Evan sat up in bed. It was spring break, and he didn’t need to be up, but he couldn’t sleep. He heard the door to his parents’ room open and the familiar rumbling of suitcase wheels against the wooden floor. His mother spoke, and the rumbling ceased just outside his bedroom door.
“Will you be back?” his mother asked calmly.
“I’m not sure,” his father replied in a low voice. “I’ll stay in the condo in Atlanta. It will be easier that way.”
“Then you’ll need to move forward with the plans to open the clinic there,” she replied.
“I’ve called Jim Watson about the financing already. I’m sure he’ll spread the word around the club.”
“And you’ve got an agent to help you find a lease?”
“Yes, we’re targeting the area around Northside Hospital.”
“I think you should consider Midtown Hospital. It’s…”
“… farther away from Gilberton.” Evan’s father completed his mother’s thought. “You’re right. I need a good reason to be staying down there instead of commuting. I’ll look into it.”
“Evan doesn’t need to know yet,” his mother said. “No one should know. And you’ll need to come back on Sundays for church and brunch at the club.”
“Right,” his father said.
A silent pause, and then the wheels began to roll toward the stairs. Evan heard the door to his parents’ room close gently, and then the tap of their bathroom sink.
His mother was brushing her teeth.
His father was finally leaving them.
Evan waited in his room until he heard the roar of his father’s SUV. Then he scurried out quickly, not wanting to see his mother. Today would be difficult enough. He didn’t have the energy to construct more lies with his mother, to pretend that his family actually existed intact.
Evan got into his car and drove toward Alma in silence.
When he arrived, Alma sat perched on the front stoop, holding a blue gift bag with gold tissue peeking from the top.
“What’s this?” he asked as she stretched onto her toes and enfolded him in a hug.
“An early Easter gift, I guess,” she said, shrugging.
She thrust the bag into his hands, and he pulled out the tissue paper to look inside.
“It’s great,” he said as he examined the small blue-and-gold window decal with “Cal” written in cursive script. “But you probably should have given it to me in a plastic egg, and a bunny costume would have been a nice touch.”
Alma flung her arm out to hit him, but he caught it and pulled her into a kiss.
How could he leave her? In four months, he would be on his way to California to play soccer for one of the best teams in the country.
“Your car will definitely fit in over there,” Alma said, leaning back to look at him. “You may need to add a few leftist bumper stickers, though.”
“Why don’t you bring me one every time you visit?” Evan asked, nudging her.
Alma stepped away and looked directly into his eyes.
“You know that won’t happen, right?”
“What, you’re planning on dumping me when I go off to college?” he asked, trying to force a smile.
* * *
Alma didn’t need to answer. They both knew how uncertain her future looked. If Alma returned to Mexico with her family, she could never get a tourist visa to come back to the States and visit Evan; if she stayed in Georgia, she’d never risk going to an airport with border patrol agents around every corner. Just the thought of it made her shiver.
Alma’s dad and brother had been in the Gilbert County jail for three weeks. Everything was a mess there: Gilbert County sheriff’s deputies had filled the jail with “illegals,” but Immigration didn’t seem particularly interested in taking the next step. As a result, the jail was overflowing with people who had rolled through stop signs, failed to use turn signals, been driving without valid licenses. The sheriff just kept packing them in, hoping each day that the charter buses would arrive to take all of these “criminals” to a federal detention center and off the hands of Gilbert County.
In the meantime, someone needed to take responsibility for the García household. Alma’s grandmother was still staying with them, but in the eyes of the government, she was just a visitor passing through. All of her dad’s assets—the trucks, the house, the business, the bank accounts—would be frozen unless he gave a U.S. citizen something called power of attorney.
It was almost impossible to believe, considering how many birthday parties, baptisms, and quinceañeras Alma had endured over the years, but they were having a hard time finding someone. They had a broad network of friends and family in Gilberton, and everyone was willing to help the family out in this time of crisis. They had received so many meals that the fridge was overflowing with caldos and casseroles; they had prayed so many novenas that la Virgencita had to be completely sick of hearing the García family name. But hardly anyone was a legal resident.
The only exceptions were Manny and his parents, who had just been busted by the IRS for failing to pay federal income taxes. They forgot—for a decade. So they were off the list of potential candidates. Honestly, Alma’s dad wouldn’t have trusted them anyway.
