Jude: Fuck you, Rem.
Remy: Jude, sweetheart, I just want you to know you have no reason to feel insecure. I think you are very, VERY strong, and I’m proud of you. Even if your fiancée can out-lift you.
On a soft chuckle, I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and open the fridge to pull out everything I need for dinner. After this evening’s hard workout—a workout that apparently has Jude whining like a little bitch—a meal loaded with protein and iron is imperative for muscle healing and growth.
Steak, asparagus, and potatoes are tonight’s dinner choice, and it’s not long before I have everything on the stove and cooking. While I wait for my steak to grill, I grab the package Daisy sent and open it.
Inside sits the paperwork I was expecting, but also, something else—two pale-yellow throw pillows.
She sent me fucking pillows? And yellow ones, at that?
A note is attached to one of the pillows, and in her now familiar girlie script, it reads, If your New York place is anything like your Vegas house, then, no offense, but you need some color.
I laugh and roll my eyes at the same time. Frankly, I have no idea what would make a woman like Daisy think a man like me wants fucking yellow throw pillows on his goddamn couch, but I can’t deny I’m inspired by the confidence it took to make that kind of assessment of me.
Intriguing, that Daisy.
I check the stove, flip over my steak and asparagus, and before I can stop myself, I’m heading out of the kitchen with those two ridiculous pillows in hand to test her theory. Once I toss them on my cognac leather couch, I step back, prepared to disprove her theory.
But instead of clashing annoyance, those two pillows have somehow made my living room feel…cozier? Warmer? I don’t know what, but it’s not bad.
“Damn, she’s fucking crazy,” I say out loud and run a surprised hand through my hair.
But she’s also right, you drab bastard.
Once I grab the hefty stack of papers she sent my way, I finish cooking my dinner and prepare to do a little—more like, a lot of—reading while I eat. If the US Immigration Department is anything like the IRS, it’s best to read all the fucking fine print before filling anything out.
And, just for future tax purposes, I’m going to go ahead and add the important disclaimer that I, Flynn Winslow, think the IRS is wonderful and love paying taxes.
Los Angeles, California
Daisy
By the time I get home from my final day of staging the Laurel Canyon bungalow, it’s a little after five in the evening. Which, to most, wouldn’t sound like a big deal at all, but when you take in the fact that I’ve been up and at it since four thirty this morning, you’d understand that mama needs to take off these heels and sit on the couch.
It might be a Friday night, but I’ll be damned if I’m doing anything but keeping my lazy ass on the sofa and binge-watching something on Netflix.
Once I step inside the front door of my downtown LA apartment, I kick off my shoes, change into my favorite pair of sweats, and plop my ass down in front of the TV. I still have no idea what I’m going to eat for dinner, but if I end up consuming the pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the fridge and calling it a meal, I’ll be perfectly fine with that decision.
Before I locate my next series binge, I scroll through all the missed emails and messages on my phone. Lord knows, I didn’t even have time to stop for lunch, much less check my phone.
Most of the emails are work-related and can wait until Monday morning. There’s one annoying text from Duncan Jones about the “rain check,” which I promptly ignore, archiving the message into the dregs of my inbox.
I also find a few messages from Damien reminding me that, even though he’s been too busy to come back and bug me, he will be back for the tea—Lipton or Twinings, he doesn’t care which. Spring is the busiest season in real estate, and, in this case, I’m thankful it’s prevented my boss from haunting me about my problems that I definitely don’t want to talk about. But I have to admit, he’s pretty dang funny.
But out of all the missed messages and emails, there’s one text that stands out more than the rest.
Flynn: I got the package.
Okay…so, he got the package, but…did he open it? Is he going to fill out the immigration forms I need him to? Or has he decided to just toss them in his fireplace and let hot, fiery flames make it all go away?
So many unanswered questions.
Me: I’m hoping I’m supposed to take this message as your confirmation that you’re going to fill out the forms and send them in…
His response comes in a few moments later. Although it’s not a yes, it’s also not a no.
Flynn: Did you read through all fifty-six pages of this packet?
Me: Of course I did.
I mean, I read most of it. Okay, fine, I skimmed enough of it to get all the important shit figured out.
Flynn: So, then you’re aware of the clause that states we need to show proof of our relationship, proof that we are living together, and in about three months, we’ll be asked to come in for an interview together at their New York office since that’s where I’m a resident?
This is the longest message, longest string of words that Flynn has ever said to me, and my only reaction is to blink roughly seven hundred times.
Proof of living together? Proof of relationship? An interview?! Gah, I’m terrible at lying in person!
Surely he’s mistaken and is just reading something wrong, even though he’s definitely not the kind of guy who seems like he reads things wrong.
Panic sets up residence in my chest, getting my heart all riled up and urging me to hop off the couch and grab my laptop from the dining table. Erratic fingers to the keys, I pull up the USCIS official website and read through everything I can find about applying for a visa after marrying a United States citizen.
I scour every single document at my fingertips, and after God knows how much time has passed, I’m aware of two things—Flynn is right, and I’m way more screwed than I originally thought.
Oh. My. God.
New York
Flynn
Fresh from my after-dinner shower, water dripping down my neck and chest, I step out onto my graphite-colored bath mat to the chorus of my phone chiming with a sound I’m not familiar with. My eyebrows draw together as I snag a towel from the rack at my side and hurriedly wrap it around my waist.
Quick, long strides eat up the distance between the bathroom and my bedroom nightstand, where my phone is dancing across the surface like a performer on America’s Got Talent. Incoming FaceTime Call Daisy flashes obnoxiously on the screen.
Instead of accepting or declining, I stare down at the screen until it disappears. I don’t FaceTime. Ever. Not with my brothers or my sister. Not even with my sister Winnie’s daughter—and my adorable niece—Lexi.
Daisy: I’m trying to FaceTime you.
Though it’s pretty apparent my Canadian wife isn’t privy to my FaceTime track record.
Me: I’m aware.