Roomies by Christina Lauren

eleven

Iroll over onto my side, right into a solid, warm body. It’s black all around us, and the darkness only amplifies his quiet moan. Against me, Calvin is completely bare; we both went to bed clothed, but somehow I ended up back out in the living room—naked—and the unbelievable heat of him seems endless in the tiny sofa bed.

The springs creak when he rolls to face me, nibbling a path from my shoulder to my jaw. “Well this is unexpected,” he says.

I want to ask him how long I’ve been out here, but he wipes away all organized thought, leaving only a trail of fire behind as his hand slides up from my hip, over my breast to my neck.

“You didn’t want to fuck in the bed?” he asks, speaking into a kiss against my jaw. “I would have come to you.”

He shifts away just enough to let me explore with my palms: the solid expanse of his chest, the hair on his navel, and lower, to where he’s hard for me, shifting into my palm when I curl a fist around him.

Like this he moves for a few tight breaths, sucking at my neck, cupping my breasts in his rough hands. But every inch of my skin feels tight and aching—I need him over me, inside.

“I want . . .”

His mouth hovers over my nipple, teeth bared. “Want?”

I try to blame my impatience on the fact that it’s the middle of the night, and I’ve somehow wandered into Calvin’s bed, and he’s totally fine with it—I don’t want to lose a single second of this by either of us overthinking it. So I urge him over me, staring up at him in the dark.

“Did you get enough dinner?” he asks, kissing from my breast slowly up to my neck.

I don’t know why he’s joking about the steak right now, but it doesn’t even matter because I can feel him press against me, and then he shifts his hips and he’s sliding inside with a moan that vibrates against my throat.

The stretch of him inside me is so new, so unexpected, that I cry out and he turns his head, covering my open mouth with his. He says something I can’t make out, but it’s probably less about the words themselves than it is about my inability to process beyond the feel of him sliding in, and back out of me.

It seems unreal that he’s here, moving, pulling my legs around his waist. He’s not quiet—he lets out a gust of pleasure with every thrust, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this wild: pushing up into him, digging my nails in his back, begging him for faster, for harder.

Then he’s behind me—how, it was so fast—and I feel the sharp sting of his hand, the satisfied grunt he makes when I cry out. And then I’m over him, his hands on my breasts, fingers drawing maddening circles around the peaks.

“Are you close?” His voice is tight with restraint.

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Good.” His hands come to my hips, and he starts working himself up into me, hurried and deeper. “It feels so good.”

And it does. My skin feels staticky, my spine is tight with the spiral of pleasure.

“Jump on me,” he groans.

“. . . Jump?”

“Rabbit,” he growls. “Like in a field. Carrots.”

With a gasp, I startle awake into the darkness of my bedroom. The sheets are a tangle at my feet. My door is still closed, and I am completely alone with my hand down my pants.

Bolting upright, I lean forward, listening for any sound of activity outside the door. There’s a quiet rustle, a squeak of the sofa bed springs. According to my clock, it’s 1:48 a.m. Is Calvin awake? Oh my God, did I wake him up by moaning? Was I loudly . . . masturbating?

I want to throw myself off the fire escape outside my window. This is only the first night having Calvin outside my room, and already I’m having sex dreams about him.

I am so fucking doomed.

Nobody thinks they’re a morning person—I’m no exception. I’m not mean or one of those people who requires a sonic boom to get me out of bed, I just tend to stumble around, blurry, for a few minutes before the hamster wheel upstairs starts rolling smoothly.

Wednesday morning, I wake, push myself up, scrub my face, and stand. Like I do every morning, I walk to the kitchen to get the coffee started. No doubt my straight hair has been teased into a campfire. My pajamas are twisted around my torso. I have dragon breath.

A deep, gravelly voice mumbles, “Hey.”

I jump back, pressing my palm to my chest. “Ohshitthat’sright—”

Apparently I’d completely forgotten that I have a husband. A husband with a penchant for showing skin.

And as soon as I see him, I remember my dream—the You didn’t want to fuck in the bed?—the endless length of him sliding inside, the sting of his hand across my ass—and a blistering flush spreads across the entire surface of my body.

