The Pact

by Max Monroe

  I tuck the box under my arm, and instead of being lazy and taking the elevator, I jog up the fifteen flights of stairs to my apartment. I might’ve just finished a grueling workout with my brother Jude, but I’m always game for more cardio. It keeps me young, fit, and focused.

  Once I’m inside, I drop my keys and wallet on the kitchen counter, turn on a few lights, and hit play on my Bluetooth speakers so a little music from one of my saved playlists gives some ambiance. The soft, soothing sounds of Claude Debussy fill my apartment, but the lull of relaxation it provides only lasts until my cell vibrating inside the pocket of my sweats grabs my attention.

  Jude: You guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think we need to move forward with an intervention for Flynn.

  The ongoing group chat. With my crazy fucking brothers.

  Ty: What the fuck are you talking about?

  Jude: Flynn is on steroids.

  I roll my eyes at the absurd accusation and keep reading.

  Ty: Bullshit.

  Remy: Yeah, I call bullshit.

  Jude: Well, maybe you assholes should start joining us at the gym. That motherfucker doesn’t quit. Like, ever. And the amount of weight he can lift is absurd. There’s no other explanation besides steroids.

  Ty: So, let me get this straight, bro, you think Flynn is on steroids because he’s kicking your ass at the gym? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  Jude: Wow, Ty. Way to take a very serious concern of mine and turn it into a joke.

  Remy: Serious concern? HA. This just keeps getting better.

  Jude: Fuck you, Rem.

  Remy: Jude, sweetheart, I just want you to know you have no reason to feel insecure. I think you are very, VERY strong, and I’m proud of you. Even if your fiancée can out-lift you.

  On a soft chuckle, I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and open the fridge to pull out everything I need for dinner. After this evening’s hard workout—a workout that apparently has Jude whining like a little bitch—a meal loaded with protein and iron is imperative for muscle healing and growth.

  Steak, asparagus, and potatoes are tonight’s dinner choice, and it’s not long before I have everything on the stove and cooking. While I wait for my steak to grill, I grab the package Daisy sent and open it.

  Inside sits the paperwork I was expecting, but also, something else—two pale-yellow throw pillows.

  She sent me fucking pillows? And yellow ones, at that?

  A note is attached to one of the pillows, and in her now familiar girlie script, it reads, If your New York place is anything like your Vegas house, then, no offense, but you need some color.

  I laugh and roll my eyes at the same time. Frankly, I have no idea what would make a woman like Daisy think a man like me wants fucking yellow throw pillows on his goddamn couch, but I can’t deny I’m inspired by the confidence it took to make that kind of assessment of me.

  Intriguing, that Daisy.

  I check the stove, flip over my steak and asparagus, and before I can stop myself, I’m heading out of the kitchen with those two ridiculous pillows in hand to test her theory. Once I toss them on my cognac leather couch, I step back, prepared to disprove her theory.

  But instead of clashing annoyance, those two pillows have somehow made my living room feel…cozier? Warmer? I don’t know what, but it’s not bad.

  “Damn, she’s fucking crazy,” I say out loud and run a surprised hand through my hair.

  But she’s also right, you drab bastard.

  Once I grab the hefty stack of papers she sent my way, I finish cooking my dinner and prepare to do a little—more like, a lot of—reading while I eat. If the US Immigration Department is anything like the IRS, it’s best to read all the fucking fine print before filling anything out.

  And, just for future tax purposes, I’m going to go ahead and add the important disclaimer that I, Flynn Winslow, think the IRS is wonderful and love paying taxes.

  Los Angeles, California

  Daisy

  By the time I get home from my final day of staging the Laurel Canyon bungalow, it’s a little after five in the evening. Which, to most, wouldn’t sound like a big deal at all, but when you take in the fact that I’ve been up and at it since four thirty this morning, you’d understand that mama needs to take off these heels and sit on the couch.

