The Professor's Green Card Marriage Read online

  Valentyn looked good. He was wearing a light blue short-sleeved button-down shirt and flat-front shorts, and had on a pair of brown sunglasses that hid his eyes in an enticing way. As always, he was clean-shaven.

  Peter came down the sidewalk to greet him, though he couldn’t look him in the eye and didn’t attempt to say anything. He managed a slightly awkward smile.

  Valentyn removed his sunglasses and smiled too, though his was smoother and warm. “Good morning, Petrush.”

  The nickname made Peter flutter, and he glanced up, making it as far as Valentyn’s chin. God, the man was so handsome. He really hoped there was at least some mountain trail necking on the agenda for the day.

  Valentyn gestured to the car. “Shall we go?”

  Peter nodded and followed Valentyn down the sidewalk.

  Valentyn’s car was nice, a newish gray-green sedan with a sunroof, which was currently open. A cup of coffee from Procaffeination sat in the cup holder, and the bottle of water Peter had requested for himself.

  As they shut the doors, Valentyn gestured to the open sunroof. “This okay? When it gets too windy on the highway, I’ll shut it, but I thought it would feel nice in town.”

  Peter nodded and stared up at the sky once he had his seat belt on. It was bright Colorado blue with only the slightest wisps of clouds.

  “Great.” Valentyn backed out of the drive, and as they cruised toward the stop sign at the end of the block, he picked up his coffee with a slight grimace. “You truly are the only one who makes breves that I like.”

  Smiling, Peter reached for his water bottle. He didn’t drink it, just held it as a kind of anchor.

  “Do you go into the mountains often?” Valentyn sipped his coffee. Their agreement had been that Valentyn would behave naturally around Peter, asking him questions, give him space to answer, but if Peter couldn’t, he’d simply continue on. Peter knew he couldn’t say anything yet, so he waited until Valentyn spoke again. “I’ve been several times, though not as much as I’d like. When I first came, I had difficulty. Kyiv is only 180 meters above sea level. Colorado was quite an adjustment. I became very ill at first. And I sunburned myself raw.”

  That was still a risk. Peter reached for his bag, pulled out the bottle of sunscreen he’d packed, and set it in the cup holder where his water had been.

  Valentyn smiled. “Ah, good. Thank you. I forgot.”

  They were driving near Pearl Street Mall now, passing a gay bar that had cropped up in the past year.

  Valentyn gestured to it. “My former boyfriend took me in there one night. I enjoyed it. I still feel strange, though, when I go into gay bars in the States. When I went in Kyiv, I was full of terror I’d be seen by someone I knew. Here, I think half the population of the bar was straight people. When my students saw me there, they only waved.” He shook his head, looking lost in melancholy thoughts. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to go back to that. I don’t think I know how to pack myself away so tightly anymore.”

  Though Peter couldn’t say anything, he did manage to put his hand on Valentyn’s as it rested on the console.

  Valentyn made space for Peter’s fingers to close over his own.

  As they made their way to the highway, neither of them said a word, not until Valentyn shut the sunroof and settled into a comfortable speed. He looked at ease and happy as he scanned around them. “It’s so beautiful here. A different beauty than Ukraine. The mountains are so regal and peaceful.”

  They were. Peter had grown up surrounded by mountains his whole life, and he’d taken countless trips into every aspect of them growing up in Denver, but it was something else to be nestled in the foothills like Boulder. He loved riding his bike and feeling the safe surroundings closer than they’d ever been, peeking over the tops of houses and trees. He made a mental note to tell Valentyn some of this later.

  “Have you ever run into wild animals when you were in the mountains?” Valentyn asked.

  Gaze carefully out the front window, Peter nodded. There were too many encounters to list, so he didn’t try.

  “I went picnicking once with some professors and graduate students, and a moose and calf walked past us fifty feet away. There was one graduate student who tried to go pet it, and I was surprised at how upset the native Coloradans were as they stopped him. I didn’t realize there was a fine for harassing wildlife. But then, it makes sense, given how seriously Colorado takes its environment.”

