Chapter 65 The Border
Harper's POV,
The Peace Arch border crossing appeared ahead, and my stomach dropped.
"Why am I nervous?" I asked Crew. "We have all the paperwork. Your visa's approved. Everything's legal."
"Because border crossings are inherently anxiety-inducing. It's a universal human experience." He moved into the correct lane, following signs for the Canadian entry. "We'll be fine. Just answer their questions honestly."
"What if they don't let me in?"
"Then we turn around and figure out plan B. But they're going to let you in, Harper. You're not smuggling anything illegal. You're just moving."
The line moved slowly. Cars ahead of us getting waved through or pulled aside for secondary inspection. I watched border agents checking passports, asking questions, occasionally directing vehicles to the inspection area.
When it was our turn, Crew rolled down the window. A woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a neutral expression leaned down.
"Passports, please. Purpose of your visit to Canada?"
"Moving here permanently," Crew said, handing over both our passports. "I have a work visa. She's entering as a visitor initially."
The agent flipped through Crew's passport, scanning pages. Then mine. Her expression didn't change.
"Mr. Lawson, you're listed as an athlete. What sport?"
"Hockey. I play for the Vancouver Canucks. Signed with them three weeks ago."
"Ms. Sinclair, you're entering as a visitor but Mr. Lawson indicated you're moving here permanently. Can you clarify?"
My mouth went dry. "I'm moving here with Crew. My boyfriend. I'm entering on a visitor visa for now, but we're planning to apply for common-law sponsorship after living together for a year."
"What are your intentions regarding employment?"
"I'm a physical therapist. I'm planning to open a private clinic once I get my Canadian licensing sorted out. But I won't be working until I have proper authorization."
The agent typed something into her computer. Her expression stayed neutral, which somehow made it worse.
"Mr. Lawson, it says here you were hospitalized in Seattle six weeks ago. Can you explain the circumstances?"
Crew's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed calm. "I overdosed on prescription painkillers. Accidental overdose. I was addicted to opioids for three years. I completed twenty-eight days of inpatient treatment at Serenity Hills in Seattle. I've been clean for forty-seven days."
"Are you bringing any controlled substances into Canada?"
"No. I have documentation from my treatment facility if you need to verify. And I'm willing to submit to drug testing if required."
The agent looked at him for a long moment. "Wait here."
She walked away with our passports, disappearing into the border station building.
"Shit," I whispered. "They're going to deny us."
"They're not going to deny us. They're just being thorough." Crew's hand found mine. "It's fine. This is normal."
"Normal would be getting waved through in thirty seconds. This is suspicious."
"This is what happens when you're honest about having been in rehab six weeks ago. They have to verify. It's their job."
We sat there for fifteen minutes. Cars behind us got redirected to other lanes. I watched other travelers get processed quickly—passports stamped, waves through, welcome to Canada.
Meanwhile, we were the suspicious ones. The hockey player fresh out of rehab and his girlfriend with no job prospects trying to move countries.
The agent finally returned with our passports and a stack of papers.
"Mr. Lawson, your work visa is in order. I've noted your substance abuse history in our system. You'll be subject to additional screening at the border for the next year. Any violations of Canadian drug laws will result in deportation and visa revocation. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Ms. Sinclair, I'm admitting you as a visitor for six months. You are not authorized to work during this period. If you're found working without authorization, you'll be deported and banned from re-entering Canada for five years. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"You're both required to carry documentation proving your relationship status—joint lease, utility bills, bank statements. If you apply for common-law sponsorship, you'll need to demonstrate you've been cohabiting for at least one year. Immigration officers may conduct home visits to verify."
She handed back our passports with additional papers clipped to them.
"Welcome to Canada. Next vehicle."
Crew pulled forward through the border. We were officially in Canada. British Columbia spread out ahead of us—same trees, same mountains, but somehow foreign.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "That was terrifying."
"That was thorough. There's a difference." Crew merged onto Highway 99. "But we made it. We're here."
"They're going to do home visits to verify our relationship. That's insane."
