to get it done right now.” He pulls me back to my chair and forces me down. “Tell me what the hell is up.”
I feel like I should try pushing him out of the way and making a run for it, but Cody is a semi-pro surfer. He’s in peak physical shape and could outrun me any day.
“I just figured out my thesis,” I stall.
“And no one you need to talk to is even on campus right now,” he says slowly. “The entire board is at the conference in Houston. So back up. Who are you running to see?”
“It’s not Genevieve,” I admit. Lack of sleep and the high amounts of processed sugars and sodium rioting through my brain don’t leave me with much more that makes sense. “I need to save my marriage.”
“Whoa.” Cody takes me by both shoulders and shakes me. “Stop. You need to save your marriage? But you’re not going to see Genevieve?”
“She offered to marry me for a green card. To save me from being deported. We had an interrogation. And I told them stupid, stupid things about our toilet paper and our curtains, so I have to just fix that. It’s like the yeast. Exactly like that. I just need to get them to see that it’s the petri dish approach that’s screwing things up, you know?” I kept talking when Cody’s jaw went slack, but I stop when his jaw clamps shut.
“I hear you,” he says slowly. “I hear you, and I’m telling you this as a friend. You need to go the hell home and get some rest. You’re talking total fucking gibberish, Adam. I think you’ve been in the lab too long, and it maybe pushed you over the edge. No worries. Nothing some sleep won’t fix.” He’s trying to lead me down the hall and out to his car, I bet, but I manage to calm some of the adrenaline running hot through my veins.
“Cody. Listen. I can’t stop. I can’t go home and sleep. First of all, I haven’t slept in days, because Gen left me.”
Cody stops dead in his tracks, and his look goes from worried to pitying. Pitying in every way.
“No kidding?” he asks. I don’t say a word, because I have zero game face, and I know it. I’m positive I look as wrecked as I feel. “Shit, man. I had no idea. I guess I should have known. Genevieve would never have let you spend such a crazy amount of time in this shithole, eating all that crap. I should have guessed.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but we were interviewed by Immigration. We were separated for the questioning, and that’s not a good sign to begin with. Then we answered a few questions wrong. I’ve just been waiting for it all to blow over or for everything to fall apart, but I realize now that I need to talk to them. I need to let them know that their conclusions will be wrong if they don’t consider alternate factors—”
“Adam?” Cody shakes his head. “No. No, I’m telling you. Bad idea. You don’t go all scientific method with the U.S. Government. No one who saw you and Genevieve talk about each other would think you had anything but a real marriage. It’ll work out. Leave it be.”
“Can’t.” I push past him and call over my shoulder, “They’re looking at it all wrong! I have to tell them, or I’ll lose her! I can’t risk that!”
I hear Cody calling my name, but I’m already well on my way to the parking lot. I try to figure out what the hell I’ll say as I drive to the CIS office, but there’s too much to process in too little time. I’m in the parking lot of the little office where all our troubles were born, debating whether or not I should start with a confession, when I bump into Carlita Johnson, briefcase in one hand, coffee in another. Her briefcase unsnaps and papers skitter across the gravel.
I kneel down and grab at them, apologizing the entire time.
“Mr. Rodriguez-Abramowitz,” she says, her voice a discouraging mix of wary and surprised.
“Yes! You remembered me.” I hand her a pile of dusty papers and she frowns as she takes them, attempting to smooth and organize the stack before she puts it back in her briefcase.
“How could anyone forget you?” she asks drily, nearly dropping the briefcase again.
I tug it gently out of her hands, saying, “Please. Let me help. It’s the least I can do. I’m the one who knocked into you.”
She nods, her braids loose and long today. “What brings you to the office?” She asks like she’d rather not know.
“I wanted to talk to you, actually,” I announce.
She stops shuffling the papers and says, “That is both unnecessary, as your final file review is in the mail, and against procedure, unless you have an appointment.”
I press past her firm voice and the rules and logic that would have put me in my place a few hours ago— before I realized stretching the limits of the rules is sometimes the only way to get anything done.
“You’ll have to re-review. I know what you thought, with the toilet paper mess-up and the way I mixed up Genevieve’s birthday—it’s the thirteenth, by the way, and I already know what I’m getting her—but you weren’t looking at it from the perspective you need to.”
“I assure you, Mr. Rodriguez-Abramowitz—”
“Adam,” I interrupt, not letting her get another word in, because she has to see it. She has to understand. “My wife makes this bread that my mom used to make, but she doesn’t use a pan. I’ve never seen anyone not use a pan, you know? And it hit me, today, with my work, that we’ve all been trying to put this marriage in the pan, as it were. But it’s not like that—”
“Adam, you need to stop—”
“And maybe it started out because I didn’t want to be deported, if you look at it one way, but it was always something more than that—”
“Adam, listen to me right now—”
“And I know, you have a job to do, and people probably come to you all the time telling you how much they love the person they’re with and how you have to listen, but it takes me a while, you know? I’m a smart guy in some ways, but I’ve been so dumb about Genevieve, because this was never a green card scam—”
“Enough!” she yells, and I finally cut my explanation off, because I realize I’ve lost. And it feels like the wind is knocked out of me. “Enough,” she says, ripping her briefcase out of my hand. “I’m not even supposed to say this. I could lose my damn job! But, no, I have never had a person come plead his case like a lunatic in the parking lot, so I’ll let you know. You and your wife clearly have a legitimate marriage, no matter where you keep your damn toilet paper.”
It takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. “What?” I reach out to grab her hands, but she snatches them back.
“Do not place your hands on my person,” she warns.
“I’m so sorry. But did you say it’s okay? Genevieve and I are okay?” I ask.
“Keep your voice down,” she hisses. I shut my mouth and she lets out a breath. “This is highly unorthodox, but, yes. Your file was approved.”
“Even though our answers didn’t match?” I ask.
“You think any husband knows his curtain colors, Mr. Rodriguez-Abramowitz?” she asks, shaking her head. “Sometimes the questions we ask are to get to a bigger story. For example, I may ask who your groomsmen were, and you may tell me that you care deeply about your wife because you chose to stand with her brothers, who you don’t even get along with.” She raises one eyebrow high. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own family to get home to. And you do, too, Adam. Have a nice evening.”
�
�Mrs. Johnson?”
Carlita Johnson’s shoulders sag. “Yes?”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much.” I salute her.
“Mazel tov, Adam.” The smile that flashes across her face before she gets in the car is so quick, if I’d blinked I would have missed it.
I walk back to my car and get ready to go to Genevieve.
My family.
My incredible wife, who I’ve won back in a few ways already and plan to win back in every other way and then some before the night’s over.
Chapter Twenty
Genevieve
“Pass the flautas,” Lydia says, her voice loud like she’s asking for the second time. Very possible. I’ve been spacing out a lot lately.
“Oh, sorry.” I hand her the dish. “Glad to see you’re eating again.” The words come out wilted, and I know things are bad. I can’t even poke at my sister…this is just bad.
“Funny,” Lydia says sharply, but her eyes aren’t bright with annoyance. They’re bright with pity. I hate that. Ever since I came to stay with my parents’ almost a week ago, all I’ve seen are Rodriguez eyes full of pity.
I can’t tell if my parents are more disappointed in me or scared I’ll end up moving back in. They don’t understand time apart. They’ve been married for almost forty years and have never spent a single night apart. They don’t get that Adam and I really need this time to figure out what the hell we’re doing and where to go from here.
Every time my phone rings, I jump, wondering if it’s the Immigration Services, if I’m about to be arrested or fined. Or wondering if it’s Adam on the other end of the line, and what I’ll say if it is. We’ve talked exactly once since I left days ago. It was awkward and full of hurt, on both ends I think, but neither one of us was willing to say what the other wanted to hear. That everything would be okay. That we would be home—in our home—fighting for what we’d built together.
After talking with Marigold, I’m even more certain that what I feel for Adam is real, but I can’t push him to answer that he feels the same. And I can’t sit around and base my life around whether Adam loves me or not in order to be happy, though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I miss my husband something fierce. But I don’t want to talk about that at Sunday dinner, and ever since I got here, everyone else seems to have forgotten how to talk to me at all. Like, they’re afraid to say the wrong thing because I might crack or something.
“We got that new bedroom suite in at the shop yesterday, Dad,” I say. Everyone, including those who have no stake in the family business—like Enzo, Deo, and Whit—all look at me like I’ve just said the most interesting thing in the world. “You know, the cool mid-century looking pieces?”
“Excellent!” Dad’s voice is overly animated. He’s always excited about the shop, but this is overkill. “We have the annual sale coming up, too. Maybe you can work some extra hours to help out with inventory. We could use the help, and if Adam is…working in the lab, you’ll have the time.”
My stomach tightens at the idea of more hours at the store, falling deeper into a permanent career answering phones and helping customers choose accent pieces. My parents built an incredible business, but it’s theirs. I have no personal stake in it, no ownership. I’m just a regular employee punching the time clock. And with each punch, I feel more and more stagnant.
“I’m going to get a refill,” I say, clutching my nearly full glass of water.
I pass through the kitchen and walk straight out the back door, letting the flimsy screen slam behind me.
I can’t blame my family for wanting to work me like a slave. They even pay me pretty decent wages. It’s just never occurred to them that I might want something apart from a life peddling curio cabinets and area rugs.
“Hey, Gen.” Whit’s voice interrupts the quiet of the night, and her body blocks out the warm gold light coming from inside the house. “Food’s getting cold.” She closes the door and shifts from one foot to the other. “You all right?”
“I am. I guess,” I say, wondering how much Deo told her about my breakdown at Marigold’s. And how much Marigold might have told them. I feel exposed and sad. Really sad. “Would you mind telling them I’ll be in in a minute? I just…have a headache.”