  It would take some time to drive to the park, and they settled into mostly comfortable silence. It was difficult, Peter knew, for someone to keep up the entirety of a conversation on their own. Valentyn was probably okay with it, he thought. He seemed a little nervous, but then, so was Peter.

  “Do you mind if I play music?” Valentyn glanced over at Peter. “You can pick something if you like, or I’m happy to do it.”

  Peter wanted to speak, so he took his time, focused his thoughts around his question, and got it out slightly louder than a whisper. “W-what do you like?”

  Valentyn looked sheepish. “Well, I don’t mind most music and find it interesting. But if I’m by myself, especially if I’m drinking, I like to listen to Ukrainian pop.”

  Peter managed to cast a surprised glance at him for a few seconds. He hadn’t even known that existed. Obviously it did, but he’d never thought about it. Now he was super curious.

  The pressure of being alone with Valentyn, knowing it was a date, knowing how important it was he try to communicate, knowing how badly most of his dates had gone in his life—all this built in a constant tornado inside him, and every attempt to make eye contact, speak, or in any way resist the urge to freeze took superhuman effort. Peter was already exhausted. The more Valentyn didn’t seem to mind his awkwardness, though, the quieter the tornado became. He drew a slow breath and made mental preparations to try to speak again.

  Except it didn’t work. Frustration stewed, and the tornado had a resurgence.

  Valentyn remained calm, not quite amused but decidedly gentle. “Well, now I can’t quite decide what to do. You have me feeling wicked, like I want to play Ukrainian pop. But I don’t want to take advantage of your silence, either.” He scratched his chin before brightening. “Ah! I know. I’m going to pull over at this small souvenir shop and go inside for a few minutes. You stay in the car, and maybe text me a bit? We still have mobile reception, yes?”

  They did, two precious bars. Though Peter couldn’t react, inside he was overjoyed. One, he could use a break from feeling as if he was trying and getting nowhere, and two, he could actually text things.

  Valentyn parked the car, squeezed his hand briefly. “Be right back.”

  As soon as he was out of Peter’s line of sight, he relaxed. Taking a deep breath, he found his phone. He gave himself a second, then began texting.

  Sorry if I’m a pain.

  The reply began instantly. Not in the slightest. I’m sorry if I’m making you nervous. Is there something I should be doing better?

  God, Peter adored him. You’re doing great. It’s me. I have a lot of baggage.

  Me as well. Perhaps I should have brought a larger vehicle to hold it all.

  More breathing. I would love to hear your pop music. Also yes, Colorado is very strict about the environment and the wildlife. I love my state so much for that. Except of course I want them to do even better. Also the key to a good breve is patience. I think most baristas rush them.

  Is it terrible that I don’t want to be taught how to make them? If we do get married, I’ll buy every piece of equipment you need and shower you with compliments every time you finish one.

  Peter flushed, his heart skipping a beat. So you’re still considering marrying me, huh?

  Koshenya, I think of little else.

  With a happy sigh, Peter nestled deeper into the seat. He hovered with his thumbs over the keyboard, but he didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound silly. Doubt began to creep in. Wincing, he did his best to counter it. I’m sorry I keep gett
ing nervous.

  You don’t think I’m nervous too?

  I’m sorry my nervous means I can’t talk or react sometimes. I feel like I’m failing and then I freeze more. I’m sorry.

  A slight pause. The whole point of today was to get to know one another. While I know it doesn’t define you, SM is part of you, yes? So experiencing it means understanding you. From what you’ve told me, it’s not going to get easier until we spend more time together. I don’t have expectations for you to meet, except that you find a way to let me know if you’re in trouble and need to end the date early. You already gave me the means for that with your aunt and uncle’s phone numbers and instructions on how to tell if you need to be helped. So everything else feels like casting nets into the sea together. It’s not only what we catch, though, but the experience itself that will teach us things.

  Cheeks pink, heart fluttering, Peter curled around his screen, feeling soft and loved. I’m so excited to be with you when we text like this. I want to be able to talk with you too. With my mouth. When you’re in front of me.