"It's standard for common-law sponsorship applications. They need to make sure we're not committing immigration fraud." He glanced at me. "Which we're not. We're actually together. This is real."
"I know. But having border agents show up at our apartment to verify we share a bed feels invasive."
"Then we'll deal with it when it happens. Right now, let's just focus on getting to Vancouver without having a panic attack about theoretical future home visits."
The highway curved along the coast. Ocean on one side, mountains on the other. It looked almost identical to Washington state but with Canadian flags and Tim Hortons billboards.
We passed through White Rock, then Surrey. Traffic got heavier as we approached Vancouver proper. Downtown skyline appeared in the distance—glass towers and construction cranes and the mountains behind everything.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"It's home now."
We took the exit toward our neighborhood—Fairview, close to False Creek, walking distance to the arena. The GPS directed us through residential streets until we pulled up in front of our building.
Red brick, six stories, built in the nineties but well-maintained. Our condo was on the fourth floor. The moving truck was already parked outside, movers sitting on the bumper drinking coffee.
"You're late," the shorter mover said, checking his watch. "We've been here forty minutes."
"Border crossing took longer than expected." Crew unlocked the building's front door. "Let's get everything upstairs."
The next four hours were chaos. Movers hauling boxes and furniture up the elevator. Crew directing traffic—couch goes here, bed frame goes there. Me unpacking kitchen boxes and realizing we'd packed three whisks but zero spatulas.
By three PM, the movers were gone. Our furniture was arranged in approximately the right places. Boxes were stacked everywhere, labeled in Maya's handwriting from our frantic packing session.
I stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. This was our home. Our actual home. Not Maya's guest room. Not a hotel. Ours.
"It's so empty," I said.
"It's got potential." Crew collapsed on the couch, which was positioned wrong but neither of us had energy to move it. "We need art. And plants. And those throw pillows you're obsessed with."
"I'm not obsessed with throw pillows. I just think they make spaces feel lived in."
"You have fourteen throw pillows."
"Had. Past tense. I donated half of them. Now I only have seven, which is a perfectly reasonable number."
"Where are they?"
"Packed. Somewhere in those boxes labeled 'bedroom misc.'" I looked around at the mountain of cardboard. "This is going to take days to unpack."
"Then we take days. There's no rush." He pulled me down onto the couch next to him. "Harper, we did it. We actually moved to Vancouver. Started over. This is real."
"It doesn't feel real yet."
"It will. Once we find the coffee maker and figure out how the shower works and stop eating takeout on the floor because we can't find plates."
I laughed. "Very romantic vision of our new life."
"I'm a romantic guy. What can I say?" He kissed me. "But seriously. Thank you."
"For what?"
"For taking this leap with me. For moving countries. For trusting that this would work out even when it was terrifying." His hand found mine. "I know this is hard. New city, no friends, no job yet. But we're going to build something here. I promise."
"I'm holding you to that promise."
We spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking essentials—sheets for the bed, towels for the bathroom, enough kitchen supplies to make coffee in the morning. Everything else could wait.
I found the sunflowers from Pike Place Market, somehow still alive despite two days in a box. Put them in a water glass since we hadn't unpacked vases yet. Set them on the kitchen counter.
"First thing in our new home," I said. "Something alive."
"And growing," Crew added. "Like us."
By seven PM, we were exhausted and starving. We ordered Thai food from a restaurant down the street, ate it sitting on the floor because we still couldn't find the dining chairs.
"This is ridiculous," I said, laughing. "We're eating pad thai on the floor of our expensive condo surrounded by boxes."
"This is perfect," Crew corrected. "This is exactly what starting over looks like. Messy and chaotic and imperfect."
He was right. It was messy. But it was ours.
After dinner, we gave up on unpacking entirely. Made the bed with sheets that didn't match. Fell asleep in our clothes on top of the blankets, too tired to care about proper bedtime routines.
This was Vancouver. This was home.
And tomorrow, we'd start figuring out how to actually live here.