“I think they’ll understand there’s a transition period, babe. Lives take time to shift.”
“And, what? We just don’t talk to each other all that time to make the anticipation grow stronger?” I retort. “That’s sketchy as hell, Flynn. It’s going to toss up all the red flags for the immigration overlords and make them suspicious of us. Of me. We’re going to have to think of other things to do to show we’re together and want to be together.”
“I’m a reasonable guy, Daisy, and I made an agreement with you. All you need to do is tell me what you think we should be doing, and I’ll do it.”
When I picture him standing there, most likely in his apartment in New York, holding a phone to his ear and having a conversation with me I can almost guarantee he’d rather not be having, plus the FaceTime call in his towel and everything else he’s done for me up until now, I know that’s true. Flynn Winslow has an irrefutable track record of keeping his word to me.
“I think…” I pause and, for some reason, find myself fumbling over my words. It makes zero sense, but I can only chalk it up to already feeling like I’m asking him for far too much. “We…uh…need to show proof of our relationship through other ways. Like…text messages…phone calls…you know, that sort of thing. And also, probably delete any damning evidence of contractual indifference from our previous conversations…”
“Okay.”
One word. Just like that, and he’s already agreed. Call me a sadist, but this feels too easy.
“Are you…uh…sure?”
“Daisy.”
Right. This is good. Great, even.
My need to get the ball rolling as soon as possible is too strong to deny. The call switched over to speaker, I pull up our text chat and type out a message—How was your day, hubby?
Once I hit send, I say, “Okay. Check your text messages.”
“My day was fine,” he responds, and laughter barrels from my belly and straight past my lips.
“Flynn!” I giggle. “You’re supposed to text me your answer back. You know…for evidentiary support.”
“Right. I just have one question.”
“Of course! Go ahead!” I respond, kind of excited to be able to feel useful for once.
“Will Bruiser Woods be partaking in these conversations too, or is Elle the only split personality of yours I need to be on the lookout for?”
“Flynn!” I shriek, both tickled by his highly unexpected knowledge of all things Legally Blonde and slightly embarrassed by his teasing.
“Don’t you think it’s important that we show proof through text messages, too?” I ask him once my laughter subsides. “Phone calls are great—I mean, it will show Immigration that we stay in constant contact, but they won’t be able to see what’s said in our phone conversations. And in order to really sell it, I think they need to see the text conversations. Don’t you?”
“They need to see text conversations or fake text conversations showing we’re in love and shit?”
“Um, the latter.”
“But you want us to be on the phone, too?”
“Yes,” I answer.
But Flynn doesn’t say anything else. Not in text and not on the phone, and the silence makes my heart quicken its speed, uncertainty driving the pace.
God, he must think I’m a total nutjob, and he’s about to lose my number any minute. Or worse, turn me in to Immigration himself.
“Look, I know it’s weird and awkward to text each other while we’re on the phone, but…I need the buffer, you know?” I try to explain my intentions, even though I don’t really understand what I’m trying to achieve here. “This whole thing is making me freak out a bit…” Okay, a lot. “And I just don’t know what to say or do or how to show that we’re in love when we barely even know each other—”
“Check your messages.”
“What?” I ask, but a few moments later, a new text fills our chat.
Flynn: My day was pretty good, babe. How was yours?
“Oh.” Okay, so maybe he doesn’t think I’m a total nutjob. Just, like, a partial nutjob. Not put-her-in-a-padded-room nuts, more like, yes, she’s crazy, but it’s tolerable.
I don’t hesitate to type out a response to his message. Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about it for about seven out of the last twenty-four hours, so it’s pretty curated.