Page 109 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

“I like being married to Oskar,” I tell her. “He...”

She stares at me.

“He’s amazing. Obviously. He’s smart and adorable and fun.”

“Yes, you do like to have fun,” Ms. Santoro says smoothly. She flicks to another article. “You’re quite the partier. Different woman in each town?”

My heart beats. “They weren’t important.”

Her gaze narrows.

Shit.

“I mean, of course, they were important.”

Ms. Santoro eyes remain narrow. I realize I’m not helping myself any more with these statements.

“Everyone is important in this world. Cashiers are important. Moms are important. Um, government officials are important.”

I’m pretty sure I hear Vince muffle a groan behind me.

Shit.

“I just meant, it wasn’t that kind of a relationship. It was, um, fake. Like off-brand soda.”

“And the real relationship would have been, what, beer?”

“Maybe?” My voice is too high-pitched. I know that. We’ve gotten off track. “Look, that’s not important.”

“I’ll decide what’s important, Mr. Volkov.”

“Right. Of course.” I try to look contrite. Tension bubbles through me.

Ms. Santoro slides her gaze to Oskar. “So how much is he paying you?”

Oskar’s eyes widen, and his face is three shades paler than he was to begin with, as if someone put an instagram filter over him.

“He’s not paying me anything,” Oskar says.

“Looks like he moved you into his fancy apartment. I see the receipts for your wedding. You spent a lot of money on it.”

“Because Oskar deserved the best.”

“You have quite an expensive ring,” she tells Oskar. “I guess it’s yours to sell. After everything is over.”

Oskar’s nostrils flare.

I move my hand to Oskar’s thigh. “This won’t be over.”

Ms. Santoro watches us, her eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to say that if I decline your request for a visa due to your marriage, because I don’t see your marriage as valid, you would still be together.”

My throat dries. “Well, then I would be back in Russia. Where homosexuality is not permitted.”

She sighs. “Yes, your lawyer already requested to change this to an asylum application. Honestly, we can’t accept everyone in under that who claims they’re not straight suddenly.”

The oxygen slinks from the room. I inhale, but my action is too obvious. My hands tremble, and I slide them over my lap.

I don’t want her to confuse nervousness for hiding something. I don’t want her to confuse uncertainty and trying to say things correctly and failing for bad intent.