Calvin is folding up the sofa bed, his hair standing up as if he’s been electrocuted by my couch. His pajama bottoms hang low on his hips . . . very low. I get an eyeful of navel hair before my eyes dart away.

I’m impressed with how accurately my dream hands predicted how he’d look naked.

I affix my attention to the tip of his nose. “Morning.”

He reaches up, wipes his nose self-consciously. “Mornin’, Holland.”

“You sleep okay?”

He nods. “Like a rock.”

I struggle not to look when he reaches down, absently scratching his stomach.

“You going in to work today?” he asks.

“Ah.” I’m overheated. “No. We’ll need to talk to Robert at some point, but I took the rest of the week off to, um . . .”

I have to turn away to reach for the coffee filters. His body is insane. His body hair is the best balance of there-but-not-furry.

Calvin is half naked in my apartment and I am completely losing my shit right now. I need to get some distance and some caffeine.

I gesture vaguely to him across the room. “To study.”

“To study me?” he asks playfully. I’m not looking at him, but I hear the grin in his voice.

“Yeah. Your life, and things.”

“ ‘Things’?” he repeats, and laughs. My brain fills with the memory of his happy trail and our dream sex.

“Are you headed to the station later?” I blurt, desperate to change the subject.

If he notices how I’ve just demonstrated my knowledge of his schedule, he doesn’t show it. “No, think I’ll stop doing that.”

My heart is a wilting flower in my chest. I mean, of course, it makes sense that he’d stop performing at the station now that he’s about to have a full-time job, but it also means the end to this little tiny joy I have.

I pour another out for Busker Jack.

I hear an odd dissonant scratch behind me, and turn. Calvin has pulled his guitar out of its case and now sits shirtless

on

my

couch.

He plucks at the strings and grins boyishly at me. “You put the pot on, I’ll provide the soundtrack?”

My controlled exhale comes out of me in tiny, sharp splinters. “Sure. Yeah.”

One of the few things Calvin has put in the kitchen so far is a box of tea labeled BARRY’S, so I assume that’s what he wants, putting the teapot on the stove and dropping a teabag in a mug. Round, warm music begins to fill the apartment, sending a wave of goose bumps down my arm. I intently study the thin stream of coffee filling the pot to keep from turning and gawking while he plays his guitar half-naked.

“Holland,” he says, slowing the meandering tune, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” I risk a look over my shoulder at him. Big mistake. “I figure that’s what we’re doing today.”

“This question is different.”

I smile in encouragement. “Go for it.”

“Are all female sex toys bright pink?”

Gah.

Gahhhhhhhh.

“Or is it just you? Like the scissors and your coat and—”

“I . . . Are you fucking with me?”

He holds up one hand, with a guitar pick wedged between two fingers. “I swear I’m not trying to embarrass you.”

“Embarrass me?” I look back to the coffee and grab a mug to pour it into. “Man, I’m totally used to having guys come over and find my vibrators in the couch. That’s why I keep them there.”

“Really?”

I turn and look at him flatly.

“Right,” he says through another delighted laugh as he returns to his strumming. “The colors of these things strike me as odd.”

“How do you take it?”

His eyes go wide. “Pardon?”

I hold up his mug and bite back a laugh. “Your tea.”

“Black.” An adorable giggle bursts out of him. “Oh my God, this conversation. I’m so sorry. I’m not fully awake yet. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Returning to the living room, I hand him the mug. “Have you been thinking about this since last night?”

Last night: when I pulled my enormous, pulsating pink vibrator out of the couch, sprinted to the bathroom to wash the couch lint off it, and then shoved it under the sink, in the very, very back. Last night, when I went to sleep and very nearly got myself off dreaming that he was having sex with me.

“No, just since I woke up.” He thanks me, and takes a sip before leaning over his guitar to place the mug on the coffee table. “You’d think the colors would be more masculine if you’re getting a fake cock—”

My brain goes all wavy when he throws that word into my living room like it’s not a live bomb.