Technically, Evan could do it, but an eighteen-year-old kid with a trust fund was not really the best candidate to sell a house, a car, and a business. They hoped Alma’s dad would be released from detention so that he could take care of everything, but in case he wasn’t, they had to find someone. Mrs. King—master problem solver—stepped up and offered her services. They were on their way to pick her up now.
“Well, Evan, I got a call from your cousin yesterday,” Mrs. King said as she opened the car door and sank into the passenger seat.
She had just gone through cataract surgery, and though it clearly pained her to be separated from her Buick, she had to accept rides for at least another few days.
“Whit’ll be headin’ back to us in a week, now,” Mrs. King said.
“Is he going to live at home?” Alma asked. “Please tell me he isn’t going to another boarding school.”
“No, Alma. His momma and daddy finally got some sense up in those heads of theirs. He’ll be living in Gilberton in a group home for recovering addicts. It’s called a three-quarters house.”
“I think it’s gonna work this time, Mrs. King.” Alma said. “I honestly do. We talked a few days ago, and he seemed—I don’t know. He seemed centered, or something.”
Alma wasn’t sure why she had decided to forgive Whit on that afternoon he showed up at her house, a few days after she left him on the edge of Mathis Dam. She had been selfishly relieved to see him standing on her front stoop, with his tired eyes and beautiful, angled face. He had seemed so desperate when she left him, and it crossed her mind more than once how easy it would have been for him to lean out too far over the edge and plunge into the churning waters. Instead, he came to her and apologized. He gave her the pewter flask, and he told her that it wasn’t such a good friend after all. He wanted to get well, and she wanted that, too.
Whit had turned back from the edge of the dam and faced the future that made him so afraid. There was something to be said for that.
After driving south for about an hour, they pulled off the interstate in the crisp light of a beautiful spring morning. They drove along a broad avenue, flanked on either side by parks filled with hot-pink azaleas and flowering dogwood trees that looked like wispy clouds hovering just above the ground. Even the high-rises of midtown Atlanta were clean and gleaming, new towers buffed to a sheen.
Mrs. King’s son, looking distinguished with his gray suit and close-cropped hair, emerged from a bank of shining double-glass doors. He took Mrs. King’s arm in the crook of his elbow and then turned toward Alma.
“Do you think you’re ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be?” she replied. She had tried to sound confident, but the statement came out as a question.
“Let me assure you, Alma,” he said, “Sue Chen is the best immigration attorney in this city—and one of the best in the nation. You’re in good hands.”
Evan took her hand and squeezed it lightly. Alma smiled faintly and headed into the building.
“Are you OK?” Evan whispered in her ear.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look a little dazed.”
He rested his hand lightly on her lower back and gently guided her toward one of several long banks of elevators. Alma forced her attention toward the precise point where his hand touched the fabric of her shirt. She let his warm touch fill her senses. The elevator rose so fast that Alma’s stomach lurched. By the time they arrived on the forty-eighth floor, she felt queasy and off balance. As the others walked out, she grasped onto the polished bronze railing behind her, feeling it cool and smooth against her hand.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Evan asked.
“Just nervous,” she said.
“Alma, she’s a good lawyer,” Evan said. “Good lawyers fix complicated problems.”
Holding the door open with his foot, Evan reached for her hand and pulled her into his chest. She wasn’t sure who might be watching, and she didn’t care. She let herself listen for the steady beat of his heart.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Voluntary removal.
Evan struggled to understand how these words were being used together. The lines of a silly song from elementary school ran through his head, reminding him that there was a term for this: oxymoron. According to Ms. Chen, this oxymoron explained why his friend Raúl was on his way from a prison cell to a bus bound for Mexico.
Evan was completely lost. Ms. Chen appeared to be extraordinarily capable. She sat erect at the head of this table in a handsomely furnished conference room, sipping her Diet Coke, wearing a dark suit and a simple strand of pearls, her jet-black hair pulled into a smooth bun.
She had been explaining for an hour, but none of it made any sense.
The good news was that Ms. Chen had gotten Raúl’s misdemeanor charges dropped. Apparently Sheriff Cronin stepped in and determined that the machete in Mr. García’s truck was actually a tool and not a weapon. Evan wasn’t really in the mood to thank his Uncle Buddy for this “favor,” especially not after he heard the other “good news” (Ms. Chen actually used this phrase). Raúl and Mr. García had been transported from the Gilbert County jail to the Stewart Detention Center, a huge prison in some south Georgia town Evan had never heard of. This took them out of limbo and into the custody of the Department of Homeland Security.