  It might be a Friday night, but I’ll be damned if I’m doing anything but keeping my lazy ass on the sofa and binge-watching something on Netflix.

  Once I step inside the front door of my downtown LA apartment, I kick off my shoes, change into my favorite pair of sweats, and plop my ass down in front of the TV. I still have no idea what I’m going to eat for dinner, but if I end up consuming the pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the fridge and calling it a meal, I’ll be perfectly fine with that decision.

  Before I locate my next series binge, I scroll through all the missed emails and messages on my phone. Lord knows, I didn’t even have time to stop for lunch, much less check my phone.

  Most of the emails are work-related and can wait until Monday morning. There’s one annoying text from Duncan Jones about the “rain check,” which I promptly ignore, archiving the message into the dregs of my inbox.

  I also find a few messages from Damien reminding me that, even though he’s been too busy to come back and bug me, he will be back for the tea—Lipton or Twinings, he doesn’t care which. Spring is the busiest season in real estate, and, in this case, I’m thankful it’s prevented my boss from haunting me about my problems that I definitely don’t want to talk about. But I have to admit, he’s pretty dang funny.

  But out of all the missed messages and emails, there’s one text that stands out more than the rest.

  Flynn: I got the package.

  Okay…so, he got the package, but…did he open it? Is he going to fill out the immigration forms I need him to? Or has he decided to just toss them in his fireplace and let hot, fiery flames make it all go away?

  So many unanswered questions.

  Me: I’m hoping I’m supposed to take this message as your confirmation that you’re going to fill out the forms and send them in…

  His response comes in a few moments later. Although it’s not a yes, it’s also not a no.

  Flynn: Did you read through all fifty-six pages of this packet?

  Me: Of course I did.

  I mean, I read most of it. Okay, fine, I skimmed enough of it to get all the important shit figured out.

  Flynn: So, then you’re aware of the clause that states we need to show proof of our relationship, proof that we are living together, and in about three months, we’ll be asked to come in for an interview together at their New York office since that’s where I’m a resident?

  This is the longest message, longest string of words that Flynn has ever said to me, and my only reaction is to blink roughly seven hundred times.

  Proof of living together? Proof of relationship? An interview?! Gah, I’m terrible at lying in person!

  Surely he’s mistaken and is just reading something wrong, even though he’s definitely not the kind of guy who seems like he reads things wrong.

  Panic sets up residence in my chest, getting my heart all riled up and urging me to hop off the couch and grab my laptop from the dining table. Erratic fingers to the keys, I pull up the USCIS official website and read through everything I can find about applying for a visa after marrying a United States citizen.

  I scour every single document at my fingertips, and after God knows how much time has passed, I’m aware of two things—Flynn is right, and I’m way more screwed than I originally thought.

  Oh. My. God.

  New York

  Flynn

  Fresh from my after-dinner shower, water dripping down my neck and chest, I step out onto my graphite-colored bath mat to the chorus of my phone chiming with a sound I’m not familiar with. My eyebrows draw together as I snag a towel from the rack at my side and hurriedly wrap it around my waist.

  Quick, long strides eat up th
e distance between the bathroom and my bedroom nightstand, where my phone is dancing across the surface like a performer on America’s Got Talent. Incoming FaceTime Call Daisy flashes obnoxiously on the screen.

  Instead of accepting or declining, I stare down at the screen until it disappears. I don’t FaceTime. Ever. Not with my brothers or my sister. Not even with my sister Winnie’s daughter—and my adorable niece—Lexi.

  Daisy: I’m trying to FaceTime you.

  Though it’s pretty apparent my Canadian wife isn’t privy to my FaceTime track record.

  Me: I’m aware.

  Daisy: What do you mean, you’re aware? Why aren’t you accepting?

  Before I can even answer her text, she’s back at it again, attempting another damn FaceTime call.

