Page 110 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
But I’m pretty sure Ms. Santoro knew how she was going to decide when someone handed her the manila folder with all my F-boy behavior.
God, I knew Oskar was my best friend months ago. Was that why it had felt strange when I went to bars? Was that why all my flirtatious chatter at bars felt forced, and why I was relieved when the women would scramble from the bed after we did some mutual moaning and screaming together, happy that I still had time to text or call Oskar?
I knew that I liked having him beside me. I knew that he was cute, but I thought it was in the vague way I think puppies are cute or something. I should have put it together that when I was thinking about the curve of his nose or the shape of his lips or the color of his eyes, that maybe I’d ventured into not completely friend territory. I’ve never pondered Axel’s muscles or Finn’s hair color or Troy’s narrow waist and not-so-narrow shoulders.
What if Vince had not said that immigration would be easier with an American citizen spouse? How long would it have taken me to realize that Oskar is the person for me?
I shiver. Part of me will always be grateful that the immigration process helped me realize this. Unfortunately, if I have to return to Russia, there is no happy ending for me. Not really. At some point Oskar will forget me, just like all my friends when I was boy in Russia and was sent to hockey camp. When I visited home, they acted confused when I wanted to hang out. I was some person from their past who they didn’t think about, and I couldn’t tell them that I thought about them all the time.
The women I met at bars wouldn’t disappoint me in that matter. There would never be any risk like that. There would only be short-lived pleasure, which seemed like a fine enough way to end a night after playing hockey.
“Oskar makes me be the person I want to be,” I say.
“A future American citizen?” Ms. Santoro asks, one eyebrow slanting up her wrinkled brow.
“A good person,” I say hastily.
Vince huffs behind me, and I have the horrible sensation that I’m not making this any better.
“Well,” Ms. Santoro says. “I have come to a decision. I will put you out of your misery.”
She gives a smile.
That has to be a good sign, right? I mean, she’s smiling. Smiles are...good.
But my heart beats ferociously, and the air thins.
We lean forward.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Dmitri
“Dmitri Volkov must vacate the country,” Ms. Santoro announces.
The words hit like a body check. When I look at Oskar, his eyes shine with tears I never wanted to see.
“I’m sorry,” Vince murmurs to me, his voice regretful.
I nod. “Is okay. You tried.”
Oskar wraps his arms around me, and I lift him up. He wraps his legs around my waist, and I kiss him.
When we stop kissing, I notice that the judge is staring at us.
“That won’t make a difference,” she says.
“I don’t care. I’m going to kiss my husband.”
I don’t give her any more attention. Maybe regret fills her gaze, or maybe her chin hardens, and her scowl becomes deeper and more pronounced.
Nothing will change the result.
I open my mouth to tell Oskar I love him. I do. I so do. But how will that knowledge help him when I’m on the other side of the world?
My heart aches, and I smooth his hair. His beautiful blue eyes glisten.
“I’ll miss you,” I say.