“—but—and my sampling isn’t huge here—the majority seem to be pink.”

With his easy chatter and judgment-free tone, my embarrassment slowly, slowly drains away.

“I think the flesh-colored ones have a weird sense of sadness to them.” I sit down beside him. “Like a penis separated from its host.”

“That is a very sad prospect, indeed.”

“They also grow discolored?” I say, remembering. “I had a flesh-toned one I kept in my underwear drawer and it sort of took on the colors of the fabrics around it until it eventually looked tie-dyed.”

He laughs, nodding as he works his fingers up and down the neck of his guitar.

I want to understand why I feel so easy around him. Calvin is the human equivalent of a joint. It must be the soothing sound of the guitar. “Maybe it’s because women want pleasure for themselves,” I say, “and not to feel like they’re owing it to a dude, even when it’s a toy.”

He stops playing at this, turning to look at me. “That’s astute.”

I purse my lips at him, playfully. “You’re pointing out how astute I am for understanding my own sexuality?”

The grin that comes over him is probably the best thing I’ve ever seen. It’s wide, showing teeth, crinkling his eyes. “I knew I’d like you.”

I knew I’d like you, too, Busker Jack.

I nod to his guitar as I stand up to start breakfast. “Then keep playing.”

By midmorning we’re headed toward the theater. It’s freezing out, but the cold keeps me from dragging my feet and putting this off any longer. No doubt Robert was tipped off that something was different when I didn’t show up with coffee from Madman, but I doubt he’s expecting Hey, I got married yesterday! as an explanation.

I remind myself that the hard part is over. Telling Robert will be easy because he’ll be thrilled . . .

Right?

Jeff, on the other hand . . .

“So they’ll both be here?”

It’s the first thing Calvin has said since leaving the apartment, and the sound of his voice jerks me out of my anxiety spiral. Clearly we are both on the same page.

“Yeah.” I texted Jeff this morning, asking for a good time to check in with both of them . . . he said he’d be at the theater with Robert all morning. “Robert’s barely left since Seth quit. Jeff threatened to drag him out if he didn’t at least let him bring fresh clothes and food that didn’t come from a vending machine.”

Calvin gives me a tiny wince. “Does it make me a terrible person if I’m relieved they’re still stressed about replacing Seth?”

We reach the front of the Levin-Gladstone and I turn to face him. “If you are, then I am, too, because it just occurred to me last night they could have found a replacement in the time it took to do all this.” I lift my hand and wiggle my ring finger. “That would be . . . inconvenient.”

Calvin gently grips my elbow, stopping me from opening the door. “Thanks for letting me come along this morning. It feels like the right thing.” He hesitates. “You don’t reckon they’ll murder me?”

“They wouldn’t murder you. They’d murder me.”

Just inside, Brian’s eyes land on me like a heat-seeking missile.

“Brace yourself,” I mutter under my breath.

Calvin follows my gaze to Brian barreling down upon us. “Who is that?”

“It’s my boss, the stage manager. Imagine Mr. Plankton and Effie Trinket rolled into one. He hates me.”

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Brian asks, pointing to the door. “You took four days off. Go take them.”

“I came to see Robert. Is he upstairs?”

“He’s upstairs with the rest of your family. I swear to God, are we running a show here or hosting a reunion?” His eyes shift to where Calvin is standing just behind me. I register the exact moment he recognizes him and puts the pieces together, because he glances at my left hand and his face contorts in glee. “Shut. Up.”

“Brian—”

“You actually did it.” He takes a step closer and I step back, colliding with Calvin’s chest. “You let me sit there and get my ass handed to me in front of Michael and the Law brothers, and then you went out and did it anyway.”

I nod, taking these lumps. After all, he isn’t wrong. But the difference was, in the end, it was my decision, rather than some bartering chip Brian gets to claim as his.

“Well.” He takes a dramatic step to the side, throwing his arm out as if to point the way to Robert’s office. “By all means, head upstairs and inform your uncle that you did exactly what I suggested. I cannot wait to hear what he says.”