  Shit. Despite all the times before when someone tried to get me to do some stupid fucking video chat and I outright refused, I find myself tapping the screen on the green phone icon and accepting. I know from even my short-lived experience with this woman that she doesn’t give up.

  In an instant, Daisy is right there, in all her glory. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips are full but set in a firm line, and her unforgettable wild curls fall across her shoulders like satin. It’s only been a week since we spent a wild night in Vegas together and got hitched, and yet, a sense of shock over her beauty takes up residence in my chest.

  Fuck. She really is beautiful in a way that I’d almost convinced myself to forget.

  But also, she has seriously crazy eyes right now. The depths of green are like a midnight forest, and her pupils are wide with anxiety.

  “What are we going to do, Flynn?!” Daisy exclaims and tosses her hands up in the air. “I mean, how are we supposed to show that we’re living together when we’re not living together? That doesn’t seem like something we can fake, and I’m in LA and you’re in New York, and I just don’t even know what to do right now!”

  She runs an erratic hand through her long curls, tossing strands over her shoulder once her fingers reach the bottom of the tresses, and when she’s finished fidgeting with her hair, she stands up—while still holding the phone in front of her face—and starts to pace in what I’m assuming is her living room and kitchen.

  “This is completely fucked,” she mutters. “And since I’ve already sent in my application, it’s not like I can go back in time and say, ‘Oh, I’m just kidding! Ignore that application! It was just a joke!’ I’m pretty sure that would end up with me either in jail or deported or some horrible combination of both.”

  “You’re not going to get deported,” I say from a deeply resolute place in my gut.

  She meets my eyes, her stare firm. “You don’t know that.”

  Truthfully, I don’t know that, but the urge to give her something that might help calm her down was overwhelming. Which, obviously, didn’t work at all. Plus, I don’t know… For whatever reason, I’m determined to ensure she makes it through this process with her life intact. And when I put my mind to something, I don’t fail.

  “Okay, fine. I don’t know that,” I acknowledge. “But I do know that anytime you approach a situation with anxiety and fear, it makes logical thinking difficult.”

  “So…what you’re saying is that I need to calm the fuck down?”

  I shrug one shoulder and grin.

  “You know, it’s pretty hard to calm down when losing my job and deportation are the most likely consequences.”

  “Understandable.” I may not be the kind of guy who wears his emotions on his fucking sleeve, but I’m not incapable of empathy.

  “And I feel horrible,” she says softly, and her chin starts to quiver. “I feel like I’m making my problems your problems, and it just feels wrong. You didn’t ask for any of this. You hardly know me. And you certainly don’t owe me anything.” A few tears fall down her cheeks, and that doesn’t sit well with me. At all.

  The last thing I want to do is see this beautiful woman cry. Her vibrancy and enthusiasm are what drew my eyes to her in the first place. It’s what captured my attention in the middle of a crowded casino, and it’s what led me to doing the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life—marry a complete stranger.

  “Daisy.” I say her name, attempting to grab her attention, but she’s looking away from the camera, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and losing the battle against the tears that keep falling down her now pink and splotchy cheeks. “Daisy,” I repeat again, and this time, quite possibly because this is one of the only times I’ve bothered to repeat something in my life, she meets my eyes. “First of all, I put myself in this situation. I offered. So, you feeling guilty is unwarranted. It’s going to be okay.”

  She huffs out a sigh. “No offense, but now isn’t the time to say shit you don’t mean.”

  I give her a knowing look, one she seems to understand immediately. I never say shit I don’t mean.

  “How could you possibly know it’s going to be okay? Because from where I’m standing, it feels apocalyptically dismal.”

  I make a show of looking over my shoulders. “It can’t be that bad. I don’t see Bruce Willis anywhere yet.”

  She snorts at that, and my chest lightens. As the flow of her tears starts to slow, I try to infuse the conversation with logic.

  “You said you work for a big real estate firm, right?”

  She nods.

  “Do they just sell in LA or other cities like New York, too?”