  Well, that’s a goal we can have. Maybe you can send me an email while we drive? Or is that too difficult without a real keyboard?

  Peter laughed quietly. I’m on the cusp between Millennial and Gen Z. I’m faster with my thumbs than I am with a keyboard. He bit his lip. The problem is communicating to you while I’m in front of you is against the rules. But I can try to bend them, maybe. You break a lot of rules.

  Rules?

  How was Peter supposed to explain the rules of SM? It was longer than a text.

  Maybe he could email. Maybe. Maybe.

  Shutting his eyes, he imagined his teacher with an envelope. Inside was the ability to speak more easily with Valentyn, something he wanted very much. In his mind’s eye, he made a carbon copy of himself, grayed out and silent. The world of his imagination froze as he turned to himself.

  “I want to make new rules for him,” he said to the copy.

  The copy considered the request solemnly. After a moment, it nodded, and there in his mind he wrote several lines in the notebook in front of both incarnations of himself. He digested them, then texted again.

  I can maybe do email, and I’ll explain the rules to you. But I can only do it if you come back to the car without speaking to me or acknowledging me in any way. You have to act as if I’m not present at all, no matter what. Even if I seem stressed out. When I’m done, I’ll probably be very tired and not want to interact for a little while. This means probably we won’t talk again until we get to the park. Is that okay? Is this too weird?

  It’s not weird. I can do this. I’m sorry if I make any mistakes—I won’t mean to. I’m eager to hear what you have to say, but I’ll be patient and do as you ask.

  Peter swallowed hard, blinking around suddenly moist eyes. You’re a really good guy, Valentyn.

  So are you, Peter.

  They didn’t text anymore. Peter kept his phone in his grip and stared at the dashboard as Valentyn returned to the car and, as instructed, got in, started it, and went back to the road with absolutely no acknowledgment of Peter. Peter might as well have not been in the car at all.

  It made him feel sad and a little cold to be so ignored, but it also made him relax. He’s only doing this because you asked him to, he reminded himself. He’s doing this so you can try out the new rule.

  Peter still felt uneasy and slightly frozen as he lifted his phone, opened his email client, and began to type, but the longer Valentyn behaved as if he wasn’t there, the easier it became to speak. He wrote and wrote, disappearing into the words.

  When he finished, he hovered over it a moment. Then, trusting in the new rule, he hit Send.

  Exhaustion hit him like a truck. Shutting his eyes, he curled up as much as he could in the seat and fell immediately asleep.

  As he floated away, he saw the classroom in his mind again. Smiling, the gray copy of himself took the envelope from the teacher and handed it to him.

  Chapter Nine

  FROM: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Rules

  It’s a struggle to write this with you beside me. Won’t have my usual flair. Sorry.

  Maybe that’s a good place to start. Before I talk about the rules. A lot of people want to know the reason I have SM. Like what trauma in my past got me here. Emmy, my ex, always asked me. They were convinced there was some root source and if I could weed it out, everything would be sorted. It doesn’t work like that. Some people with SM also have trauma in their past, but it’s really misleading to look for that as a source, and anyway, even if it were, naming it doesn’t magically undo a knot and free my tongue. It’s not like the movies.

  I have a huge fear of disappointing people tangled with my SM. My temperament was geared toward anxiety, and the world fed that fear and turned it into actual anxiety, into SM. When I was young and I feared being shamed or mocked or told I was bad, the world showed up to reinforce that too. Nobody locked me in a closet or beat me. I think this is hard for people because they want the world to work like that. They think people can only become so anxious they’re mute because the world is especially cruel. I don’t think most people are prepared to face a world where accidental, silent mistakes made by a host of well-meaning people can not only set off SM but can render it nearly impossible to eradicate. They can’t face the truth that some people need very different things than others, that these needs put them in harm’s way. That they might have to listen and think hard to find new ways to reach them.

  I didn’t sit down one day and make up the rules in my head. My brain invented them for its own reasons, and when I try to undo those rules, I have to approach the part of me that made them with respect and care. The therapist I have now is really great, and she tells me to thank my brain for taking such good care of me. My brain behaves this way as self protection, and who is better than my brain to understand what protection I need?

