It was great fun. I didn't even get sick in the motion simulators. I could have sworn Daniel was having almost as good of a time as I was, and by the time we got back to the hotel I had almost succeeded in forgetting that he wasn't really my husband.
At dinner, the subject didn't even come up. It was unusual for us to get through an entire conversation without someone even alluding to our arrangement, but we both seemed content to ignore it for now. I wasn't sure if that was a good plan, in the long term. In fact, I knew it wasn't. But just for the honeymoon, I didn't care.
I'd assumed we would be gone for whole week at least, but Daniel told me that three days was the longest he could be away from work. I wasn't too happy about the idea of our time being cut short - especially if it meant things between us were going to change. But there was no use in thinking about that now.
Instead, I focused on what we did have. Even after just a few days, I'd grown used to waking up beside him, seeing him while his eyes were still unfocused and his hair was askew. I'd always thought it was ridiculously corny when people talked about how someone could be more attractive when they were groggy and unkempt, but now, I understood. There was nothing intimidating about him when he'd first woken up - everything from his slightly puffy eyes to his sleepy, crooked smile was downright approachable, and I never thought I'd say that about a man like Mr. Thorne.
On the last day, it was time for my "moon landing." I was strangely giddy about it, maybe because it was something to focus on besides the reality of our honeymoon ending. After a simulated launch and orbit - during which I admittedly did open a bag of Funyuns and then try to catch them all in my mouth - it was time.
They had outfitted a whole room to appear like the moon's surface, with walls and ceilings speckled with stars, and an image of the earth on one side. The suits we were wearing were heavy and uncomfortable, though certainly not as bad as the real thing. I resisted the urge to quote Neil Armstrong as I stepped out onto the rocky surface.
If I stood there for long enough, I could almost convince myself it was real.
It wasn't, of course - much like my marriage to the man who was currently hopping back towards the lunar lander.
We had to catch a flight early the next morning, but once we got back to the hotel, it was clear that neither one of us felt like sleeping. It started with a smile, on his part - a crooked little number with a secret meaning that I now understood. Next thing I knew he was nibbling on my ear and telling me I'd been bad, which I wasn't sure I had been, but his voice was playful and I didn't really mind in the least.
"Bad girls get spankings," he said, and I cooed.
I stretched out over his lap, arching my back. I'd had boyfriends spank me playfully before, and I'd always found it gave me a pleasant tingle. But I'd always been too shy to ask for more. His hand was warm and strong, and even though it stung, the hits reverberated in my core, turning it molten-hot, making me quiver. I was moaning for him by the time he flipped me over and took me hard and fast, slapping his hand over my mouth when I got too loud.
It was hot, quick, and explosive. I thought that would be it for the night, but a little while later, after we'd ordered a snack from room service, he wanted it again - sweet and slow now, taking our time. When we finally went to sleep, I swear the sky was starting to lighten.
-
The next morning, he was very quiet. We packed slowly, and I didn't bother trying to engage him in conversation. I slept for most of the plane ride, again, and after we got into our taxi back home, I remembered that I wouldn't be going back to my apartment.
Ever.
Strangely, the thought didn't bother me as much as I thought it would.
As much as I'd like to say I was productive for those first few days as Daniel's stay-at-home wife, I spent most of it wandering around aimlessly, watching terribly daytime T.V. and trying to acquaint myself with the place. I unpacked some boxes, and shopped around for art studio supplies online - an easel, maybe? A new desk? A nice chair? I could spend as much as I wanted, and somehow that was more intimidating than liberating. On the third day, when Daniel got home from work, I realized I'd spent the last two hours clicking around the website for one five-hundred-dollar working stool.
He kissed me chastely on the forehead when he walked in, as he always did. We hadn't made love again since coming home, and I hadn't pressed the issue.
"I'm having trouble deciding what to get for my studio," I said.
"Get it all," he said, smiling, just before he stuck his head in the fridge.
"I think we might have a space issue." I walked into the kitchen. "So, how was your day?"
"Fine." He came up for air with a carton of orange juice. "I submitted some forms to the government today, so there's a chance we'll be called for an interview in the next few weeks. Remember what we talked about?"
It felt like a thousand years had passed since then. "Yeah," I said. "I think so. Maybe we should go over some of the details later."
"Of course." He was pouring himself a glass. "I'm not worried. And you shouldn't be either. We'll do just fine."
"Sure," I said. "It's nerve-wracking, though." Not to mention, it was the first time we'd talked about the nature of our arrangement since the honeymoon, and I suppose I wasn't quite prepared for it.
"Well, just try not to think about it for now," he said. "No use borrowing trouble."
"Why'd you bring it up, then?"
"Sorry," he said, grinning. "Greek for dinner?"
