“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “We can kiss instead of talk. We can get this out of our systems. We haven’t snuck off to the laundry room at all this season. You might see things differently after. Everything might go back to normal.”
“As much as I wouldloveto try and get you out of my system, I don’t think it’s possible. And besides, you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” I say.
“You’re not sober.”
I boop his nose. “You’redrunk,” I say.
Ollie takes hold of my finger. “I stopped drinking right after thatbeer you bought me for helping you keep your stewardesses from clawing each other’s eyes out.” He opens my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “Never been more sober in my fecking life.”
He sets my hand in my lap, and I settle back against the cushion with a groan. “That was a shitshow, wasn’t it? What’s with this season? Why is it so much more chaotic than all the others?”
Ollie gives me a look I’m not sure I could decipher sober, let alone drunk. “It’s always like this.”
“No,” I say. “It’s definitely more chaotic this season.”
He looks like he wants to argue with me but thinks better of it. He leans back on the cushion beside me, and I snuggle closer, throwing an arm over his chest. We lay like that in silence for a long time. I listen to him breathe and trace a finger up and down his chest, lower and lower to his stomach, until Ollie catches my hand and presses it to his cheek with a sigh.
“I think it’s time for you to go to bed, kitten,” he says.
“I’m a party animal. I’m just getting started.” I wedge myself closer and press a kiss to his throat.
Ollie stifles a moan of pleasure and shifts away from me gently. “You’re absolutely murderous. I’d like to be able to sleep tonight.” He sits up and pats me on the hip. “Come now. Up you get.”
I whine in protest, but it’s not so cozy up here without him beside me.
Everyone else must be passed out, because the ship is quiet as we make our way belowdeck. Ollie laughs at me as I clumsily change into my pajamas, then mutters curses under his breath when I try but fail to lift myself into the top bunk and he has to keep me from falling flat on my ass. He takes me by the shoulders and maneuvers me into his bed instead.
“Did you change your mind about getting it out of our systems?” I say.
Ollie pulls his comforter over me with a laugh. “Nope.” He leans closer and presses a kiss to my forehead. “This is a trade,” he says. “Foronenight. You better not wake up acting like you’ve claimed my bunk.”
“Thanks for the idea,” I mumble.
He slips off my unicorn earrings, first one, then the other. “I love you, Nina,” he says. The words aren’t pleading, or demanding. They’re certain. A statement of fact.
Even if I weren’t drunk and mostly asleep, I wouldn’t know how to respond. Fortunately, Ollie doesn’t seem to expect a response, because the next moment he’s gone. I hear him lift himself onto my bed. I know he is settling beneath my blanket. I know he is turning onto his left side, burying his face into my pillow, one arm shoved beneath it. For a moment before I fall asleep, I think of Ollie and what it would mean to make our relationship real, and for the first time my answer isn’tNobutWhy not?
14
Eight years earlier
Two weeks before Ollie’s Immigration interview, I sat across from him on the floor of our Lake Worth apartment, a grease-stained pizza box open between us.
“We’re going truth on this one?” Ollie asked.
“Yup.” I looked down at the notes in my hands. Throughout most of the six months since we’d gotten married and filed the adjustment-of-status paperwork that would begin Ollie’s immigration process, it had been easy to push all of it to the back of my mind. After that day, we’d never spoken about what we’d done or what information was slowly making its way through Immigration. Not until we’d received the notice to appear for Ollie’s green card interview. Since then, every spare minute we’d had was devoted to practicing, making sure our stories matched and we could fake being a real couple. Our plan was to tell the truth as often as possible and keep the lies to a minimum.
“What was the question again?” Ollie said.
I glared at him. “Can you at leasttryto pay attention?”
“How am I supposed to pay attention when you’re hurling the crust of your pizza back into the box? Who doesn’t eat pizza crust? That’s the best part.”
“The sauce is the best part,” I said.
“You’re mad,” Ollie said, finishing off the pizza crust I’d just discarded.
