Chapter 30
title: "The Terms" wordCount: 3371
The contract is twelve pages long, printed on heavy stock paper that whispers expensive when I touch it, and I realize I know absolutely nothing about the man I'm about to marry.
Daniel sits across from me in the booth at Golden Dragon Diner, his hands folded on the table like he's at a business meeting. The fluorescent lights make his skin look pale, washed out. He's changed since the garden—button-down shirt instead of the work clothes, hair combed back. He looks like someone's accountant.
"Page three covers the duration," he says. "Two years from the date of marriage. After that, we file for divorce. No-fault, citing irreconcilable differences."
I flip to page three. The language is dense, legal. "You had a lawyer write this."
"I did."
"That must have cost—" I stop myself. None of my business. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "Okay so, two years. That's the minimum for removing conditions on a green card, right?"
"Yes." He slides a pen across the table. It's heavy, metal. Probably costs more than my rent. "Page seven outlines financial arrangements. I'll cover all immigration fees, legal costs, and any expenses related to maintaining the appearance of a legitimate marriage. You won't pay for anything."
The coffee in front of me has gone cold. I haven't touched it since the waitress brought it twenty minutes ago. "What about my end?"
"You attend required interviews with immigration officials. You allow me to list your address as my residence. We maintain a documented relationship—photos, witnesses who can testify we're a couple." He pauses. "Page nine covers that in detail."
I turn to page nine. There's a whole section on "public appearances" with a suggested frequency. Twice monthly minimum. My stomach does something complicated.
"This feels very..." I search for the word.
"Thorough?"
"Transactional."
Daniel's jaw tightens. "It is a transaction."
"Right. Of course." I flip back to page one, scanning the whereas clauses and party of the first part language. My eyes catch on a section near the bottom. "What's this about technical consultation?"
"You mentioned your food blog. The technical issues." He shifts in his seat. "I can fix those. Server optimization, site speed, SEO. Whatever you need."
"You know how to do that?"
"I do."
"But you're a—" I stop. Maintenance worker, I was going to say. But maintenance workers don't carry pens that cost two hundred dollars or have lawyers on retainer. "Where did you learn web development?"
"I taught myself." He says it quickly. Too quickly. "Is that acceptable? As my contribution?"
I should push. Should ask more questions. But the contract is sitting between us like a wall, and I'm too tired to climb it. "Yeah. That's—that would actually help a lot."
"Good." He pulls out another document, this one only two pages. "This is a cohabitation agreement. You keep your apartment. I'll stay there three nights a week minimum to establish residency. I'll sleep on the couch."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." His voice is flat. "Immigration sometimes does home visits. Unannounced. We need to look like we share a space."
The thought of Daniel Park sleeping on my couch three nights a week makes my apartment feel suddenly very small. I live in a studio. There's nowhere to hide.
"What about your place?" I ask.
"I don't have one right now."
"You're homeless?"
"I'm between situations." He won't meet my eyes. "It's temporary."
Another question I should ask. Another wall I don't have the energy to scale. I pick up the pen instead. "Is there anything else?"
"Page eleven. Exit clause." He finally looks at me. "If either of us wants out before the two years, we can terminate. But you forfeit the blog help, and I forfeit my green card application. Clean break."
"That seems fair."
"It's not meant to be fair. It's meant to be clear." He leans back. "I don't want you to feel trapped. If this becomes—if you can't do this, you can walk away."
Something in his voice catches. A hairline fracture in the professional veneer. I look at him—really look—and see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers are pressed white against the table edge.
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?" I ask.
"No."
"Then what?"
"I'm making sure you know what you're agreeing to." He picks up his own coffee, takes a sip, grimaces at the temperature. "This isn't romantic. It's not a fairy tale. It's paperwork and performance and two years of lying to everyone you know."
"I know that."
"Do you?" He sets the cup down hard enough that coffee sloshes over the rim. "Because you keep looking at me like you're expecting something else."
My face heats. "I'm not—"
"You are." He grabs a napkin, wipes up the spill with sharp, precise movements. "I need you to understand. I can't give you anything except what's in this contract. I can't be—" He stops. Swallows. "I can be a husband on paper. That's all."
