Chapter three
Cora
I’mpacingmycabinwhen a knock at the door pulls me out of my daze. I open it to Theo standing on the threshold, towering over me with a frown set so deep I worry he’ll never be able to smile again.
Guilt sweeps through me, and my shoulders sag, even though his presence eases a bit of my panic. “You didn’t have to come,” I say, but the words are empty. If he hadn’t come, I would have spent the night spiraling.
And he knows that. He steps inside, shutting the door behind him, and before I can say another word, he pulls me into a hug. I stiffen at first—we rarely hug, and when we do, it’s always brief—but I quickly find myself melting into his chest, enveloped by his strong arms. Tears prick my eyes, the fear I’ve been holding back suddenly feeling safe enough to come forward.
Theo softly rubs my back, holding me tighter. “We’re gonna figure this out,” he promises, his breath warm against my hair. “You’re okay. It’s just a mistake.”
I inhale a ragged breath, pulling back. I shake my head, quickly wiping away the few stray tears, even though more are building. “But it’s not,” I protest. “That’s the problem.”
Theo looks at me quizzically.
“The visa I’m on—it’s a lottery system. It’s not merit based or anything. You either get it or you don’t. I thought being approved once meant I’d skip the lottery this time around but … I guess not.”
Further confusion skates across his features. “Can you switch to another type of visa?”
I shrug. “They’re getting harder and harder to get. And the process takes so long that I think it’s too late for me to apply for something brand new without having to go home first.” My voice breaks a little on the wordhome. Even though it’s where I’m from, Canada doesn’t feel like home anymore. It hasn’t since the moment I got to Thatcher Ranch.
Theo nods slowly. “You have a laptop?” he assumes.
I nod, gesturing to the kitchen counter where my computer sits, closed.
He strides across the room, grabbing a stool and taking a seat, opening my laptop with the confidence of a man who battles visa denials daily.
I grab my own stool, pulling it up beside him and taking a seat. And then, over the course of the next two hours, we research. Theo on my laptop, and me on my phone. Theo doesn’t know anything about visas or immigration law, so he spends the first thirty minutes familiarizing himself with the logistics. Well, as much as someone can familiarize themselves with a governmental institution over the course of an evening.
And as idea after idea gets shot down, the pit in my stomach grows wider.
I might really be going back to Canada. Back to Toronto. Where would I even go? Mom never owned a house, so it’s not like I have property to return to. And I haven’t spoken with Dad in years. He sent me a card for high school graduation nine years ago—that was the last form of communication I ever received from him. And my friends from high school and college? We’ve either lost touch or were never that close to begin with.
My palms are sweating, so I brush them along my jeans. It doesn’t help.
“This is bullshit,” Theo mutters, angrily scrolling through an article.
I stare numbly ahead. “Rules are rules,” I say, the words coming out almost as a whisper.
There’s a long pause, and then, “There’s one option left.”
It doesn’t spark hope in me like the last handful of ideas have. I think after getting my hopes shot down again and again, deep down, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m going back to Canada. Or rather,being sentback to Canada.
“What’s that? Bribe a border agent?” I laugh, but it comes out strangled.
“Marry an American.”
I’m silent, waiting for the punchline, but when Theo turns to me without a hint of a smile on his lips, my resolve wavers. A short chuckle escapes me. “Funny,” I say.
His expression doesn’t change. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
My smile fades. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s the only thing left. Other than going back to Canada and trying for some other kind of visa. Which could take years.”
Everything he’s saying I already know. The likelihood of me getting approved for some other kind of visa is getting slimmer by the day, and the time it would take to pull it off? Well, my jobat Thatcher Ranch would certainly be filled by then, and would doing this all over again even be worth it?
“Who would I marry?” I say, the idea seeming even more absurd when I say it out loud.
