Page 8 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“Leaving already?” the guard calls to Oskar, and I frown.
“That’s your fault,” I remind him, in case he forgot.
Oskar rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. He strides through the lobby, not stopping for small talk.
Then we’re out in the crisp January cold. Piles of snow lie inelegantly on various sides of the building, some of it formed by snowplows. The snow glitters under the street lamps, the outer layer more ice than snow.
I double check that the ground is appropriately sanded and salted. I don’t want Oskar to fall. The sidewalks are safe, and we continue until we reach Oskar’s apartment. It’s less luxurious than Finn’s. The entry tiles are porcelain, not marble, the desk that the security guard sits at is less grand, and the walls are more soaring than super soaring.
“You’re annoying sometimes,” Oskar says, as we step into the non-marble elevator.
“You’re going to miss me.”
Oskar’s face crumples. “God, I’m going to miss you so much.”
I swallow hard.
The elevator pings, and we walk down the carpeted hallway to Oskar’s apartment. He flicks the switch open, and I wait for all the feelings of coziness to come to me. All the chillness.
But instead, I stiffen, and all I can think about is that I’m going to leave the US and that things aren’t right.
That’s not something Oskar can change though. I take off my coat, and since Oskar is still fiddling with his, I finish unbuttoning it and remove it.
His eyes widen, and he gasps, like I’ve done something strange, but of course I haven’t.
I slip off my shoes and collapse onto his couch. I close my eyes, waiting for the peacefulness to come, but my mind still races. I’m going back to Russia. I’ll be there soon. Soon, this will be a memory. I look around the room, wondering which pieces of furniture will disappear from my mind first, when I’ll forget the exact shade of gray paint on the walls, and when I’ll forget that the walls were gray at all.
Will I forget whether the sofa had room for two or three people? Will I forget the material? The color? The faux fur blanket on one end? I yank it toward me, and run my fingers over it, because I need to remember. I have to remember.
I glance at Oskar. Will there be a time when I forget the sound of his voice? His favorite phrases? His name? His last name?
I won’t. He’s coach’s son too.
But everything around me feels fragile.
Oskar rustles in the kitchen, then he plops down beside me and hands me a beer. “Good?”
“Yeah.” I take a long sip, but this is all wrong too. The sour bubbles tumble down my throat.
It’s good. It’s all good.
Oskar sits on the armchair, and I frown, because there’s plenty of room on the couch. I pat the cushion beside me. "Better view of the TV from here."
He nods and slips beside me. My shoulders ease, and I forget to turn on the TV.
I find myself dozing, and when I wake up, Oskar’s head is down. His long lashes flutter, and he looks soft and innocent, and I’m extra glad that I didn’t let that Canadian man hit on him.
I return to my apartment. God, I need to stay in the United States.
I scroll the immigration site like I have dozens of times before, as if a loophole will magically appear that none of my lawyers could find.
Then an idea hits me. A brilliant one. Because, well... I’m brilliant.
I put on my coat and shoes, then march from the apartment. This will fix everything.
CHAPTER FOUR
Oskar