The diner is nearly empty. Just us and an old man at the counter reading a newspaper. The kitchen sounds drift out—the sizzle of oil, the clang of a wok. Familiar sounds. Comforting.
"Let's just—" I take a breath. "Let's be clear about what we both need. You need a green card. I need help with my blog and..." I trail off.
"And?"
"And I need my parents to stop worrying about me." It comes out smaller than I intended. "They lost everything three years ago. Their restaurant, their savings. They're living with my aunt in Florida now, and every time we talk, my mom asks if I'm eating enough, if I'm safe, if I'm alone." I trace the rim of my coffee cup. "If I tell them I'm married, they'll stop worrying. They'll think someone's taking care of me."
Daniel is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer. "That's a lot of pressure."
"Yeah, well." I shrug. "Immigrant kid problems, right?"
"Right." He almost smiles. Almost. "Did you eat?"
"What?"
"Dinner. Did you eat dinner?"
I blink at him. "I had some—I think there was leftover rice."
"You think?"
"I've been stressed, okay so I haven't been great about—why are you looking at me like that?"
He's already sliding out of the booth. "Stay here."
"Where are you—"
But he's already walking toward the counter, talking to the waitress in rapid Cantonese. She laughs at something he says, disappears into the kitchen. He comes back with a menu.
"Order something," he says.
"I'm not hungry."
"Order something anyway." He sits down, pushes the menu toward me. "If we're doing this, you need to eat. I'm not going to—" He stops. Starts again. "Just order."
I look at the menu. Look at him. His jaw is set, stubborn. There's something almost protective in the way he's watching me, and it makes my chest feel tight.
"Beef chow fun," I say. "And spring rolls."
He nods, signals the waitress. She comes over, takes the order, refills our coffee without asking. When she leaves, Daniel picks up the contract.
"Do you want time to read through it?" he asks. "You should probably have a lawyer look at it."
"I can't afford a lawyer."
"I can pay—"
"No." I say it too sharply. "No, I'm not taking your money. The blog help is enough."
"Nora—"
"Those are my terms." I meet his eyes. "You want clear boundaries? That's mine. I'm not a charity case."
His expression shifts. Something like respect. "Okay."
"Okay."
We sit in silence while I read through the contract. It's thorough—painfully thorough. Every contingency mapped out, every potential complication addressed. There's a section on what happens if one of us gets sick. Another on what to do if immigration suspects fraud. A whole page on how to handle questions from friends and family.
"You've really thought about this," I say.
"I had to."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"Six months." He rotates his coffee cup. "Maybe longer."
"And you couldn't find anyone else?"
"I found several people." His voice is careful. "They all wanted money. A lot of money. Or they wanted—" He stops.
"Wanted what?"
"A real marriage." He looks at me. "I can't give anyone that."
There's something in the way he says it. Not won't. Can't. Like it's a physical impossibility.
"Why not?" I ask.
"That's not part of the contract."
"I'm not asking as part of the contract. I'm asking as—" I hesitate. "As someone who's about to legally bind herself to you for two years."
The waitress arrives with my food before he can answer. She sets down the plates with a flourish, says something in Cantonese that makes Daniel's ears turn red. He responds, and she laughs, pats his shoulder like he's her grandson.
When she's gone, I pick up my chopsticks. "What did she say?"
"She said you're too pretty for me."
"And what did you say?"
"I agreed with her." He watches me take a bite of chow fun. "Is it good?"
It's perfect—the beef tender, the noodles with just the right amount of char. I nod, suddenly too hungry to speak. I eat half the plate before I remember he's watching me.
"Sorry," I say. "I guess I was hungrier than I thought."
"Don't apologize." He's still watching me with that same careful attention. "You should eat more. You're—" He stops himself.
"I'm what?"
"Nothing." He picks up the pen, clicks it once. "Do you have any other questions about the contract?"
I have a thousand questions. But the food is warm in my stomach, and Daniel is sitting across from me looking like he's bracing for impact, and I'm so tired of being alone.
"No," I say. "No more questions."
"Then we should—" He slides the contract toward me. "If you're sure."
I pick up the pen. It's heavy in my hand, weighted with significance I'm trying not to think about. "Where do I sign?"
