by Sophia Henry
“You know how boy crazy I was back then.” I brush off her comment and toss my wallet onto the seat next to me.
“You were, but there was something more with Erik. You skipped your first day of college to attend Rusty Raines’s funeral.”
Rusty, Erik’s grandfather, worked at our property since before I was born; of course I’d attend his funeral. “Anyone would do that. His grandfather was like family.”
“No, Madeline, not anyone would do that. Very few of his clients went.”
Looking back, I guess I don’t remember who had attended. I’d directed all of my attention to Erik, sitting in the front row of the church alone. No one saw it coming when Rusty, who always seemed to be in fairly good shape and even better spirits, died suddenly from a massive heart attack. They’d put Ginny, Erik’s grandmother, in a nursing home just a few weeks before. It must have wrecked both of them, but neither Rusty nor Erik were trained nurses or caregivers. They did the best they could for as long as they could before it was too much. Her dementia had gotten so bad she couldn’t even attend the service.
“It seemed wrong to miss it when Rusty was like part of the family.”
“I bet Erik appreciated you being there.”
My car inches forward and I lean over the steering wheel, craning my neck to see if any cars are coming before making a left onto Fifth Street.
“We’ve never discussed it,” I say.
It’s the truth. We barely spoke after the funeral. I went to college and moved out of my parents’ house. We never met up behind our black walnut again. It hurt at first, but the searing pain of losing a friendship slowly faded into a dull ache. We both went on with our lives.
“Maybe now is a good time,” Mary Hill suggests earnestly. Then, in a more jovial tone, says, “Well, I’m off. I just got to the tailors to pick up a suit Jackson had altered, and you know Mr. Smythe will talk my ear off once I get in there.”
“Thanks again, Mary Hill. I really appreciate your call.”
I press a button to hang up the Bluetooth and “Open Your Heart” by Austin’s band, Drowned World, blasts through the speakers.
Open your heart. Open my heart. Open Erik’s heart.
After all these years, how do I bring up that painful day with Erik? During the few times we saw each other, our interactions were surface small talk. A wave and a hello. Maybe, “How’s school?” or “How’s it going?” I never asked Erik how he was handling the loss, or how his grandmother was doing, or if everything was going well with the business.
Deep down, the concern was there, but if I’m completely honest with myself, I was selfish. I wasn’t thinking about Erik and his loss anymore. I had school and internships in London and New York, and random social events on my mind. All of that was more important to me at the time. More important than a friend whose life had been devastated.
Everyone deserves a second chance, right? Every new life experience gives us an opportunity to learn and grow. Instead of focusing on the past, I’m committed to the future. It’s possible to change from the person I was to the person I want to be.
Chapter Ten
Erik
Does anyone actually answer their door when they aren’t expecting someone? Ever since delivery companies started leaving things on the porch rather than knocking, because they need a signature, I can’t remember the last time I answered my front door. The sound probably wouldn’t even register, except it makes my black lab, Ramos, go crazy. I usually just let him bark until the knocker leaves. Sometimes I take a look out the window, but I rarely ever answer.
Today is no different. Ramos is standing directly in front of the door, yapping away, but I breeze right by on my way to the kitchen.
It’s late and I’m exhausted. All I can think about is stripping off my clothes, standing in the shower, and letting the stream of hot water pelt me for as long as I can take it. We’d spent all day laying pavers for a patio renovation at the home of one of my long-time clients. The work was backbreaking, but it turned out beautiful. I’m so damn proud of what a great job my crew did, I took the guys out to dinner afterward. It was a quick trip to a burger place because we were all dirty and sweaty, but it was something to show my appreciation.
The knocking and barking continue.
“Ramos!” I yell, hoping to get him to back away.
I’m actually hoping whoever is on the other side of the door will take the hint and leave. But after five more minutes, they’re still there, and I feel like an idiot for letting it go on that long.
Nudging Ramos out of the way with my knee, I unlock the door and open it just enough to peek out. Using one leg to keep my dog back, I greet the man standing on my porch.
“Mr. Raines?” he asks.
“Can I help you?” I ask, appraising him. He doesn’t seem intimidating: clean-shaven face. Perfect haircut. Wrinkle-free, navy-blue suit and crisp, white shirt with a bright pink tie. Not threatening at all, but can you ever really tell just by looking at someone?
“Yes,” the man answers as he digs into the leather laptop bag hanging off his shoulder. He produces a legal-size white envelope. “I’ve been trying to reach you through letters and phone calls.”
My heart pounds rapidly and I swallow hard. The only thing I can think about is that this man is from Immigration and Customs Enforcement, coming to tell me this is it—I need to leave the country.
“Well, if I haven’t answered your attempts to contact me, I’m probably not interested in whatever you’re selling,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. The reality is that I don’t know what he’s here for, since I haven’t looked at the information he’s given me yet, and I can’t let the fear and uncertainty swirling around in my stomach get the best of me.
“I’m not selling anything, sir. My name is Thomas Lowell and I’m here following up multiple attempts to contact you. I need to make sure you understand what the future brings.”
