“But he’s going to get into
“Annie, you sound a little defensive. I’m on your side.”
I take a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
I recline the seat and stare at the roof of Mo’s car. “I still don’t see why we can’t stay married and live in different places.”
“You can. But you’re taking a lot of risks if you do that. If immigration even suspects you’re scamming them, they’ll dig deep, and I’m guessing you don’t want that to happen.”
“No.”
There’s a long pause, long enough to wonder if the call has been dropped. But I can still hear music, still picture Sam in her kerchief polishing a mirror. “I think you need to know how to go about changing your mind,” she says.
“I don’t—”
“No, stop. Just listen. I know you think you don’t want to know, but I want you to know anyway. I did some more research, and you aren’t stuck in this. At any time, this can be over. Mo self-deports, you get the marriage annulled, and that’s it. Over.”
“Self-deports,” I repeat. The words don’t sound right together.
“Meaning he buys himself a ticket and gets on the plane.”
“Oh.” I lock and unlock the door. Then lock it again. Then unlock it. “But I could still get in trouble for marrying him in the first place. If he just got on a plane and left it would kind of be admitting that it wasn’t a real marriage.”
“That’s what I thought at first, but supposedly they don’t care about sticking it to you once Mo’s gone,” Sam says.
Gone. I hate how quickly she got there. From Harvard to gone in a few seconds. “It’s so unfair,” I mutter.
“Unfair? Come on, Annie.”
I stop, startled by her response but even more by myself. Unfair only exists if fair exists, and I’m too old to believe the universe owes me anything. “What?”
“Well, it’s unfortunate that Mo’s in this situation, but that doesn’t mean it’s the US government’s fault or responsibility to make his life all rosy again. And Mo has a great chance at getting a student visa and coming back to the States for college, but not if he stays here illegally. He has to go home.”
“I thought you were on our side,” I stammer.
“I am,” she says. “But there are laws for a reason. If everybody who wanted to live in America was allowed to do it without going through legal channels, it would be mayhem. It wouldn’t be America.”
I don’t have a smart response. I only have this sickly sweet sadness running through me. Sympathy and regret. “My brain gets it. The rest of me doesn’t.”
“That means you’re a good person.”
I close my eyes and see Reed’s face. “Not really.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” There is a moment of heavy thinking between us before she says, “Do you have any other questions?”
I do. I would like to know how I can love two boys and have two boys love me but be so all alone. And I’d love to know why I’m imagining that I’m talking to my sister when I don’t even remember what talking to my sister is like. “No. Wait, yes.”
“Go ahead.”
“What would you do?”
I hear her breath escape, a slow sigh. “I’m not you, Annie.”
I pinch the skin on the back of my arm and wait. “But if you were . . .”
“But if I were . . . I think I’d stop and ask myself if I wanted to spend my whole life trying to fill a space meant for someone else.”
“What?”
“It just seems like you’re trying to be the right thing for Mo. And I don’t really know about your parents or the rest of your life, but I’m guessing you’re trying to be the right thing for a lot of people. You’re eighteen. It’s kind of now or never. You should do what’s right for you.”
Right for me. Mo is right for me. He’s always been what’s right for me. Sam is looking at a snapshot, the present, without understanding all the years of us being there for each other. She doesn’t know how right for me Mo has always been.
But if she isn’t wrong? The possibility makes me sick to my stomach. Just thinking it feels like betrayal.
Except there’s another kind of betrayal happening now. The kind where I pretend something isn’t happening. Like pretending I don’t notice the way Mo has started looking at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, that I don’t see him thinking about things before he says them instead of just spouting whatever random crap comes to his brain like before, that I don’t sense him treating me just the slightest bit differently than he used to. Ignoring it is a kind of betrayal too.
And so is sitting here waiting for Reed.
“It doesn’t make you a bad person,” Sam says, and I wonder for a second if I said any of what I was thinking out loud. Or maybe she can read my thoughts. “You’re allowed to be yourself. It means being honest. Sorry. That sounds corny.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m just worried about you. I guess you bring out the preachy big sister in me.”
My breath is gone, sucked out of me.
There is no god. Still. And I don’t believe in an afterlife or souls or reincarnation or that anyone I can’t see is looking out for me. At all. But for this moment only, it seems like it would be okay to pretend.
“It’s okay,” I stammer.
“Really think about it.”
“I will.”
“You know you can call me whenever, right?”
I try to swallow, but my throat feels dangerously dry. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We hang up and I bring my seat back up. I didn’t notice what time it was when I pulled in, but it seems like I’ve been sitting here for an hour. Maybe more. My stomach growls, a reminder that I haven’t eaten since the Pop-Tart Mo brought me in bed, when I see the back door swing open in the rearview mirror. It’s Reed.
A thrill rushes through me, and I fight not to get out of the car. He doesn’t see me yet. A trash bag in each hand, he’s walking toward the Dumpster, body solid and tight even from this distance. That I can watch him without him knowing, even for a few seconds, seems dangerously sweet. I love his earnestness, how every piece of him is determined, how serious his expression is.
He glances up and sees me. The seriousness in his face breaks for a smile, but only for a second, and in that second the thrill rushes through me again. He doesn’t change his speed, but keeps his movements smooth and deliberate as he tosses the bags into the Dumpster and starts toward the car. He glances around, and I do the same. There’s nobody here to see us. Still, I double-check as he opens the passenger door and slides in.
“Sorry to surprise you,” I say, almost breathless as the smell of the oaks and soil and dampness fills the car. The clouds are thickening, and I can smell the rain coming. “I didn’t want to call from Mo’s phone.”
“Don’t apologize.” He looks around the car, taking in the curled-over Taco Bell bags and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles.
I shake my head. “None of it’s mine.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
“No, really.”
He grins. “I believe you.” He reaches out and slides his fingers around my wrist. “And I don’t care if his car is a mess,” he says, pulling me into the passenger seat, onto his lap, and my heart is thundering with the absolute