Weren’t those the people who dealt with terrorists? That’s what Evan wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut.
Evan wasn’t sure that he got all—or even most—of what Ms. Chen was telling them, but he was pretty sure that Raúl had waived his right to a hearing in front of an immigration judge. Ms. Chen explained that Raúl would take this thing called “voluntary removal,” to avoid having a felony on his permanent record. That seemed sort of reasonable to Evan, until Ms. Chen also explained that Raúl would be unable to reenter the United States for ten years, with or without the felony.
Ten years! Could that possibly be right?
He glanced across the table at Mrs. King’s son, Reginald, who started pacing, running his hands over his short-cropped hair.
“Now, Sue, there must be some avenue we haven’t explored.”
“No, Reginald,” Ms. Chen responded patiently.
“You mean to tell me that this boy—who came here when he was five years old, graduated from high school with honors, played on an all-state soccer team, and has never so much as gotten a ticket for jaywalking—you mean to tell me that there is no way, none at all, that he’ll be able to return to the United States until he’s thirty years old?”
“Yes, Reginald. That’s right.” Ms. Chen responded matter-of-factly.
Reginald was a lawyer, but he didn’t specialize in immigration. Evan took some comfort in the fact that he seemed just as baffled as Evan.
“Nothing? Not a damn thing we can do about this?” Reginald asked.
“No, Reginald. But if Raúl doesn’t attempt return and keeps a clean record, he will be able to apply for a visa—if he qualifies—after the ten-year period is up.”
“And what sort of visa would he qualify for?” Reginald asked.
“That’s a tough one,” Ms. Chen replied. “Raúl is an intelligent young man,” she said, shrugging. “If he gets an advanced degree in Mexico—perhaps in engineering or computer science—he may be able to return on a temporary work visa … eventually.”
Who was this woman kidding? Alma had explained enough to Evan that he knew Raúl probably wouldn’t even be able to find a job there. How was he going to afford college and graduate school?
“But if he refuses to take voluntary removal, the felony on his record will, in effect, make his bar on reentry permanent.” Ms. Chen said.
“Lord have mercy,” Mrs. King muttered under her breath.
“So he would never be able to come back?” Reginald asked.
Ms. Chen nodded.
“Well,” Reginald replied, “that’s just plain crazy.”
Evan couldn’t even look at Alma, who was slumped silently in the chair beside him. He didn’t have to. He felt the despair releasing in soft waves from her body.
Ms. Chen launched into more legal gibberish, this time about Alma’s dad.
Thankfully, Reginald stepped in again.
“So, let me be sure I’ve got this,” Reginald said. “Mr. García will not waive his right for a hearing. And we are aiming for the judge to grant him permission to be released from custody for a couple of months to get his affairs in order, sell his business and his home.”
“That’s right, Reginald,” Ms. Chen said.
“And he would buy his own ticket back to Mexico, and then give the court proof that he left the country before a certain date?”
“Yes,” Ms. Chen said. “This option is called ‘voluntary departure.’ But if he doesn’t leave by the date agreed upon, he will be put back into detention and ‘removed,’ with a felony on his record.”
There was that word “voluntary” again. Wasn’t that supposed to mean doing something because you wanted to?
Ms. Chen leaned forward and looked at Alma intently.
“Alma,” she said. She spoke softly, reaching her hand out across the table. “There is something difficult that you will need to prepare for, if your father is released from custody.”
Something difficult? Ms. Chen must be a complete hard-ass if she didn’t think all of this was difficult.
Everyone was looking at Alma now, but Evan couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take seeing her so upset. Ms. Chen said that if Mr. García was fortunate enough to be granted “voluntary departure,” he’d be wearing some sort of device around his ankle.
Suddenly realizing what she was talking about, Evan blurted out, “Do you mean a LoJack?”
Ms. Chen glared at him, her eyes casting darts. He actually shuddered.
“Excuse me, Ms. Chen,” he said, looking down at the table. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
Ms. Chen said that Mr. García would also face the ten-year bar on reentry, an “unavoidable consequence” of having been in the United States continuously for more than a year without permission.
Suddenly, Evan felt a terror coursing through his body. He closed his eyes and heard Reginald ask the awful question forming in his own mind.
“For whom, exactly, is this a consequence, Sue? Anyone who has been in continuous residence? Regardless of age?”
