Page 140 of A Temporary Forever

She puts a plastic cup in front of me before she sits beside me and puts on glasses. The fact she didn’t takeher own chair should probably comfort me, but it does the exact opposite.

I push my hands into my thighs, preventing them from bouncing.

Martinez flips through a file for what feels like another three hours, which is ridiculous, given it’s a thin folder.

She glances up, her expression one of practiced indifference, as if she’s seen too many cases like mine to muster any actual interest.

“Let's start with the basics, Mrs. van den Linden. When did you get married?”

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a harsh glare that makes everything seem even more unforgiving.

My throat tightens, and I struggle to find my voice. “Um… we got married on…”

My mind blanks, the date slipping away. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t grasp it.

She raises an eyebrow, and it sends panic surging through me. “I’m sorry, I can’t… I can’t remember right now.”

“You can’t remember the date of your own wedding?”

I bite my lip, fighting back tears of frustration. Maybe I can ask her to have this done over coffeesin a coffee shop. I’d find my groove if we were anywhere else.

Memories of the night at the police station after my mom died fill my head, and I freeze completely.

“Mrs. van den Linden?” Martinez prompts me.

“I—I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m really nervous.”

If I expected compassion, I got a sigh. She looks back at the file. “Fine. Let’s move on. Can you tell me where you and Mr. van den Linden have a joint account?”

The room feels smaller, the walls pressing in closer. I try to focus, to summon the information, but all I can think about is the ticking clock on the wall, each second hammering my nerves further.

“The bank… It’s, um… I think it’s… HSBC?”

She meets my eyes, her gaze steady but uninterested. “You think?”

“Yes, HSBC,” I say, trying to sound more confident, but my voice wavers.

“Alright. When did you meet Mr. van den Linden’s family?”

A wave of dizziness washes over me. I know this. I know the answer. But the words won’t come.

She makes a note, her pen scratching loudly against the paper. “If you can’t provide straightforward answers to these questions, it’s going tobe very difficult for me to recommend anything other than deportation.”

Her words slice through me, leaving me raw and even more useless. I stare at her, completely paralyzed as she continues the interview that really becomes a one-sided conversation.

“How long were you dating before you got engaged?”

“When did you move in together?”

“Has he met your family? Were they here for the wedding?”

The questions are hammering down on me, and I try and mostly fail to answer. Or maybe I answer some?

I try to focus and remind myself my world is here, and I can’t have my annoying anxiety prevent me from staying.

I can’t disappoint Caleb, abandon the theater, leave my friends behind, and most importantly, I can’t return to France.

Clenching my fists, I try to ground myself. “I’m sorry. It’s just… this place…”

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