So, Ethan said finally. What do we do? Isabelle looked at him steadily. I don't know, but I know what we don't do. What?
We don't pretend we don't know. He nodded slowly. Okay. And we don't make another list of rules. He almost laughed.
Okay. And she stopped. Something shifted in her face. Something more serious, more careful. And we don't do anything stupid before the interview.
The word landed like a stone in still water. The interview. He had almost let himself forget for 20 minutes over cold coffee that the interview existed. That in 31 days they were going to sit in front of a federal officer and answer questions about their marriage, their relationship, their life together, the life they had been living as a performance, except it hadn't been one, not really, not for a long time, but the government didn't know that. And the government didn't care about birthday cakes or midnight hallways or the particular weight of sitting across from someone in the dark without needing to say a word.
The government wanted proof. Ethan leaned back in his chair, ran a hand over his face. "The interview," he said. "Yes. " "When do you want to start? " "I don't want to rehearse," she said quickly, firmly, like it was something she'd already made a decision about. I'm not going to sit in this kitchen and practice lying to you. " "Isabelle, I already know the facts.
I know the dates. I know our lease, our shared accounts, Nadia's school records. I know all of it. " She looked at him. "What I don't know is how to sit in front of a stranger and pretend I love my husband when I'm not pretending anymore. " The sentence hit him somewhere in the center of his chest. He didn't respond immediately.
He let it sit, let it be what it was. Then he said quietly, "Then don't. " She frowned. "What? " "Don't pretend. Don't perform. Just He leaned forward.
Just say what's true. " "Ethan, that's not how immigration interviews work. " "I know how they work. They're looking for inconsistencies. They're looking for the story to fall apart. If we go in there and start freestyling our way through the answers, I'm not talking about freestyling. I'm talking about telling the truth. " He held her gaze.
"We have been living in the same apartment for over two years. We have raised a child together. We have eaten at this table every night. We know what the other person sounds like when they're having a nightmare and what they take in their coffee and what they look like when they are trying very hard not to cry. " He stopped, took a breath. "That's not a performance.
That's a life. And the truth of it is more convincing than any story we could rehearse. " She was quiet. "The part that's complicated," he said, "is not explaining the beginning. It's knowing what to do with what came after. " She looked at her coffee. He waited.