Would they kick Alma out? Would they make her wait ten years to come back? Those were the questions Evan knew they needed to ask, but he couldn’t bear to hear the answers.
Ms. Chen said something about “extraordinary circumstances,” and then Mrs. King broke in. She had barely spoken at all until now.
“Lord have mercy,” Mrs. King said. “You are just going to have to slow down, Ms. Chen, and we’re gonna need for you to explain all this in laymen’s terms.”
Thank God for Mrs. King.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. King,” Ms. Chen said. “Let me just give you an example. Let’s say Reginald, here, falls in love with an undocumented immigrant from Mexico and they go off and get married.”
Reginald chuckled.
“Well. Wouldn’t we all be praising the good Lord for that?” Mrs. King said. “It’s about time for him to settle down, don’t you think?”
Ms. Chen flashed a faint smile and continued, “We’d need to hope he wants to settle in Mexico because his new bride will have to return there for a while.”
“How long?” Reginald asked.
“If she’s been in the U.S. for more than a year without permission, it’s likely to be ten years before Reginald can apply for her to come back and live with him here.
“Good Lord,” Reginald said. “That’s gotta be tough on a marriage.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Ms. Chen said. “Although, Reginald, if you had some sort of ‘extraordinary circumstance’—for example, you were being treated for cancer, or you already had a child with this woman and the child was severely disabled…”
“Well, this just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” Reginald said, shrugging.
“In that sort of case, you could get a waiver—so she would be able to stay with you in the U.S. But these waivers are very difficult to get. You have to show what’s called ‘extraordinary pain or suffering’ for the citizen if the alien spouse is returned to the country of origin.”
Was she calling Alma and her family aliens? What was it with this woman?
“All right, Sue.” Reginald said. “We get it. But now, it’s time to move away from hypotheticals. Let’s talk about Miss García, here. What are Alma’s options?”
* * *
“Excuse me, Ms. Chen?”
Alma tried to speak, as if she had control over the haywire synapses in her brain. She had to hold it together, if not for herself then for Evan. She knew that the last thing she should worry about right now was how Evan felt about all of this, but she was worried. She couldn’t bear watching him taking in these new realities, seeing the way they challenged everything he thought he knew about the world. She wanted to go back to the beginning. She wished she had kept her resolve not to pull him into all of this.
“I know you are very busy, and I’m so grateful for your time, but I, uh, I think I need to stretch my legs.”
“Of course, Alma,” Ms. Chen replied, with just the slightest hint of softness entering her voice. “I need to check in with my paralegal on a matter.”
Ms. Chen walked to the door. Alma swerved her chair toward Evan, whose face was buried in his hands. She gently touched his arm, feeling his biceps tense through the fabric of his shirt. He dropped his arm and turned to face her, running his fingers roughly through his thick hair. Even now, her stomach fluttered. As his sad eyes met hers, she remembered, for the thousandth time, why she hadn’t been able to walk away all those months ago.
She leaned in toward him.
“You should go, Evan. This has gone on for too long, and you’re going to miss practice.”
He didn’t respond.
“If you leave now, you can get there in time, as long as there’s no traffic.”
His face changed then, breaking into a broad, beautiful grin. He reached out and tousled her hair.
“This is Atlanta, Alma. There’s always traffic.”
The familiar lightness had returned to his voice, but the sadness stayed in his eyes.
“Please, Evan,” she pleaded weakly. “How are you going to explain this to your coach?”
He pushed her hair back from her face and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder, pulling her in softly for a kiss—in front of everyone. Then he whispered, “It’s just a game, Alma. It doesn’t matter. This is what matters.”
He sprang to his feet.
“I’m getting you a coffee,” he announced cheerily. “Who else needs one? Mrs. King? I think there’s sweet tea over here, too.”
As Alma’s eyes followed his sudden motion, she realized that the others were watching, too. They probably had been all along. Even Ms. Chen hadn’t yet left the room. She stood leaning against the doorway, looking at Evan with a sort of starry-eyed grin. Alma realized that they probably all thought it was sweet, the way that she and Evan loved each other, the way they looked out for each other. But Alma knew better. It wasn’t sweet. It was painful and hard. And it was only going to get worse.
She had to do something. She had to find a way to release Evan from all of this.
He handed her a black coffee, and she silently savored the bitterness until the conversation resumed. Alma didn’t want to hear what was coming next.