I take Calvin’s arm and lead him to the stairway, making a mental note to steal the lifts from inside Brian’s fancy Gucci loafers.

“Seems like a good chap,” Calvin says dryly, and despite everything, I burst out laughing.

Robert’s office door is half-open; I stop just outside. “Wait out here, okay? Just for a few minutes.”

Calvin hesitates before giving me a reluctant nod, and I lift my hand to knock.

Robert calls out almost immediately. “Come in.”

“Hey.” I walk in, taking a deep breath. Robert is seated at his desk eating a bagel, and Jeff is folding a pair of pants before tucking them into a leather duffel bag.

Robert looks up when he hears the door click closed behind me. “Hey, Buttercup. I thought you were off this week?”

I walk over and kiss Jeff’s cheek before rounding the desk to kiss Robert. “I came to talk to you.”

“Are you hungry?” Jeff asks. “There’s fruit and coffee and a bag of those little quiches you like.”

“Thanks, but . . . I already ate.” The idea of keeping food down at the moment is comical. I turn to face Robert. “How’s the search going?”

Jeff looks at his husband with an expression that says he’s been living with this particular mood for a few days. “Please don’t get him started.”

Robert rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We’ve auditioned a dozen musicians.”

“And?” Hope mixed with anxiety burns a hole through my gut.

He sinks back in his chair; he looks exhausted. “And . . . we’ll probably audition a half dozen more.”

“Would it help if I said you didn’t need to?”

I become acutely aware of Jeff going still off to the side.

“We’ve already gone over this, Holland,” Robert says, and then adds, “He can’t.”

“Who can’t what?” Jeff asks very carefully, but I’m sure he already knows.

I ignore this for the moment, focused intently on Robert. “But, let’s just say—hypothetically—that he could?”

He watches me warily. “Well, I would be thrilled. Hypothetically.”

That’s all I need to hear.

Standing, I turn to the door, stopping with my hand on the knob. “I want you to know that I did this because I love you, and when I saw the chance to be able to help, I took it. I know you’re going to be angry with me but it’s done.”

Robert’s voice is a low, menacing rumble. “Holland Lina Bakker. What did you do?”

Judging from the look on his face, he already knows.

I turn the knob and Calvin steps inside, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Mr. Okai.” He looks at Jeff. “Mr. . . .”

“Also Okai,” Jeff finishes, looking back and forth between Calvin and me in confusion. “Would someone like to fill me in?”

I hold up my left hand, displaying my wedding ring.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

And then the burst of Jeff’s incredulous voice: “You got married?” It’s so loud I know even if Brian isn’t standing just outside, more than likely he’s still heard it.

I hold up my hands. “Only temporarily.”

“You married a man you met in the subway? Does your mother know?”

“Absolutely not.” I step closer, putting my hand on his arm. “I talked to Davis and he’s assured me he won’t say anything. I’m hoping you’ll do the same.”

Jeff whips to Robert. “Did you put her up to this?”

“Of course not!” I insist. “He was the first person to shoot down the idea when Brian suggested it.”

“You did something Brian suggested?” Jeff is usually the calm one in our family, so I’m not really sure how to feel about the way that vein in his forehead is bulging. I do, however, take small pleasure in knowing that Brian probably heard this, too. Jeff looks at each of us. “Have you all completely lost your minds?”

“Honey.” Robert stands, rounding his desk to take his husband’s elbow. “Let’s all take a moment to breathe.”

Jeff wheels on him. “You’re not seriously going to let her go through with this.”

Robert throws his hands up. “What do you want me to say?”

“That she needs to undo this immediately?”

I point to my chest. “Hi. Grown woman, standing right here.”

I feel Calvin shift behind me. “I am really sorry that we didn’t involve you in the decision—”

“But it wasn’t up to him,” I interrupt, glancing over my shoulder before looking back at my uncles. “I made it clear Calvin can handle his family, I can handle mine.”

Robert looks up at me, eyes searching. “You’re legally married?”

