He looks up and smiles. But at the sight of my face, his eyes turn a guarded, stormy black.

“How did it go?” He sounds like he is choking.

I don’t have to answer. A gust of breath leaves his lungs like he was hit by a wrecking ball. He marches to me in three long strides and pulls me tightly to his chest.

Javier smells like peppermint, soap and paint. I break down, my tears soaking his thin, worn T-shirt. He does not speak. He knows there are no words for it. His family sneaked across the Mexican border for a better life when Javier was just a teenager. This is the only safe home he knows.

“How long do you have?” he whispers.

“Thirty days after graduation.”

“So soon.”

It sounds like a lament. His heartbeat has slowed. Almost quiet. In sync with mine—like everything else between us.

It has always been like this with Javier, since we met on my first Christmas Eve without my parents and I couldn’t even look in the mirror because of my mother’s face staring back at me, waning from grief. We are both outsiders looking in on this land with wonder. We both want nothing more than to belong. He wants to come out of the shadows and I want a new start after my parents’ death. I hope he still gets his happy ending, even if I don’t have mine.

“There must be another way.” His voice takes on a sharp edge of rebellion.

“There is not, Javier. You know it as well as I do. I’ve used up all the practical training time under my visa. I tried every other work visa I could. The lab retracted the job offer after the H-1B visa didn’t go through. I don’t have enough money for grad school and almost all scholarships are for U.S. citizens. I’m too old to be adopted, and I haven’t won the green card lottery.”

“I wish I was American,” he says.

“Why? So you could give up your own life and marry me just to keep me here? No way, Javier. Falling in love with an American girl is your only chance.”

He shrugs. “Better our family together than a love life.”

We stand like this until the door to the studio bursts open. Feign storms in, glaring at us like a bull in front of a red flag.

“What the fuck are you two doing? Look, I don’t give a shit if you fuck each other’s brains out on your own time, but I pay you to work.”

Javier’s fingers tighten on my arms. I know that in his mind he is breaking Feign’s already crooked nose and probably mutilating some other vital part of his anatomy. But their relationship is part poison, part sustenance. Feign needs Javier’s genius and Javier needs Feign’s fraud. We pull apart, and Javier shuffles back to the easel.

Feign leers at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You know the rules, Isa. Don’t linger in the reception lobby again! You’re lucky I don’t force you to use the back door like him.” He sneers at Javier and charges out of the studio, slamming the door behind him.

“Fucking cocksucker,” Javier mumbles.

I go behind the floor screen and take off my clothes. My sheet is draped over the screen. I secure it tightly around me, clipping the clothespins in the right folds until the only part of my body exposed is the curve of my waist and my hipbone. I come out, looking only at my bare feet. I can’t look at Javier when we do this, and he knows it. I take my place under the ray of light and close my eyes as Javier’s gaze focuses on my skin.

Then, slowly, the rhythm of his brush strokes permeates the air—the only sound in the room. My thoughts drift past this horrid day, past the worse, empty future ahead until the cold Mr. Hale appears unbidden behind my eyelids. A shiver runs through me—something like fear, compulsion and surrender all at once. This will be his painting. I busy myself with imagining where he will hang it. Perhaps, without either of us knowing, his eyes will rest on me for a very long time. With Javier’s brushstrokes, it’s almost believable.

Chapter Four

Sister

Three hours later, I stand in my lavender kitchen, making dinner. Lancashire hotpot—Reagan’s favorite. She has an evening seminar that should end about now. She has texted me twice to ask how things went but I didn’t want to text her back. What could I possibly say in a text? I stuff the marinated lamb in the braiser and start chopping vegetables. I keep my eyes only on my working hands, unable to look at any other surface that makes this lilac-and-cream apartment my home. Tears threaten again, and I let them fall. What’s the point of stopping them now?

Reagan bursts through the door twenty minutes later. I hear it slam.

“Isa?” She whips around the corner, her vivid red curls flying everywhere. The moment she sees me, her green eyes widen and her lips start to tremble.

“Oh, sweetie, no. No! No! I can’t believe this. They denied it? How? Your GPA, your supplement, you don’t have so much as a parking ticket!” Reagan can’t rush through her words fast enough, as if I am the one who made the decision.

“I know, Reg. But please, let’s talk about something else. None of it matters,” I mumble.

“That’s because they’re all bloody wankers!” she screams, and I can’t help but laugh. She loves all things British and has never ceased to be disappointed with my King’s English as she calls it. I tried to explain that I was raised by Oxford professors who believed slang is to English like sulfur is to natural gas: harmless in small doses but still smelly. But that has never stopped her from hoping that one day, I’ll start speaking like Bridget Jones. What I have never told her is that my very dialect reminds me of my parents and from the minute I boarded that plane to Portland, I have tried to Americanize my speech as much as possible.

Still, to make her smile, I do my best Bridget impersonation. “You’re right. Pervy tossers, they all are!” My voice lacks conviction.

Reagan looks at me with a mixture of worry and pity. I avoid her teary green eyes.

“We’ll find a way.” She stomps her Hunter boot on the floor. “There’s gotta be a way. I’m calling my dad, he’ll figure it out. My family loves you.”

Lucky Reagan, to have a father who can always make things right. Unfortunately, even the kind Mr. Starr cannot battle the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. But I allow her to indulge her fantasy. No reason for both of us to be miserable. She is on her cell phone now, talking at top speed. I try to tune out as much of it as I can. I know my options like I know the periodic table. But try as I might, some words still slip through my shield.

“Yes, unbelievable I know… No, she doesn’t have anyone like that… I don’t know… Yeah, look around, Dad… Just a second, I’ll ask.”

She calls over her shoulder at me. “Isa, do you think you can sell the formula for your supplement for one million?”

Oh yeah, I know this rule too. If I have one million to spare and invest in the American economy, they’ll let me stay. I snort. A way for the rich to buy anything they want.

“No, Reagan, I can’t.” I try to keep dejection from my voice. She is only trying to help and can’t take no for an answer.

Truth be told, I looked into it. If I had another six months to finish the last stage of testing, maybe I could sell it. Fast-digesting proteins with continuous energy release are a good idea, especially for humanitarian aid or the military. But no one will touch it before the testing is finished. Not to mention that this supplement was my father’s dream, and selling it will feel like burying him again, this time alive.

Reagan hangs up, the look of obstinacy still on her face. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

I simply nod. “Thanks, Reg. And thank your dad too. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

She darts across our small kitchen and gives me a hug that squeezes the last air from my lungs. I will miss her like Portland misses sunshine. She is right there with Javier in my small family. The sister I never had. I feel a lump in my throat and retreat quickly before I fall to pieces again.