Shit.
My stomach drops and the overwhelming urge to slam the door and climb out of my bedroom window takes over, but I know I can’t get away. It’s time to face the consequences of decisions other people made for me when I was a child. I knew it was coming. I’ve been preparing myself; I just didn’t think it would happen right now. I thought I had more time.
“As you know—or should know—from previous correspondence, the land this building stands on was rezoned last year, after the owner sold the property to a development company.” He hands me the folder. “The demolition process on this building is scheduled to begin in less than three months.”
“Excuse me?” I take the folder. My heart, which has been racing out of fear of thinking I was about to be presented with deportation papers, now pounds out of confusion. I have absolutely no clue what this Thomas Lowell is talking about.
I do remember seeing a notice about rezoning, but if I’m completely honest, I skimmed it and tossed it into the trash. The city is going to do what they want to do, I don’t really have a say, so I didn’t pay attention. I never realized it said this building was being torn down.
Thomas leans in and points to the folder. “If you look, you’ll see copies of the letters we’ve sent regarding these changes and what was happening with this property. You’ve had more than six months to find a new place to live.”
“Fuck me,” I say under my breath. The folder is marked with a Lowell Law logo. I pull the papers out and skim the top letter quickly, trying to get a quick understanding, since I don’t have time to read all of the information right now.
The area I live in has changed immensely over the last ten to fifteen years. Buildings around me have been demolished, others renovated and made into housing or breweries. The complex I live in isn’t very big—a total of about fifteen units—tucked behind a large empty plot of land, that many people used for parking, before a huge warning sign went up about private property, and vehicles parked there without permit would be booted and towed. When I see a moving truck, I never know if someone
’s coming or going. Guess I should pay more attention—and read my mail.
“None of this should come as a surprise, Mr. Raines,” he says in sharp tone. I cut my eyes to his and he takes a slight step back. “But I understand that could be the case if you haven’t been reading the correspondence.”
“I didn’t realize the rezoning affected me. I thought the letters were a formality.”
Thomas Lowell nods. “I understand. That’s why I’m here following up with you and the remaining residents in person. You’ll need to secure other housing soon.”
“You said I have three months?”
“Technically yes, but that’s the day demolition starts, so you’ll need to be out before that. There will be a lot of noise and action around here before then. This isn’t something that can be stopped.”
I nod absently. “I get it. Thank you.”
“If you have any questions, please call. I put my card inside.”
“Sure thing,” I say as I shut the door, leaving Thomas Lowell on my doorstep.
Ramos follows me to the kitchen. While he heads for his water bowl, I slide onto a bar stool. A quick skim over the papers confirms what Thomas Lowell said. Rezoning notice, blah blah blah. The next is a letter from the former owner of the building, stating they’ve sold to a development company and that all residents have to be out by a certain date—which is two months from now.
Two months.
Fuck.
My apartment is fairly small and wide open. While sitting at the bar, I can see the entire space. Kitchen in front of me, living room directly behind me. Bedroom and bathroom doors off the living room. I don’t have much stuff, so sorting shit and packing up isn’t going to be a big deal. That’s the good news.
Ramos sets his head on my thigh, as if he knows I’m stressed. I rub his neck and ears. What am I going to do with him? Can I bring my dog to the Czech Republic? He’s never been on a plane, and I don’t know if a twelve-hour flight is the best way to introduce him to air travel.
No. I’ve got to find him a home here.
The thought crushes me. I rescued him from a shelter right after my grandfather’s death. He’s been the one thing I’ve been able to count on for comfort. We saved each other.
Where the fuck am I going to live after I leave here? I can afford one of those weekly hotels, but damn! Those places are shady as fuck. And I’m not going to waste money on trying to find a high-end property to lease for a few months.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Hugo, my crew leader, and his wife, Anna, would let me stay at their home, but they also have their daughter, her boyfriend, and their three kids under that roof and I’d never think about imposing—not when I have the means to stay somewhere else.
Sighing, I close my eyes and tap the letter against the counter. Up until this point, I’ve avoided thinking about the logistics of leaving. Not my smartest idea, but I kept holding onto a shred of hope that something would change. The walls are closing in and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Everything I need to do to prepare feels like an anvil on my chest.
Maddie believes our arrangement can save me from having to leave the country when my work permit expires, but I know the truth. Marrying her—or any U.S. citizen—won’t help me stay in the country. According to my immigration lawyer, in order for me to continue my life in America—and eventually apply for citizenship—I must leave. As of right now, there’s no way around it because my mother didn’t stop at a customs checkpoint when she brought me into the country. I’m not here on a government-approved green card or work permit. I was eligible for Deferred Action because I was a childhood arrival. “Deferred” meaning my deportation was put off, not forgiven.
It seems like every day I get another clue to do the right thing: go to the Czech Republic for as long as I need to and try to get back to America legally. With the upcoming demolition forcing me out of my apartment, it feels like something—a higher being or universal energy, or whatever you want to call it—is pushing me to leave.