I nod.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Jeff closes his eyes and takes a calming breath before reaching for his coat and folding it over his arm. “I’m going home to take a bottle of blood pressure medicine and try not to call your mother—my sister—who will want to kill me when she finds out.” Turning to Robert, he adds, “We’ll discuss this when you get home. Which—considering you have a new guitarist—will be early today.”

Robert nods obediently and walks Jeff into the hallway. While he tells him goodbye—speaking too softly for us to hear—Calvin and I share a grimace.

That could have gone better.

With Jeff gone, Robert closes the door and moves to his desk, motioning for us to take the seats opposite him. Hands folded neatly on the chaos of portfolios and résumés in front of him, he looks crankily at each of us in turn. “Okay. You did this, so we may as well deal with it.”

I . . . think we pulled it off?

I mean, Robert is furious with me—with both of us—but I’m not homeless or on a plane back to Des Moines, so I’m calling it a win. Best of all? Calvin has officially been offered the part for Possessed and even if Robert won’t admit outright that he’s ecstatic, he’s droopy with obvious relief. After we’d gone over the details, he called in the rest of the team. He was practically vibrating with creative energy. I did that.

Mission accomplished.

But we aren’t done yet. Despite his anger at all of us, Jeff still forwarded the email he got from Sam Dougherty, his childhood friend who now works at USCIS—US Citizenship and Immigration Services. That’s heartening, at least. But my mood wilts when I count the number of attachments; it feels like there are a thousand forms for us to fill out.

Calvin and I spend the rest of the morning gathering birth certificates and medical records and copying them in triplicate. By that afternoon, the coffee table is stacked with tidy piles of official documents. We haven’t even started the process of filling anything out yet, and my brain is goo.

Calvin finds me blinking into the open kitchen cabinet, staring at the mugs there. I was listening to an audiobook as I put dishes away and boom—surreal slaps me across the face: I see Calvin’s Juilliard mug on the shelf next to the one Davis gave me for Christmas last year that reads WORLD’S MOST OKAYEST SISTER.

“Everything all right?” he asks, eyeing me.

“Just having a momentary freak-out. I’m great now.”

Calvin laughs. “I hear that.” He picks up an apple, absently polishing it with the hem of his T-shirt. I keep my eyes at chin level. Mostly. “Do you think everything with your uncles will be okay? Jeff seemed pissed off.”

I close the cabinet door and turn toward the fridge. We stopped for some groceries on the walk home, and I grab two beers now. I don’t care what time it is, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

“Jeff might take a little longer to calm down, but the great thing about family is they have to forgive me.” I hand Calvin a beer. “I think we both need this.”

We crack them open and head back to the task in the living room. Calvin takes a seat at my side on the couch, stretching his legs out on the table in front of him.

He’s not wearing any shoes, and has these screaming purple argyle socks that I immediately adore. Purple socks, happy trail, electrocution hair. I have this dream man in my apartment, and he is distracting as hell.

I can’t wait to see how tonight’s sex dream plays out.

I reach for my laptop and wake it up with a swipe of my finger across the trackpad. It’s been ages since I’ve looked at this thing, let alone turned it on. The expensive novel-writing software sits in the toolbar with a little book icon reminding me how much I suck.

Ignoring it as usual, I open my email instead. “Jeff’s note said there are forms for each of us. Did you get a link?”

Calvin takes a sip of his beer and sits back to click through to his account. “Form I-485. Check.”

“I’m I-130,” I say. “He has a note that we can file these two concurrently, and fill out the rest of the package for him to send off once we get the initial approval. There’s also another list of things we need to make copies of, and a to-do list.”

Calvin looks over at me and I try to ignore the way the lamp behind him makes the tips of his eyelashes glow. I like seeing him on my couch. I like knowing what color his socks are, and what his sleepy face looks like before he’s had his tea.

He scratches his chin. “A to-do list?”

“You’ll need a medical exam. And until you’re officially on the books, I need to provide pay stubs to show I can support us both.” I let out a hearty guffaw. “Which means Brian will need to give me a raise. If you think he was great today you should hang around for that conversation. It’s going to be a doozy.” I tap my pencil to my lips, reading. “And we’ll need documents that prove our marriage is bona fide. His suggestions are a shared lease—easy enough—joint club memberships . . .” I look over at him. “Do you go to the gym?”