  “LA, New York, Miami, Vegas are EllisGrey’s primary markets, but there’re a few other cities on the list.”

  Bingo. I simply shrug one shoulder, and she searches my face for a long moment before questioning, “Wait…what are you trying to say?”

  Although the answer is pretty fucking obvious to me, I can understand that her emotions are running high at the moment.

  “If your firm sells in New York, then I’m thinking it’s possible that you relocate to New York for a while.”

  Her eyes turn wide. “Relocate to New York? Why would I do that?”

  I almost want to laugh, but I swallow back the urge. “Well, babe, we do have to show proof of living together. And the only way to do that is to actually live together.”

  “Oh…Oh my God,” she mutters and slaps a palm to her face. “Of course. Duh. You probably think I’m the biggest idiot right now.”

  “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

  Worked up and emotional? Yes. But an idiot? Not at all.

  “Move to New York. To live with you,” she says more to herself than to me. Like she’s testing it out on her tongue to see how it sounds out loud. “I have no idea how my boss would take something like that.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip. “But it’s not like I haven’t helped with staging properties on the East Coast before…”

  Daisy looks away from the screen of her phone, sighs, and when her eyes meet mine again, the depths of green appear lighter, closer to a jade gemstone than the deep green of the forest.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with that?” she asks, and my answer is far simpler than I would’ve ever thought it would be.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes search mine for a long moment, and then, they flit down to my bare chest. “Holy hell, are you naked? Like, you’ve been talking to me this whole time while you’re naked?”

  I almost want to laugh at how quickly her mind changes topics. “I just got out of the shower.”

  Her jaw drops wide open. “So, you are naked?”

  “Not entirely,” I say and tilt the screen down slightly to show my towel.

  “Oh, cool,” she mutters, and her eyes flit between my face and chest some more. “Cool. That makes sense!” she exclaims a little too loudly, and her cheeks flush pink. “People take showers all the time, right? I mean, I do. I take showers. Lots of them. And you take showers, and we’ll have to take showers in New York because that’s what people do, right? Ha. They shower. Which, you know what, that’s exactly what I have to do right now. Yep. It’s shower time! O
kay, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

  In an instant, she’s gone, but left in her wake is a smile on my face that stretches from ear to ear.

  If she gets that adorably worked up over seeing me in a towel through the fucking phone, what’s it going to be like when she’s actually in my apartment, living with me?

  Looks like it’s only a matter of time before you find out.

  Monday, April 15th, Los Angeles

  Daisy

  I adjust the nonexistent wrinkles in my silk blouse and check the time on my phone for the fourth time in as many minutes. 8:55 a.m.

  Only five more minutes of anxiety about the sick feeling I’m going to have when I try to explain this mess to Damien. I laugh at myself, briefly, before going back to focusing my breathing so I don’t hyperventilate. I have pre-anxiety to my anxiety. It’s the ultimate moment of my millennialism rearing its ugly head.

  With one glance over my shoulder and into the conference room where Damien is spearheading his weekly morning agent meeting, I see that everyone appears to be in the process of standing up and grabbing their belongings.

  Immediately, I move my gaze back to his office door and force as much oxygen into my lungs as I can. Holy shit. It’s about to go down.

  After doing a little reconnaissance via Damien’s main assistant, Carrie, I know that his schedule is open for the next hour. Which means I have sixty minutes to convince him that me relocating to New York and handling staging the properties on the East Coast for the next three or so months is a really fan-freaking-tastic idea. That it’s going to do the work of a spam email Nigerian Prince by enhancing both his ahem and his bank account. And I somehow need to do this without spilling the beans on my visa debacle.

  No big deal, right?

  Even though it feels like I’m getting ready to be shipped off to war, that’s probably a completely irrational reaction. I hope.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little secret-keeper.”

  The sound of my boss’s voice behind me spurs an urge to cringe so strong that I have to dig my teeth into my bottom lip to keep my facial expression halfway normal.