Who’s going to take care of my grandma? Who’s going to take care of Ramos? Who’s going to protect Maddie?
These are reasons I have a problem believing in a higher being. I’ve lived my life as a good person. I’ve never gotten into major trouble. I do right by others. I’ve tried going to church and nightly prayers, but neither of those were my thing. And now I’m faced with losing my family, my business, and the girl I’ve loved for years. What did I do to deserve this?
There’s no time for an existential crisis right now. I need to roll with the punches, and figure this shit out—like I’ve done my entire life.
I need solutions.
Ramos lifts his head when I shift to reach into my pocket and grab my phone. After entering the passcode quickly, I pull up a web browser. Taking a deep breath, I tap out “capital of Czech Republic” into the search bar and hit return.
Prague.
Ready or not, here I come.
Chapter Eleven
Maddie
“What brings you here today, my dear?” Daddy asks, lowering his newspaper as I lean over to drop a kiss on his cheek.
“I have a date. And I asked him to pick me up here.” I try to keep my tone as nonchalant as possible, as if it’s totally normal for a woman my age to be picked up at her parents’ house.
“A date?” He slides his glasses down his nose and looks at me over the top of the frames. “With whom?”
“Well, it’s funny, Daddy,” I begin, smiling broadly and avoiding his inquiring eyes. “It’s not a real date. It’s kind of this fake-relationship thing I’m doing to help out a friend.” Though I went over and over a completely calm and professional way to tell my parent’s about Erik and I in the car on my way here, it all comes out in a nervous jumble.
Daddy sits up in his chair and tosses his glasses onto his desk. “What do you mean by fake relationship?”
“It’s nothing really. I have this friend who’s going to be deported when his work permit expires in a few months, so, ya know?” I shrug and laugh nervously. I sound like a Valley girl from those horrible ’80s movies my friends and I watched at sleepovers. This couldn’t have started off any worse.
“Back up, Madeline.” Daddy closes his eyes, leans forward onto both elbows, and rubs his temples. “Who is this friend?”
“Erik Raines,” I say, meeting his eyes for the first time since I arrived. I may be nervous about telling Mama and Daddy about our crazy plan, but I’m not embarrassed of Erik.
Confusion crosses Daddy’s face briefly, then understanding. “He told you about his status?”
“Yes,” I say, then quickly add, “but in confidence.”
Daddy closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. “Who suggested a fake relationship?”
“I did. It’s against the law to marry someone just to keep them in the country, right?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I keep talking. “We thought, well, I thought—it was completely my idea—I thought if we started dating, while we tried to figure out other ways to keep Erik in the country, it would show that it wasn’t a marriage of convenience. Then marriage wouldn’t look so shady.”
“Why is keeping Erik in the country so important?” Mama asks as she enters the den, carrying a heaping plate of food.
I jerk my head toward her, surprise at how unaffected she could be. Erik’s been with us for more than ten years. “Mama, how could you even ask something like that?”
She sets the plate in front of Daddy, then pulls the cloth napkin draped over her shoulder and hands it to him. “He’s a landscaper. Why on earth do you care so much if he stays in this country?”
Daddy interrupts before I can answer. “I can’t believe you, of all people, thought this was a good idea.”
“I know it’s a bit out of character, Daddy, but Erik has worked here so long, he’s practically part of the family. And it’s a harmless solution until we can figure out how to keep him here for go
od.”
“It’s not harmless. You could get in a lot of trouble over this, Madeline. What you two are doing is illegal.”
“It’s not illegal until we bring the authorities into it and say ‘hey, look at us!’ We aren’t lying to anyone right now. We’re setting the stage in case we have to someday.”
Thankfully, my nerves have settled and I’m able to come at the situation as the business arrangement it is. Talking business with my father is easy for me since I do it daily. I feel like I’m at a conference, offering a solution to a problem. The number one piece of advice I’d give anyone for working with Daddy: if you come to him with a problem, you better have a suggestion for a solution too. Complaining with no ideas to rectify the situation annoys him to no end.
“I’ll look into the situation, so it doesn’t come to that,” Daddy says before popping a potato chip into his mouth.
“Would you like some water, dear?” Mama asks, as she removes glasses from the cupboard above the wet bar.
He nods. “Please.”
“No thanks,” I answer. Pretty sure that “dear” was meant for Daddy, but I had to throw my two cents in. “You will?” I ask, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “You’ll help him?”
“Yes. I care about Erik’s welfare, as well. He’s worked hard for everything he has. The last thing I want is to see him deported.”
Mama hands Daddy a glass of water, then slides into the soft, green leather chair across the desk from him. “You’ve always had a soft spot for that boy, Harris.”
“Of course I have, Cookie. We’ve seen him grow up. We’ve seen him through loss. We’ve seen him become a successful man.”
“Sounds like the way you’d talk about a son.” She rolls her eyes as she sips her water.
Daddy dismisses the comment. “He’s not a criminal, Cookie. He had no choice in his situation.”
“Yes, he did. He could have gone back where he came from as soon as he found out he was here illegally.”