A Fake Marriage ( Jenlisa ) (Gip )

Part 3

J

Two Years Later

Lisa's always telling people that the first time I saw her she was totally naked, but I was so stoned, I swear I couldn't fully-remember exactly what her totally naked body looked like. Aside from that fleeting clear view of her butt, I mostly remember seeing an orange-yellow aura and moving kaleidoscope patterns. Which was annoying. And also a blessing. It was an annoying blessing.

And it was probably a survival technique.

I have a feeling that if I had been more clear-headed I would have been so hyper-aware of her chest and the way her voice always sounded like she was flirting with someone on the phone. I would have been more aware of the butterflies in my stomach instead of how I truly believed I could feel each and every hair follicle growing out of my scalp.

That was the first and last time I'd ever been stoned, but every time I walked out the front door of that apartment or looked at that hallway, I had this vague vision of her standing there, all six plus feet of her, almost every inch of her golden skin and toned runner's body facing me, but it was and always will be her eyes that captivate me. The warmth of them. I mean. I would never let a strange naked woman into my home if she didn't have warm, kind eyes. Or if I weren't stoned.

Did I ever feel guilty about feeling so comfortable with her, even though I had a boyfriend? Nope. Because there was never any doubt in my mind that I was Chan's girlfriend. I had been, basically, since we were five. It was never a choice. It was a convenience. It was a family thing. It was uncomplicated. Even when I quietly married someone else. It just was.

I can remember the exact moment I feared that I was falling in love with Lisa Manoban. It wasn't before I told her I'd marry her, and it wasn't during the marriage ceremony kiss—I managed to swiftly talk myself into believing that we were just doing it all for the green card and the cameras and the judge. I convinced myself that I was in Friend-Love with her—that it was no different from the love and adoration I felt for my best friends in kindergarten and high school, that it was just more significant because we were older and living together.

It was not long after we were married, during the interview with the immigration officer, when I got that undeniable feeling in my belly and I thought to myself: Oh shit. I think I'm actually in love with this girl. This is terrible.

She was wearing her olive bomber jacket—my favorite—the one that makes her eyes look like tiny pools of rich melted chocolate, and if I were any other woman I would have tried to lick her yummy sexy eyeballs. Her signature jacket used to be a worn-in black leather biker jacket, but when I told her that I preferred the bomber jacket, she started wearing it more often. I had been staring at it, completely spaced-out while Lisa was answering some question about our bank accounts and showing the guy our utility bills, and I didn't even hear the government official the first time he asked me what I was thinking about. He had been asking such perfunctory questions by rote until then, I was caught off guard. I blushed and told him I was thinking about how handsome Lisa looked in that jacket, and how she started wearing it more after I'd mentioned that I liked it. I told him that whenever Lisa was up in Toronto visiting her parents, I'd pull that jacket out of her closet and inhale it because it smells like her.

It was true. Well, it was true that I'd done that once.

"You never told me that," Lisa said, in a hushed voice. The way she looked at me, it made my insides melt. She took my hand and squeezed it, and I swear I saw the immigration guy's lower lip quiver.

A woman who was outside the office when we came out had said that was the shortest interview that officer had ever given—presumably because it was so obvious to him that we were a real couple—but I saw the guy hurry off to the men's room as soon as we were done, so I'm pretty sure he just cut it short because he had to pee.