"Last page. Bottom."
I flip to the end. There's a line for my signature, another for his. Below that, a date. I press the pen to paper, and my hand doesn't shake. I sign my name in the same handwriting I've used since high school—the same signature that's on my lease, my student loans, my culinary school diploma.
Daniel signs below me. His handwriting is precise, controlled. Nothing like the messy scrawl I expected.
"So," I say. "We're doing this."
"We're doing this." He gathers the papers, taps them against the table to align the edges. "We should schedule our first public appearance. For documentation."
"Right. The paper trail." I push my plate away, appetite suddenly gone. "When?"
"This weekend? Saturday afternoon." He pulls out his phone. "Prospect Park. We can walk around, take photos. Keep it simple."
"Simple." I laugh, but it sounds wrong. "Nothing about this is simple."
"No," he agrees. "But we can pretend it is."
Saturday afternoon, and I'm standing at the Prospect Park entrance wearing my nicest dress—the blue one I bought for my cousin's wedding and have worn exactly twice—and Daniel is late.
I check my phone. No messages. I'm about to call him when I see him walking up the path, and I almost don't recognize him. He's wearing jeans and a sweater that actually fits, and his hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it. He looks—
"You look nice," he says, stopping in front of me.
"So do you." I tuck my phone away. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."
"The train was delayed." He's holding a coffee cup in each hand. "I brought you this. I didn't know how you take it, so I got it black."
I take the cup. It's still warm. "Black is fine. Thank you."
We stand there for a moment, awkward. A couple walks past us, holding hands, laughing at something on one of their phones. They look easy together. Natural.
"So," Daniel says. "How do we do this?"
"I don't know. I've never staged a relationship before." I sip the coffee. "Have you?"
"No."
"Okay so, let's just—let's walk. Like a normal couple." I start down the path, and he falls into step beside me. "We should probably hold hands or something, right? For the photos?"
"Right." He shifts his coffee to his left hand, holds out his right.
I take it. His palm is warm, slightly calloused. His fingers curl around mine with careful precision, like he's handling something fragile.
"This is weird," I say.
"Very weird."
"Should we talk? Normal couples talk."
"What do normal couples talk about?"
"I don't know. Their days? Their interests?" I glance at him. "What are your interests?"
"I don't have any."
"Everyone has interests."
"I work. I sleep. I eat." He's looking straight ahead. "That's it."
"That's depressing."
"It's efficient."
We walk in silence for a while. The park is busy—families with strollers, joggers, a group of teenagers playing frisbee. Everyone looks like they belong here. Like they're not performing their lives for an invisible immigration officer.
"We should take some photos," I say. "Do you have your phone?"
He pulls it out. It's new—newer than mine, anyway. The case is plain black, no personality. He opens the camera app, holds it up at arm's length.
"Wait," I say. "You need to—we need to look like we're actually together."
"We are together."
"You know what I mean." I step closer, lean into his side. "Put your arm around me."
He does, stiffly. His arm is rigid across my shoulders, like he's afraid to actually touch me.
"Relax," I say. "You look like you're being held hostage."
"I feel like I'm being held hostage."
"That's not romantic."
"This isn't romantic." But his arm loosens slightly. "Is this better?"
"A little." I look up at him. "Smile."
"I don't smile."
"Everyone smiles."
"I don't."
I reach up, poke his cheek. "Come on. Just a little one. For the camera."
He looks down at me, and something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close. A softening around his eyes.
"There," I say. "That's—that's good."
He takes the photo. Then another. I take his phone, take a few of us from different angles. In one, he's looking at me instead of the camera, and the expression on his face is—
"Let me see," he says, reaching for the phone.
I pull it away. "No, they're good. Trust me."
"Nora—"
"We should walk more. Get some candid shots." I hand him back his phone, start walking again. "Tell me something about yourself. Something real."
"Why?"
"Because if we're going to convince people we're married, I should probably know more about you than what's in a twelve-page contract."
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then: "I've never been on a real date."
I stop walking. "What?"
"A real date. I've never—" He shoves his free hand in his pocket. "This is the closest I've come."
"But you're—how old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"And you've never dated anyone?"
"No."
