Page 94 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Fine.It’s mostly that.
I sit up against the headboard, careful not to touch her. “We’re adults. We can set our own boundaries together. We’re both aware we have to prioritize our careers right now, so anything that could jeopardize our focus is off limits.”
“So we definitely keep the no sex rule. Too much emotional attachment for me if we don’t follow that one.”
“Agreed.”Reluctantly.
“Ditto with kissing.”
“Okay.” I officially hate Britta’s rules now, too. “No touching?” I say hesitantly.
I’m relieved when Britta shakes her head. “Way too hard.” Then she bites her lip, and I worry about what may come next. “Do you think we could handle hugging? Maybe even cuddling? I mean, just as friends, obviously, but I come from an affectionate family. We’re always hugging—except for Adam—and I miss it. Ineedit, Dex, especially when I’m so far from everyone I know.”
I open my arms, because I’ve found one sacrifice I can make for Britta, no matter that I’ll be taking the very real risk of falling even harder for her. “Hugging and cuddling definitely is a must.”
Chapter thirty-five
Britta
Twice now, Dex and I have proven we can share a bed like an old married couple who’ve been together for fifty years and don’t have sex. After our talk, we keep the cuddling to a minimum, and we definitely don’t kiss. Even though we’re in the same bed, newly married, and we’re really good at kissing. But we’ve set boundaries, and we’re going to stick to them.
After my brothers leave early the next morning, I assume Dex will move his stuff back to his room, but he decides to wait until after he’s surfed and helped me at the coffee shop. Thank goodness, because while we’re cleaning up the renovation aftermath, Dex gets a call from an INS agent.
I can tell that’s who it is when his face loses color, and he says, “yes that’s correct. I’m married to an American.”
We both knew we’d get a call at some point, but we’re both surprised it’s happened so soon.
The call doesn’t last over two minutes, but Dex’s face is still ashen. “She says she’ll set up interviews with both of us after she does a home visit.”
“A home visit?” I feel the color drain from my face. “When? Why?”
Dex shakes his head. “She didn’t say. She’ll just show up one day to make sure we’re living in the same place as a married couple.”
We both know what will happen if she doesn’t believe us. Dex will be deported, and I could be arrested.
“Move into my room. At least until we don’t have to worry about any surprise inspections. And we’ve got to tell each other everything about ourselves.” Panic claws its way from my stomach to my chest. “I can’t remember your parents’ names. Do you even remember mine? I donotlook good in orange, Dex.” I don’t even know if orange is standard prison color, but I’m not taking any chances.
“You’re right,” Dex nods. “But we’ll be fine, yeah? We’ve slept in the same bed with no problems.”
“Exactly. I’m not worried.” I go back to scrubbing down the espresso machines to prove just how unworried I am.
“Me neither.” Dex picks up two half-full cans of paint, stopping just before he steps outside. “Pete and Heidi, right? That’s your parents’ names?”
I nod and he smiles before lugging the cans to the small storage unit out back. We spend the rest of the day not being worried about the fact we’ll be sharing a bed tonight and for the foreseeable future.
It’s not until after we’re home and Dex has moved all of his stuff to my room that we face the reality of our situation. We’d be safer from each other if we slept in separate beds, but we have no idea how closely the INS will look at our living arrangements. Will it be enough tolooklike we share a room without actually sleeping in the same bed? Or will they show up one day when Dex doesn’t make his bed and starts asking questions we can’t answer about how often we sleep together?
So we go with an abundance of caution approach and climb into bed together.
I’ve just erected a dividing line of pillows between us when Dex scrambles off the bed and goes to the thermostat on the wall.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Turning the A/C down really low. If I have to wear pyjamas, it’s got to be too cold for me to take them off.”
“Good plan. Take it down to sixty—Fahrenheit, not Celsius.” I have no idea what cold is in Celsius, but I do know two things. This room cannotget any hotter if Dex is going to be sleeping in my bed.
When he climbs back under the covers, he rolls over on his back and crosses his hands over his chest.