Ms. Chen sat and grasped her chin. She looked like she was thinking hard. “If Alma were to stay, her father’s parental rights would likely be terminated. There is a chance that the Division of Family and Children Services would put her into protective custody—foster care—since she’ll have no legal guardian when her father leaves the country.”
“What if someone else took guardianship?” Reginald asked. “A relative or friend?”
Alma didn’t have the heart to tell him how few people in her life would be able to do that.
“Guardianship is not the primary problem, Reginald.” Ms. Chen said. “When’s your eighteenth birthday, Alma?”
“August thirty-first.”
“That’s soon. On August thirty-first, Alma will begin to accrue unlawful presence. If she were to finish high school before turning eighteen and a half, she might be eligible for a student visa, but unfortunately that’s not an option. Unless her father is granted relief, and that’s unlikely, Alma’s best course of action will be to return to Mexico before she turns eighteen and a half. At eighteen and a half, everything will change for Alma.”
Halfway through her senior year.
Mrs. King and her son launched in, firing questions and hypotheticals. Alma heard but barely registered their words. Then Evan spoke quietly.
“What if she graduates early?” Evan asked. “She already has a lot of college credits.” He reached under the table and took Alma’s hand. “Right, Alma?”
Alma recalled the most recent meeting with her so-called adviser.
“I still have to take health if I want to graduate, and a couple of other electives. That’s what my so-called adviser said.”
“We can look into that,” Alma heard Mrs. King say. “But it will be tough to graduate early if she’s missing those, and if she goes for a GED she’ll lose eligibility for some scholarships.”
Alma couldn’t really hear them anymore. All of the “What if—” and “If only—” formulas coming from the lips of these people, all of these people who cared deeply about Alma and her future. They spoke of scholarships and student visas; they spoke of the difference a few months might make.
“What if—”
“If only—”
And none of it mattered. None of it mattered because she was, as she had always known, one of the kids stuck in between.
* * *
Evan wasn’t sure why he did it. When the meeting was over, he made up some lame excuse to return, leaving Mrs. King and Alma waiting in the snack bar across the street. Alma probably thought it was because he needed to get away from her. And there was some truth to that. The way she held her shoulders, the weariness around her eyes, her stubborn silence. All of these suggested resignation, a defeat that Evan would not, could not, accept. So here he was, arriving again on the forty-eighth floor.
When the brass doors slid open, Sue Chen was standing with a small group of men, waiting for the elevator. Surprise registered on her face.
“Have you left something?” She reached into her purse for her cell phone. “I can have my assistant help you.”
Evan inhaled deeply.
“No. I was hoping to speak with you, Ms. Chen.”
She glanced at her phone and motioned for him to follow her. They stood around the corner from the elevators, alone in the small alcove that opened onto an emergency exit.
“What can I do for you, Evan?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. What was he doing here?
“I know that meeting was difficult for you,” she said.
Her voice sounded hard. It had been a mistake to return.
She pushed open the exit door and motioned for Evan to enter the emergency stairwell with her.
Figuring he didn’t have a choice, Evan followed. He sat down next to her on a cold concrete step.
Ms. Chen turned to face him.
“As a lifelong feminist and an immigration lawyer with fifteen years of experience, I can’t believe I’m about to say this. But there’s something about you and Alma that is simply breaking my heart.”
Evan stayed quiet.
“There may be a way out of this, and it involves you—to put it mildly. But first, I need to know—do you love her?”
Was this the same Ms. Chen he had been sitting across the table from for two hours? The woman who shot poison darts from her eyes? Who delivered terrible news as if she was reciting the daily specials at a restaurant?
“More than you can imagine.”
“And if she weren’t in this mess, would you still feel the same way about her?”
It was an odd question, and it took a while for him to formulate an answer.
“I don’t really know what our relationship would be like, but I can’t imagine not loving her.”
“And you’re eighteen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.” Her voice was cold again. But then she smiled and continued, “It makes me feel old.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, instinctively. He quickly corrected himself, “Uh, OK.”
“Do you have any money of your own, in a bank account or a trust?”
What did this have to do with anything?
“Um, I know that there’s a trust. I mean, my mom has told me that, but I don’t think I have access until I’m older. And I have a bank account, but there’s not a lot of money there. Maybe ten thousand dollars.”
“Evan, sweetheart, to most people ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.” She chuckled and shook her head. It made Evan feel stupid and childish.
