Chapter 74 The Interview
Crew's POV,
The immigration office was in a nondescript government building downtown, all beige walls and fluorescent lighting and the particular smell of bureaucracy—stale coffee and stress.
Harper and I sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area, holding hands and trying not to look as nervous as we felt.
"We're going to be fine," Harper said for the fifth time. "We have all the documentation. We've practiced the questions. We know our timeline."
"I know." I checked my phone. We were twenty minutes early. "What if they ask something we didn't prepare for?"
"Then we answer honestly. That's the whole point. We're actually a couple. We actually live together. This isn't fraud."
"I know that. But what if they don't believe us? What if five months seems too fast? What if—"
"Mr. Lawson? Ms. Sinclair?" A woman in her forties appeared in the doorway, holding a clipboard. Professional suit, neutral expression, the kind of face that gave nothing away. "I'm Officer Rodriguez. Please follow me."
We followed her down a hallway into a small interview room. Table. Four chairs. Recording equipment. A window that looked out at nothing interesting.
Officer Rodriguez sat across from us, opening a thick file folder.
"Thank you for coming today. This interview is to verify the legitimacy of your common-law relationship for sponsorship purposes. I'll be asking questions separately first, then together. Everything is recorded. Please answer honestly and completely." She looked at me. "Mr. Lawson, let's start with you. Ms. Sinclair, please wait in the hall."
Harper squeezed my hand once before leaving. The door closed behind her.
Officer Rodriguez pulled out a notepad. "How did you meet Harper?"
"Through her best friend Maya. Maya works—worked, at the time—for my former team in Seattle. She was the PR director. She introduced us as part of a fake dating arrangement to help my image after a bar incident went viral."
"Fake dating." Officer Rodriguez wrote something down. "Explain that."
So I did. The whole story. The contract. The three-month arrangement. How it was supposed to end after Joel's wedding but became real somewhere in the middle.
She asked more questions. When did it become real? Why did we decide to move to Vancouver together? How long had we been living together?
Then the invasive ones.
"What side of the bed does Harper sleep on?"
"Left. Closest to the door. She says it's a safety thing from living alone for years."
"What time does she wake up?"
"Six AM usually. Earlier if she has early clients. She's not a snooze button person. First alarm, she's up."
"Who does the cooking?"
"We both do. She's better at it but I'm learning. I make breakfast most days. She handles dinner."
"What are her fears?"
I paused at that one. "Failure. Not being good enough. Being a burden. She spent ten years making herself small for her ex-boyfriend and she's terrified of falling back into that pattern."
"What are her dreams?"
"The clinic. Building something that's hers. Helping athletes manage pain without turning to pills the way I did. And—" I stopped. This felt too personal. Too intimate to share with a stranger taking notes.
"And?" Officer Rodriguez prompted.
"And being chosen. Actually chosen by someone who values her. Not settled for. Not as a convenience. Chosen."
Officer Rodriguez wrote that down. Asked more questions. About our daily routines. Our fights. What we did for fun. How we handled stress.
By the time she was done, I felt like I'd been dissected and reassembled.
"Thank you, Mr. Lawson. Please send Ms. Sinclair in."
I found Harper in the hallway, pacing. "Your turn. She's thorough. Don't overthink it. Just answer honestly."
"How'd you do?"
"I told her about your fear of being a burden and your dream of being chosen. So I either helped our case or made us sound like a therapy session."
Harper smiled slightly. "That's accurate though. We basically are a therapy session."
I waited while Harper was interviewed. Checked my phone obsessively. Texted David, my sponsor: Immigration interview. Very invasive. Trying not to panic.
He responded immediately: You've got this. Truth is your friend. Breathe.
After thirty minutes, Harper emerged looking drained. Officer Rodriguez called us both back in.
"Now I'll ask questions together. I need to see how you interact, how you answer questions about each other." She pulled out a new sheet of paper. "How did you decide to move to Vancouver together?"
Harper and I looked at each other. She nodded for me to start.
"I signed with the Canucks after leaving the Titans. Harper had just settled her lawsuit. We both needed fresh starts. We decided to do it together."
"Ms. Sinclair, did you have reservations about moving countries with someone you'd been dating for two months?"
"Of course I had reservations. It was terrifying. But I was more scared of staying in Seattle alone than I was of moving to Vancouver with Crew. Sometimes the scary choice is still the right choice."
"Why are you getting married? You've only been together five months. That's very fast."
I took that one. "Because when you know, you know. And because Harper needs work authorization to operate her clinic legally. But mostly because I love her and want to spend my life with her. The immigration timeline just accelerated what was already happening."
