CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX DUFFY

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

DUFFY

THE INTERVIEW

The Holy Grail had arrived. The final stop in the process of getting a visa, and, afterward, a green card—the interview.

Riggs and I met outside the USCIS building. It was the first time I’d seen him in weeks. He wore dark jeans and a button-down denim shirt, the first three buttons undone, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. His hair had grown in the time I hadn’t seen him, and he looked especially delicious and grown up. So much so I wanted to cry.

“You look good.” He grinned down at me, and I mustered all my strength not to melt into a pool of emotions at his feet.

“You too. How was Morocco?”

“Humid. How was New York?”

“Same, only crowded.”

We both stared at each other, smiling like loons. Riggs was the first to break the spell. He tilted his head toward the building.

“Ready to knock ’em dead?”

“I don’t know if I am.” I ducked my head nervously. “Is .?.?. not knocking them dead an option? Perhaps slapping them until they’re dizzy?”

Laughing, he reached for my hand, bringing it to his mouth, and my heart stopped when he brushed his lips against my knuckles.

“You’re the girl who does dioramas out of traffic cones and laminates supermarket lists. You’re ready for anything, always. Knock ’em dead, Poppins.”

The adjudicating officer was a nice man named Asher. He had a large pile of documents in front of him, next to an array of family pictures propped on his desk.

He began by apologizing for the stuffy side office we were occupying.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s still larger than my flat.” I giggled. Asher raised his eyebrows, flipping through the pages on his desk.

“That small, huh? I’m surprised, with your husband’s net worth.”

He referred to Riggs’s tax return, which I hadn’t seen at the time we filled out the petition form. Guess we were diving straight into it. All righty, then.

“My husband is not a materialistic person,” I said with confidence, knowing each word spoken was the God-honest truth. “In fact, if you get to know him, you’ll see that he is the least money-oriented person you’d ever meet. The first few times we hung out, I bought him socks because his were holey and I was worried about him come winter.”

Asher listened intently, a small smile on his face. I felt myself blushing.

“Sorry, should I .?.?. stop talking? Wait for you to take the lead?”

He shook his head. “No. This was perfect. Okay.” He clapped. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Please state your spouse’s full name, date of birth, and place of birth.”

“Riggs Carson Bates, born February eighth, in San Francisco.”

That was an easy one.

“How did you meet?”

“Mutual friend.” Who screwed him while I was watching.

“What are his hobbies?”

“He loves mountain climbing, passionate about nature, food, friends. He is actually quite the cook. Makes great waffles .?.?. oh, and watermelon margaritas! And he is naturally fit, so even though he’d tell you he doesn’t do sports, he is rather athletic.”

I could go on about him forever. I blushed again, feeling like I’d given too much away. Surely he thought I was overdoing it to prove the authenticity of my marriage.

Asher jotted something on a document in front of him with a frown and continued.

“Tell me a little about his social life outside your marriage.”

Omitting Riggs’s endless list of sexual conquests, I told him about Christian and Arsène, about Riggs’s upbringing at Andrew Dexter Academy, and about his family background. The more I spoke, the more confidence I gained. It occurred to me that I knew everything there was to know about my husband. Sadly, that only made room for me to doubt the fakeness of my marriage. If I felt so deeply connected to the man—how could our marriage be a sham?

The interview lasted twenty minutes, even though Felicity had told us to expect something more substantial. This meant it had gone either terribly bad or exceptionally well. I tended to lean toward the latter.

“Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Bates. I’m confident that you will hear from us very soon.” Asher stood up and winked.

Oh, bloody hell. We did it. We actually did it. A wink is the international “You passed the test” sign.Everyone knows that.

“Cheers. I mean .?.?. thank you!”

“Best of luck with your future.”

Yeah, I’ll need it.

When I got out, Riggs was there, on the stairway leading up to the building, smoking a spliff. He was pacing, looking genuinely concerned. He cared.

I stopped and watched him for a bit, taking him in. A pang of pain pierced through my chest. This was quite possibly the last time I was going to see him. All the other things we needed to do—namely get a divorce—could be done via emails. We would liaise by text messages and the occasional phone call, like strangers. I would no longer be able to kiss him silly. He would no longer chase me around our small flat. No one was going to walk around naked anymore to make the other feel comfortable. There would be no waffle sampling, no sex on the floor, no apple-picking laced with kisses .?.?.

I felt myself hyperventilating.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say goodbye. But I had to.

He’s fulfilled his part of the bargain. Now you do yours and let him go.

Somehow, I dragged my feet toward him. He only noticed me when I was about a foot away from him. He looked preoccupied and a little confused.

“How’d it go?” He flicked his joint off to the street.

“Well, I think.”

“Good. Good.”

Pause. Blink. Gulp. Repeat.

“When are you gonna hear back from them?” Riggs ran a hand through his hair.

“Ten to fifteen working days,” I chirped.

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence. It was my turn to keep the conversation going.

“I found a job.”

“You did?” He looked jaded and distracted.

I nodded. “Junior producer for a local news channel.”

I couldn’t muster any excitement for the new role, which I would be starting after Christmas, by which time my visa would arrive. The truth was that I made the news because it was familiar territory, not because I loved it. I quite loved helping Riggs with his photography, but now that I knew about his financial situation, I was aware there was no such role as a photographer’s assistant, and even if there was, you don’t get paid two K a day for it.

“That’s amazing.” He grabbed me by the waist and lifted me up, spinning me in the air, laughing. “I’m so proud of you, Poppins.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Like, literally.”

I contemplated begging him not to leave, but I wanted to spare myself the humiliation and him the trouble. He didn’t want me anymore. And me? I had to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

Before he left, a tear escaped his right eye, rolling down his sculpted cheek. He made no move to wipe it away, which was even worse somehow than if he’d tried to conceal it. This was classic Riggs. He didn’t hide how he felt. He just strongly preferred not to.

After the next awkward silence, I finally mustered the courage to make a move. It wasn’t like I had any choice.

“So .?.?. it should take me around two years before I actually get my permanent green card, but I know you said you didn’t want—”

“I’ll wait,” he said, cutting me off. “There’s no rush on my end. I’m not planning to marry anyone else.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Trust me, I do. You’re the real deal. The end game. If we didn’t stick, no one else would.”

I wanted to die. For the earth to crack and swallow me whole.

“Maybe in another life?” I sniffled.

He smiled. “I’ll hold you to it, Poppins.”