“If they let us go, it means they didn’t find discrepancies, right?” I asked.
“Yes, seems so. Plus, passing the bed check is a big indicator for them.”
I turned to Angelo. “What did he tell you at the end? Mine said that we’d soon hear back.”
“He said about the same, that we should await confirmation soon. I didn’t ask what that meant,” he replied.
“I think you passed, guys. I’d never promise a hundred percent, but I think it’s very likely.” Esther smiled. “Did you struggle with any questions?”
“Just the one about me meeting June’s family, but I repeated what we agreed on in the first interview and told him I knew her best friend, Rio,” Angelo said.
Something in his tone made my heart dive at this. He was becoming a part of me, of my world, and I was kicking him out.
We just reached Esther’s car, which was on the same level as ours.
“Your family knows about June, and her friend knows you. I don’t think that’s going to be an issue as long as everything else is in order, and it seems that it is.” Esther was already half inside her car. “We’ll be in touch. Update me on anything you hear and vice versa. I’m very optimistic about this.”
We shook her hand, and she left.
Angelo and I looked at each other.
“I think it went well,” I said.
“Me, too.”
His eyes. Blue, deep, entrancing.
My resolve was flailing. All I wanted was to envelope myself in his arms, breathe him in, hold him, and never let go. It was tempting to think he was mine.
Rip it off like a bandage.
I reached into my bag and extracted the papers I’d kept in there since last night. “Angelo, this is my signed copy.”
It was my copy of our divorce agreement that had been prepared in advance by a lawyer when Jerry had cooked up the deal. We both had copies that had to be signed by the two of us. Our divorce would go into effect two years after he received the green card, when he’d be granted permanent residence. I wanted him to have it now, per the original plan.
He took the document from me without taking his eyes off me. “What flows in your veins, June Raine?” He had a shade of a lopsided smile on his lips.
“The same thing that flows in yours, Angelo.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why? What runs in yours, besides cholesterol?” I tried to joke because I couldn’t take the way he was looking at me and the rings that were still on our fingers while I was crushing everything good.
“You.”
The sound I heard was my heart smashing on the concrete floor.
“Angelo.” I shook my head. My voice didn’t cooperate, the tears that stung my eyes stomped the words, and they came out as a whisper. “I can’t.”
“I know,” he mouthed.
I turned and half ran to my car like the coward I was, knowing that the visual of him standing there with the papers would be forever branded on me.
When I got back home, the closed, darkened shop and the empty Ocean Avenue echoed the void I felt inside.
Opening the door, throwing my bag and keys by the entrance, I thudded onto my sofa. A sofa that could open into a bed and hold a loved one in it.
I smoothed a hand over the fabric, my gaze falling to the floor. There, under the coffee table, was a lonely guitar pick. A dark blue one. I picked it up and, for the first time in I didn’t know how long, I cried. Tears streamed down my face and dripped from my chin, loud sobs tore out of my throat, and my nose ran uncontrollably.