"Sure." I sat down on a stool at the breakfast bar. "One of these days I'm going to cook some real food for us."
"Why bother? We've got some of the best restaurants in the country within a twenty-mile radius." He made a dismissive hand gesture as he opened his phone.
"Well, at least it would give me something to do," I muttered.
He set the phone down on the counter and came over to me. "Anything you want to do, you can do it," he said. "You have your car. You have my credit card. Do whatever you want."
"I don't know what I want."
It was true, in more ways than one.
Wisely, he walked away and left me to think. I didn't really want to think, but it was better than trying to talk about it.
I successfully pushed thoughts of the interview into the back of my mind, and the next day I ordered an easel and a light table. Before long, I had actually set up a studio in the larger of the two spare rooms. We got rid of the bed and superfluous furniture, and the place was roomier than I expected it to be. With the curtains open, the windows even let in a nice amount of natural light.
I started drawing in charcoal again. Slowly, at first, because it had been a while. But before long I had a few rough sketches, and one pretty good drawing of my childhood home. I'd always done still life, mostly. I never liked the challenge of trying to capture the nuance in people's faces.
I came to bed every night when Daniel turned in, but he never touched me beyond a peck on the lips. I wasn't sure if I expected it to change, but I suppose I thought it was worth the shot.
He got the call from the INS a few weeks later.
After he told me, I spent a long time pacing. There was no more drawing in the cards for me. I read everything I could find on the internet about surviving marriage fraud interviews. But none of the write-ups were particularly encouraging, because every single one of them warned me that if I had a sham marriage, there was absolutely no chance I'd be able to convince the INS otherwise.
Well, they probably just said that for legal reasons.
I hoped.
It took some jumping through hoops to actually schedule the appointment for a time when Daniel could get away from work, but when we finally did, it was a full month away. I didn't know how I was going to survive the anticipation.
I spent a lot more time researching and a lot more time pacing. Daniel pulled out his tiny notebook and we went over everything again, and again and again. He kept telling me that the most important thing was to sound honest and unrehearsed, but I was absolutely sure I was going to make some horribly obvious mistake and ruin everything.
The morning of the interview, I dressed in my most responsible-looking outfit and threw up twice in the bathroom while I was getting ready. The whole drive over, I felt like every organ in my body was trying to crawl out through my chest. I let my hand from my lap down to the seat, where I found Daniel's. I clasped his fingers in mine and squeezed tight, and he squeezed back.
He had, at least, some amount of faith in me. I just wasn't sure if it was justified.
We went to a nondescript building downtown; it could have passed for any other bank of offices. After a long walk down many hallways, we finally arrived at our meeting place.
The waiting room was small, and crowded with people. Most of them had the same thousand-yard stare that I was sure I sported. Not a single one of us wanted to be there. You could practically smell the fear.
I sat there, still clutching Daniel's hand, until his name was called.
"Mr. Thorne?"
I had forgotten they'd be talking to us separately. Of course they would. I let go of his hand and hunched down in my seat.
This was going to be the longest wait of my life.
After a while, I actually started to seriously consider that he might never come back. Maybe they'd already arrested him, and they'd be coming for me next. Of course our story wouldn't hold up. Why would it? We'd been stupid to think we could beat the system.
I sat in utter misery for what felt like hours. Every time the woman came back to the door and looked around the room, my head perked up, hoping against hope it would be my name that she called.
But it never was.
And then, finally, I heard it.
"Mrs. Thorne. Will you please come with me."
I followed her, into a tiny office with barely enough room for two chairs and a desk. I sat down.
"Someone will be with you in just a moment."
She disappeared.
Sitting there, alone, in the stifling little room, I was very aware of the sound of my own breathing. Did I seem nervous? I had to act normal. I had to remember to smile.
The doorknob rattled.
A middle-aged man walked in, glasses perched on his nose. He was dressed like Mr. Rogers. I smiled bravely at him.
"Mrs. Thorne," he said. "Thank you for coming in."
"My pleasure," I said, absurdly.
"All right." He opened a manila folder on his desk. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Chapter Thirteen
I sat quietly, irrationally worried that the interviewer could hear my heartbeat. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, and then, he finally spoke.
"Can you tell me about your first meeting?"
I cleared my throat. "Well, uh, he runs the company that I work at. But he doesn't take a very…hands-on role in dealing with his staff. So I saw him around for years before I ever really 'met' him." I inhaled, slowly. Breathing. Staying present with myself. "Then, about three months ago, he sent his lawyer to get me. He told me that Daniel wanted to meet with me."
"And what happened then?"
"Daniel wanted to talk about a special project. A logo redesign for the company. Complete image overhaul. He wanted to keep it a secret, which was why he was talking to me about it directly. Or so he said."