She was completely transformed, calling him sweetheart, smiling and laughing. She looked intently into his eyes, making him feel extraordinarily uncomfortable.
“If you were to marry her—”
“Marry her?”
Evan was in total shock. This all-business lawyer, perched on the edge of the steps in her dark suit and black pumps, was telling him to marry a seventeen-year-old girl?
“Yes. If you were to do it now, it’s possible—but not certain—that she would become an LPR before she turns eighteen and a half.”
She was starting to talk legalese again.
“An LPR?”
“Yes, Lawful Permanent Resident, with a green card.”
“And a Social Security number?” He conjured an image of Alma’s face, just as it had looked when she’d told him the news of her scholarship, and of the nine little boxes she would have to leave blank.
“Yes.”
“And all I have to do is marry her?”
“No, you have to prove that you have money to support her, and you have to prove that it’s not fraudulent. But you have the money, and I can’t imagine anyone sitting in a room with you two for more than sixty seconds and not seeing that you love each other. You would have to live together, of course, at least for a while.”
How would they live together? He was on his way to Berkeley, and she was trying to get a Georgia scholarship. His mother would have a heart attack if he moved in with Alma. And, oh, Christ, his uncle Sexton. Evan pushed them out of his mind. He needed to focus.
“What about the penalty?”
“You’d need to get married immediately, Evan, and then hope for rapid processing. Normally, they are able to schedule an appointment within nine months.”
“What appointment?”
“With the Immigration officer. They basically just interview you to make sure that you are legitimately married. They ask you to show photographs of where you live together, of trips you’ve taken. They ask sort of silly questions, too, like what kind of toothpaste Alma uses. They’d just want for you to talk about your life together.”
Their life together—Evan wanted that so much.
“You would need to do it at the consulate in Ciudad Juárez.”
“Where?”
“In Ciudad Juárez—it’s a city on the border.”
“We can’t do it here?”
“It would be best, in your case, to go there. It’s more expedient. She would need to be there for a few days, at least, before the interview. It would all need to happen before Alma turns eighteen and a half.”
“What if it took longer?”
“Then the bar would apply. She’d stay in Mexico for at least three years.”
Evan tugged at his bangs. “Three years? So, we’d be married and she’d be in Mexico for three years?”
“Yes, that’s right, unless she stays here for more than a year without permission. Then the bar increases to ten years.”
“This is a little overwhelming.”
“I know. And you need to keep in mind that, if she goes home now, she may still be able to come back here for college, legally, as an international student.”
Home. That was such a strange way to describe it.
“But how would she pay for it? I mean, would she be able to get financial aid or scholarships as an international student?”
“I doubt it, Evan. Of course, she wouldn’t qualify for federal financial aid, and most scholarships are for citizens or lawful residents, but not all of them.”
“If I married her, she would qualify?”
“Yes.”
“And could she apply for her dad and brother?”
“Yes, after she’s twenty-one, but the penalty is almost certain to hold for them both.”
“So they’d have to wait ten years?”
“Yes.”
“When do we need to figure this all out?”
“If the two of you decide to marry, you should do it immediately. Her birthday is coming fast.”
“OK. Well, thanks, uh, for the information.”
Ms. Chen rested a cool hand on his forearm. Her fingernails were manicured, with little white tips.
“Evan, I know this is confusing and overwhelming.”
“Yes.”
“Please promise me that if you two move forward, it’s for the right reasons.”
“What are the right reasons?”
A deep silence filled the space between them.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” She lifted her hand from his forearm to her temples as the muscles in her face tensed. “I still can’t believe I’ve even suggested it as a possibility. As a lawyer, it’s irresponsible, but I’m not your lawyer, technically. And I thought you should know.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“OK. That’s helpful.”
Ms. Chen smiled. “I’m just being honest with you, Evan.”
“My parents, they’re married for the wrong reasons. A lot of people I know are.”
“Yes, I’d have to agree with that. But Evan, knowing when it’s wrong is a start to understanding when it’s right.”
“Do you think that loving her is enough?”
“Probably not.”
They sat together in silence for a few moments.
“I have to get to court now, Evan. Call me if you want to discuss this further.”
She pulled a business card from her jacket and then dug around in her purse to fish out a pen. Writing a phone number on the back of the card, she said, “This is my cell. You can call me anytime.”
She walked through the door, leaving him alone in the emergency stairwell.