An amused curve shapes his lips and he folds his arms across his chest in that way all guys do when they want to emphasize the guns. “I do. I can add you to my membership, unless you have one of your own and want to add me?”

“Just go ahead and add me to yours,” I say quickly, as if I don’t routinely have a king-size Snickers for lunch and view treadmills as a mindless way to run and never actually get anywhere. “He suggests we have emails and texts between us, so I guess we should do that?”

“Texts like ‘Can you pick up a gallon of milk?’—or like . . . personal?”

I absolutely can’t look at him right now. I fix my gaze on the far wall. “We want to be convincing . . . so a mix of both?”

He pulls out his ChapStick, drawing my attention back to his mouth. He’s only about two feet away from me. I’ve never had the chance to look at his hands close up before. His nails are trimmed—thank God—his fingers long, but not delicate. He’s wearing my ring.

“To be clear,” he says slowly, recapping the lip balm, “so they don’t arrive and scare the hell out of you, we’re talking about I can’t wait to get your kit off kind of personal?”

My heart stands up, waves the white flag.

“Uhhh . . . yeah, I think so.” I immediately return to the safety of my bullet-point list while he picks up his phone, typing something. “What else . . . ? Letters or cards congratulating us on our marriage, bills in both our names like utilities, credit cards, that sort of thing.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Calvin. Are you coming home before work?

I type in casually, I’ll be home in about 30.

He replies, Good. I want to taste you again before you leave.

I choke, sliding my phone back down on the coffee table. “That’s—good job. I . . . approve.”

Honestly . . . how often has he done this?

He laughs, his face a little pink. “I feel sort of bad making you go to all this trouble.”

I wave off his concern. “It won’t be bad. Some sexting, a couple more copies, a couple yes-or-no questionnaires. Honestly, how hard can it be?”

Shoot me in the face.

Have you ever tried to do your own tax returns? Immigration paperwork is a lot like that, but with less math and far more opportunities for perjury.

My form was easy enough to fill out—names, addresses, and former employers. But Calvin’s are so in-depth that even when we split them it takes over an hour to get through the first two.

I look up at him from the other side of the coffee table. I’m on my second beer of the afternoon and my pencil is lost somewhere in my hair. “Can you list past and present memberships or affiliations with every organization, fund, foundation, party, club, society, or group you’ve been a part of since the age of sixteen, along with the location, nature, and dates of said affiliation?”

He stares blankly, exhausted. “I don’t even know the name of the band I was in last year, let alone from when I was sixteen.”

I check the form before glancing up at him again. “You better remember, because it wants that, too.”

Calvin leans back and runs a hand through his hair, laughing. An apple core sits on a plate in front of him, along with a handful of orange peels, the empty wrappers of two granola bars, and a bit of crust from one peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Calvin revelation: he eats a lot.

I move on to the next section. “Tell me about your parents.”

“They’re called Padraig and Marina. They’re . . .” He trails off, shrugging. “They’re nice.”

“Padraig?” I say, doing my best to repeat his pronunciation.

He turns to face me, tucking a purple-socked foot underneath him. His hair is standing straight up, almost as if it is as delighted as he is by my mistake. “Pat-rick,” he repeats in an obnoxious American accent, emphasizing each letter this time.

I feel my face heat. “Oh. Patrick. I am an idiot.”

“You Americans speak at the back of your mouth and crowd all your consonants together. Where you might say ‘How are you?’ ” he says, now using an almost perfect American accent, “an Irishman would simply say, ‘Hawarya?’ ”

My voice comes out shaky and soft: “I like that.”

Close your mouth, Holland.

He continues as if he hasn’t noticed my swoon. “The accent is stronger some times than others—like when I’ve had a few pints and I have to remind myself to slow down. If we were in Galway, you wouldn’t understand a thing I said.”

“I’m sure we sound fairly boring in comparison.”

He gives a slight shake of his head. “I like the way you sound, though.”