Whit looks back into the house then comes down onto the steps next to where I’m sitting. “I can get you some medicine? I even have some stuff in my bag, that Marigold mixed up, if you w—”
“Why are you being so nice to me, Whit? We’ve never been close, why are you the one out here?” I ask, kicking at the dirt.
“So, you know when I came here, I was…” Whit bobbles her head back and forth like she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “I was sort of running, you know? Luckily, I ran smack into Deo, because I was so, so lost back then that I don’t know where I would’ve ended up without him. And I know that I had a particular thing that was driving me away, and that maybe you aren’t going through something super traumatic or anything, but you do have that same lost look, Gen, and I’d like to try to help, if I can. If we can. Me and Deo. He loves you like a sister, and I know he’d do anything to make sure you’re happy.” She twists her hands together like this entire confession embarrasses her.
It makes me appreciate the fact that she chose to say it even more.
And the mention of Deo and Whit as a ‘we’ doesn’t leave me with the dull ache it used to.
I look up at her tugging self-consciously on her sexy pinstriped dress and feel a sweet thankfulness that I have her in my life to care about me.
“Thanks, Whit, but I think I’m okay.”
She tilts her heels back and rocks her feet from side to side. “Are you sure? Because you’re usually pretty damn hard to read, Gen. But when it comes to the topic of Adam, you’re completely transparent.”
“We’re not fighting, if that’s what you think. We’re just…” I consider how much to tell Whit. I don’t want her to think that Adam has done something terrible to drive me away and home to my parents’ house, but I can’t exactly lay the truth out to Whit like I did with Marigold. “We got married so quickly, and we didn’t really take a whole lot of time to get to know each other, so that was a risk—”
“There’s always risk,” Whit interrupts, her voice breathy and passionate. “With everything. Me coming out here, where I didn’t know a soul? Risk. Letting Deo into my heart when I just wanted to close it up? Total risk. Risk is a good thing! I don’t know what’s going on with you and Adam, and yeah, you guys got married super-fast, but I think you have a marriage worth saving. Adam loves you, Gen. It’s so damn obvious, even to people that don’t want to admit it—like Cohen, who told Deo if he ever sensed Adam had done you wrong he’d bash his face in. But Adam hasn’t given him a reason to even do a double take, Gen. Fight for your marriage, fight for him.”
She has her hand pressed tight over her heart, and I bet if the light was better, I’d see her face flushed bright red.
I swallow hard. “I don’t know how much fight Adam and I have in us right now.”
Whit laughs and the throaty sound echoes in the deep lavender twilight. She stands and helps me to my feet. “Gen, I’ve known you for a while now. I’ve never known you to run away from a good rumble.”
In that moment, I wish I hadn’t spent so much time hating Whit. I wish I had spent more time getting to know her, so I could have her in my life as a constant. No wonder Deo is so crazy about her. She’s so intuitive, so real. I pull her into a hug that she isn’t expecting and she stumbles toward me on her gorgeous canary yellow peep-toes, slowly returning the gesture.
She presses her forehead to mine, and her seductive, throaty laugh fills my ears for a second time. “Go get your keys. I’ll make up an excuse. Get your ass home to your man.”
Whit and I saunter back into the house, with our arms wrapped around each other’s waists like we’ve been the best of friends since the day we were born, and I’m already trying to work out what I’m going to say to Adam
as soon as I open the front door to our apartment—when his deep, steady voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“I don’t mean to barge in on your dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez, I just needed to see—” Adam turns toward me as Whit bolts and leaves me in the dust, making her way back to Deo’s side at the table.
Traitor.
“Hey.” My voice is soft, because I don’t want our first words—no matter how impersonal they may be—to be witnessed by everyone at the dining room table. Adam looks exhausted. There are deep purple rings under his eyes that show through, even with his smooth, olive complexion. “What are you doing here?”
“Sit down, Adam,” Mom says, motioning to the two empty chairs at the long table.
Adam never stops staring right at me, his gaze beyond intense. It’s like he’s trying to communicate several days’ worth of emotions with this one long, burning look. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I’m not here to eat. I’m here for Genevieve.”
“Sit,” Dad commands, his words clearly negating any type of resistance. This time, Adam doesn’t hesitate and moves to the chair. I take my seat next to him.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” I whisper. It’s no use trying to keep quiet, though, because everyone’s attention is fully on us. Adam looks away from me, but his hand clutches mine like he’ll never let it go.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Adam says politely, looking pointedly around the table. A man with a purpose.
“Flauta?” Enzo asks with a snicker, elbowing Cohen in the ribs. He passes the tray down toward Adam.
“Thanks.” Adam’s voice is proud and flat as he piles his plate high.
“They aren’t vegetarian this time. Guess you lucked out,” Cohen says, his usually kind voice tight as a vicious jab.
I don’t get the joke, but it seems Enzo and Cohen both think it’s hilarious.
“Perfect.” Adam raises his eyebrow and eats mechanically.
“So, what’d you do to piss off Gennie?” Enzo asks, dropping the teasing and going right for the jugular.