  Anyway. I’ll try to explain the rules. The ones I have now are different than the ones when I was younger. They’re a little softer, less absolute. I can break them if I’m careful and make a petition to myself. Sometimes I ask for a new rule, which is what I did so I could write this email. I want to talk to you, but I have to respect my SM and the fear that generates my muteness. Whether or not it’s an actual danger, I fear that you will hear me speak and find me repulsive. I hate the sound of my voice. I practice speaking and record it, but I hate hearing it. Every Wednesday night my aunt and uncle and cousins go out to eat without me, and I sit in my room in the dark and speak out loud, imagining talking to different people I know but can’t speak well to, and also random strangers who came into the café. I’m usually upset a lot after, but I always practice, because it’s the only way I’ll get better. It’s weird, because I can speak to my family. That’s a rule: I can speak to my family when they’re the only ones around. That’s a new rule this time. Or I guess it’s a rule here in Boulder. It was so bad before I left I couldn’t speak at all.

  I’m really worried telling you all of this is going to chase you away. There’s no escaping, though, that I was in real trouble before I came here. It was hard. I thought I was past my SM, that I had it handled and it would only get better. I wasn’t prepared for it to be worse than when I was younger. But I’m getting better now. That I could make a rule for you is a good sign.

  The rules are a means of control. I can speak in front of my family in Boulder: that’s safe. I can’t speak in front of strangers, though, even if they’re with my family. Sometimes I can’t even react. I always have trouble with someone I want to interact with for the first time.

  I don’t feel like I’m doing a good job with this. I hope it’s clear enough. Sorry. It’s difficult. I know you’re right here. I know you know I’m typing. I worry you’ll see things about me I don’t want you to see. I worry I’m going too fast. I should tell you these things later. But I worry we don’t have time to
go slow.

  I just want to ride with you in a car and talk. My fear with you is the same as it is with anyone I want to interact with: I fear you will find out that another person would be better for you to interact with, that you should stop interacting with me and go find them. You can tell me that’s not true, but that won’t help. Part of me knows life doesn’t work like that, but the other part just can’t make decisions based on reason.

  What I wanted out of today was to get comfortable enough with you we could try Sliding In. It’s a technique where you come to my house, sit outside of my line of sight, but I know you’re there, and I have a conversation with my family. You can’t sneak up on me and do it—that makes me worse once I find out, and I can’t trust you anymore. This right here is a kind of Sliding In. I know you’re next to me. Even when I try to pretend you aren’t, I know you are. You know I’m writing to you. The next goal would be for you to sit where I can see you and I talk to my family, or read something out loud. I’m not ready for that. But I’ve put that goal in my imaginary envelope.

  Sometimes rules contradict each other and I’m in trouble. When I was little, I went to a small after-school day care, and I could speak there. The woman who ran it was a close friend of my mother, and I felt comfortable with her. There were only two other kids, and both of them were so little they couldn’t talk beyond babble. Then one day a new kid was there when I arrived, someone from my class. I was terrified. I couldn’t let the day care worker know I didn’t speak at school. I couldn’t let the child from school know I could speak. I was so paralyzed by the trap that I ran away. The woman couldn’t leave to chase me, so she called the police. They found me at a park. Two men with guns came to collect me from a swing, and they became angry when I didn’t speak to them. They put me in the police car, and I could barely breathe. At the station, a string of police officers asked me to tell them my name and my mother’s name. I guess somehow the wires had been crossed and the woman hadn’t told them my name, and nobody called her for some reason, and it took some time for the dispatcher to sort it out. I sat in a windowless room for hours. I thought it was a prison cell. I thought I was arrested for not speaking. I wanted to use the bathroom, but there wasn’t one, and so when I couldn’t hold it any longer, I simply wet my pants. I stood in the corner so I wouldn’t wet the chair. When my mom came to get me, she was angry and scared, and so I became even more terrified. Now they had my mother in jail too, because it was my fault. I had let everyone down.