I stare at him. He's looking at the ground, jaw tight. "Why not?"
"I was busy."
"For twenty-eight years?"
"Yes." He starts walking again, faster now. "Can we drop this?"
I catch up to him. "No, wait. I'm not—I'm not judging. I just—" I touch his arm, and he stops. "That actually makes this easier, right? We're both figuring it out together."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. "You've never dated either?"
"I dated in college. Nothing serious." I shrug. "After my parents lost the restaurant, I was too busy trying to keep my head above water. Dating felt like—like a luxury I couldn't afford."
"Yeah." His voice is soft. "Yeah, I understand that."
We start walking again, slower this time. His hand finds mine without me having to ask, and it feels less awkward now. Almost natural.
"So this is both our first date," I say. "Technically."
"Technically."
"That's kind of—" I laugh. "That's kind of sad, actually."
"Or kind of perfect." He glances at me. "Low expectations."
"Very low expectations."
"We can only go up from here."
I'm about to respond when I notice his watch. It catches the sunlight—expensive metal, intricate face. I've seen watches like that before, in the windows of stores I'd never walk into.
"That's a nice watch," I say.
His hand tenses in mine. "Thank you."
"Is it—" I lean closer, trying to see the brand. "Is that a Patek Philippe?"
"It was my father's." He pulls his hand away, adjusts his sleeve to cover it. "He gave it to me before he died."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." But his voice has gone flat. "We should head back. I think we have enough photos."
"Daniel—"
"I can handle it." He's already walking toward the exit. "I'll send you the photos tonight. For your records."
I follow him, my stomach sinking. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why are you—"
"I'm not." He stops at the park entrance, turns to face me. "I'm not anything. I'm fine."
But he's not fine. He's doing that thing where he goes completely silent, his face carefully blank. The same expression he had when Mrs. Kowalski called him about his uncle.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Okay so, we'll talk later?"
"Yes. Later." He's already backing away. "I'll text you about the courthouse. Monday morning, nine AM. Don't be late."
He leaves before I can respond, disappearing into the crowd of weekend park-goers. I stand there holding my cold coffee, watching him go, and wondering what I just agreed to.
Monday morning, and the Brooklyn courthouse smells like floor polish and anxiety.
I arrive at eight forty-five, wearing the same blue dress because it's the only nice thing I own. Daniel is already there, standing by the entrance in a suit that looks like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. He's holding a folder—probably more paperwork—and staring at his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"Hey," I say.
He looks up. "You're early."
"So are you."
"I wanted to make sure—" He stops. "We should go in."
We walk through security in silence. The metal detector beeps at his watch, and he has to take it off, put it in a tray. I see him hesitate before letting it go, like he's afraid it won't be there when he comes back.
Inside, the courthouse is busy. People everywhere—couples, lawyers, clerks. Everyone moving with purpose. We find the marriage license office on the second floor, take a number, sit in plastic chairs that squeak when we move.
"Are you nervous?" I ask.
"No."
"Your leg is shaking."
He looks down, stills his leg. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
A woman next to us is crying happy tears while her fiancé holds her hand. They're young—younger than us—and so obviously in love it makes my chest ache. The man whispers something in her ear, and she laughs, kisses his cheek.
"That could be us," I say quietly. "If this were real."
Daniel doesn't respond. He's staring at the folder in his lap, his jaw tight.
"Daniel—"
"Number forty-seven," a clerk calls.
Daniel stands. "That's us."
We walk to the counter together. The clerk is an older woman with reading glasses on a chain and a name tag that says MARTHA. She smiles at us like we're just another couple, just another Monday morning.
"Marriage license?" she asks.
"Yes." Daniel slides the folder across the counter.
Martha opens it, scans the documents. "Everything looks in order. I'll just need to see both your IDs."
I pull out my driver's license, hand it over. Martha examines it, nods, types something into her computer.
"And yours?" she says to Daniel.
I watch him reach for his wallet. Watch his face go carefully blank—the same expression he had when I asked about the watch, when Mrs. Kowalski called about his uncle. His hand pauses at his pocket, and for a split second, something flickers across his face.
Fear.
Then it's gone, replaced by that careful blankness, and he's pulling out his wallet, reaching inside—