Officer Rodriguez made notes. "Ms. Sinclair, are you marrying Mr. Lawson primarily for immigration purposes?"
"No. I'm marrying him because he's the person who saw me at my worst and chose me anyway. The work permit is a bonus. The marriage is real."
"Mr. Lawson, you completed substance abuse treatment three months ago. That's very recent. How can you be sure you're ready for marriage while in early recovery?"
Harper tensed beside me. This was the question we'd been dreading.
"I can't be sure," I said honestly. "Recovery is one day at a time. I'm seventy-five days clean today. Tomorrow I'll be seventy-six days clean. I can't promise forever. But I can promise I'm doing the work. Therapy, meetings, support system. And Harper knows all of this. She's choosing me anyway. Imperfect, recovering me."
"Ms. Sinclair, are you concerned Mr. Lawson might relapse? That his addiction might impact your marriage?"
"Of course I'm concerned. Addiction is a chronic disease. Relapse is always possible. But I'm choosing him anyway. Because love isn't about guarantees. It's about choosing someone and showing up. Every day. Even when it's hard."
Officer Rodriguez wrote extensively. Asked more questions about our daily life. Who paid bills. How we split expenses. What we fought about. What we did on weekends.
"Tell me about a recent fight," she said.
Harper and I looked at each other again.
"Last week," Harper said. "I was stressed about the clinic finances. He tried to give me money to help. I refused. We argued about independence versus accepting help. He said I was being stubborn. I said he was trying to fix problems I needed to solve myself. We both apologized two hours later."
"How did you resolve it?"
"I accepted that he was trying to help, not control. He accepted that I need to handle some things independently. We compromised—he helped me create a budget spreadsheet but I manage the actual finances."
"Mr. Lawson, do you feel like you have to rescue Ms. Sinclair?"
"Sometimes. But I'm working on that in therapy. Harper doesn't need rescuing. She needs partnership. There's a difference."
Officer Rodriguez closed her folder. "I'm going to recommend approval of the common-law sponsorship application. Pending your marriage in three weeks, we'll process the spousal sponsorship simultaneously. Ms. Sinclair should have her work permit within six to eight weeks."
I felt Harper go still beside me. "We're approved?"
"Pending final processing and your marriage ceremony, yes. You've provided extensive documentation. Your stories are consistent. Your relationship appears genuine." She stood. "Congratulations. You'll receive official notification within two weeks."
We left the office in a daze. Made it to the car before either of us spoke.
"We did it," Harper said. "We actually passed the interview."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm relieved. Having a government official ask invasive questions about our relationship for an hour was the worst experience of my life."
"Worse than getting sued by a billionaire?"
"Different kind of bad. That was external danger. This was internal scrutiny. They were looking for reasons we're lying. Trying to catch us in inconsistencies." She leaned back against the seat. "I hated it."
"But it's done. And we passed. And in six to eight weeks, you can legally work in Canada without the donation loophole."
"In six to eight weeks, I'll be Harper Lawson. Legally. With work authorization and spousal status and all of it." She looked at me. "Are you okay? That question about relapse was brutal."
"I'm okay. It was honest. I can't promise I'll never relapse. But I can promise I'm trying. And you believed me when I said that."
"Of course I believed you. Because it's true. You're doing the work."
We drove home in silence. Both of us processing. The interview had been invasive, uncomfortable, necessary. But we'd passed. The approval was coming.
In three weeks, we'd get married. In six to eight weeks, Harper's work permit would arrive. Her clinic would be fully legal. Everything we'd been building would be official.
At home, I called Dr. Okonkwo to debrief. She'd asked me to check in after the interview.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"Exhausting. They asked about my recovery. About whether I can be a good husband while in early sobriety. About whether Harper's marrying me for immigration or love."
"How did you answer?"
"Honestly. I said I can't promise forever but I can promise I'm trying. And Harper said she's choosing me anyway."
"That's exactly right. Recovery and marriage aren't about guarantees. They're about commitment despite uncertainty." She paused. "How do you feel now?"
"Relieved. Exhausted. Ready for the wedding to just happen so we can stop talking about it."
"Three weeks. You can handle three weeks."
After the call, I found Harper on the balcony. Joined her, wrapping my arms around her from behind.
"Thank you," I said into her hair.
"For what?"
"For choosing me. Despite the uncertainty. Despite the risk. Despite everything that could go wrong."
"You chose me too. Despite my control issues and fear of being a burden and tendency to run when things get hard. We're both messy. We're choosing each other anyway."
"Best decision I ever made."
"Second best. First best was going to rehab."
"Fair point. Rehab, then you. That's the ranking."
We stood there watching the city. Three weeks until the wedding. Six to eight weeks until Harper's work permit.