Oh.

I clear my throat and look down to the forms.

We spend the next fifteen minutes going through his phone, looking at photos of his family while I write down the full names and birth dates of all his siblings. He’s twenty-seven, the oldest of four: Brigid is twenty-five and closest to Calvin, Finnian is twenty-three, and Molly is nineteen.

“So is the birth order rule true?” I ask him. “Are you the dependable oldest child? The conscientious, overachieving, structured . . .”

He laughs and tips his beer to his lips to take a swallow. “I’m here on an expired visa and had to marry a stranger to get the job of my dreams. ‘Conscientious’ might not fit me to a T.” Pausing, he scratches his jaw. “But yeah, I was a know-it-all with them, and a bit of a bossy little shite, especially when our parents weren’t around. But they retaliated sometimes. Once, a girl I fancied was outside with a friend in the street, and Brigid and Finn stripped me bare and pushed me out the front door.”

“Oh my God.”

“Eh, I’m sure I deserved it.” He tilts his chin to me. “What about you, baby of six? Are you the classic youngest child?”

“I’m sure Davis would say I am. I mean, Robert created a job for me and my uncle pays most of my rent, so . . .” I trail off and motion to the room around us, as if to say see? “I’d say that’s a yes.”

“I don’t know,” he says, elbows on his knees while he looks at me. “This feels pretty selfless. Giving up half your space and putting yourself at risk.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit.” I busy myself straightening a pile of papers. Guilt is like a little stopwatch tick-tick-ticking away in the back of my head. In my heart, I know I did this for Robert. But having Calvin here so close . . . and feeling like I’ve finally done something useful for the production . . . I can’t deny that I also did it at least a little for me.

“Thomas,” Calvin mutters, tapping his list of my siblings’ names with the tip of his pencil. “Bram, Matthew, Olivia, Davis, Holland.”

“That’s right,” I say, and stand to get us each another beer. “Thomas is an ophthalmologist in Des Moines. Bram is a high school math teacher in Fargo. Matthew is in tech support at the University of Iowa . . .”

He cuts in: “Davis lives in Wisconsin, and Olivia is . . . ?” He shuffles through his notes, but I know he won’t find anything.

“Who knows,” I tell him, returning with the bottles. “Last week she wanted to go to massage school. Before that, she decided she was going to turn Mom and Dad’s land into an organic farm.”

“Every family needs one of those.” He points his thumb to his chest.

“Some of these yes-or-no questions are really easy.” I motion for him to hand me his laptop, and he does, almost gladly.

“Cheers.” He leans back again, wiggling his purple socks.

“Never been arrested . . .” I click the box marked NO and move on to the next one. “While in the United States, do you plan to engage in espionage?”

He gives me an evil smirk.

I grin, and then look back to the form. “Plan to engage in any activity a purpose of which is opposition to, or the control or overthrow of, the Government of the United States, by force, violence, or other unlawful means?”

He pretends to think, and I move on. “Have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” He shakes his head and I click the correct box. “Do you intend to practice polygamy in the United States?”

“Let’s see how this one goes first.”

Butterflies twist into a tornado inside me. “Within the past ten years, have you been a prostitute or procured anyone for prostitution, or do you intend to engage in such activities in the future?”

“I’m trying to cut back.”

He can’t see over my shoulder, and I know this could be a golden opportunity to get a little Calvin info. “Have you ever conspired to engage in, or do you intend to engage in any form of terrorist activity?”

“No.”

“Counterfeiting?”

“No.”

“When was your last relationship?”

He stops with his beer halfway to his mouth. “It wants to know that?”

I hold my hands up in mock innocence. “I didn’t make up the questions.”

“Erm, a while ago.”

I pause with my fingers hovering over the keys. “It wants a date.”

“About ten months ago, I suppose. Though it wasn’t very serious.”

“Have you ever joined or do you plan to ever join the mile-high club?”

Calvin opens his mouth to answer, but seems to figure out what I’m doing. “You little shite!”

I laugh, ducking the pillow he lobs in my direction.