Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. For what partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness? - 2 Corinthians 6:14

Later that evening, when we'd left the museum, we dined on pizza slices in a tiny Italian place filled with couples and college students.

"We need to get a marriage license," I said, unable to keep my eyes from the bracelet on Georgia's wrist as she lifted the slice of pepperoni to her mouth. It looked good there. She looked like mine, even if she would never be. "According to the state of New York, there's a sixty-day period in which we can marry after procuring a license."

"I've always wanted to star on 90-Day Fiance," she said, in a tone that made sure I had no idea if she was being genuine. "Do you think you could get a camera crew?"

I scowled. "You're asking a man who until recently didn't even have a cell phone."

"Yes, but I thought that meant you liked to keep people on their toes by mysteriously dropping off the grid from time to time. You know, like me." She shrugged.

I raised an eyebrow as I bit into my slice of cheese pizza. "What secrets are you hiding?"

"I like to cook in the middle of the night when I'm stressed, and I killed my classroom goldfish in the third grade by overfeeding it," she said.

"A fish murderer," I said. "That's why you're in PETA, to atone for your sins."

"Yeah." She picked up her napkin. "You have cheese on your face."

I swiped at my cheek. "Got it?"

She shook her head and reached forward with the napkin. "Let me."

I could have done nothing else when her thumb brushed my jaw as she wiped it off. I'd missed her touch, missed being around her, missed seeing her happy. These days, she seemed darkened by more secrets than simply killing a classroom goldfish by accident. "You have some other dark secret you're not telling me?"

She crinkled her nose. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" I asked, leaning back in my chair as I finished my slice.

"That thing," she said, gesturing with her slice of pizza so hard that she nearly knocked over her Diet Coke. "Don't do the low, gravelly voice thing like you're a motorcycle club enforcer who's interrogating me."

"Last time I checked, the only motorcycle I've been near is yours," I said, chuckling at her description of me, even if I was slightly flattered. "You wanna tell me your secrets, or do I have to get my crowbar?"

"I don't know anything about you," she said. "Let's make this look realistic. What do you do for fun?"

Once upon a time, the answer would've been easy. I painted for fun, just as I did it to soothe me in times of trauma, to comfort me in my misery, to celebrate joys. Now? Now, I could paint nothing but her and I could hardly do that while in the same apartment as her, so I had no other outlet left for me. "I like to throw axes."

"Practicing your serial killer aim?" One corner of her mouth twitched up.

"We should go after this." I eyed her, the slenderness that had been all lean athleticism when I'd first met her somehow bonier now, more emaciated. "Abigail thinks you're starving yourself."

"What?" She gestured with her pizza. "I'm eating right now, aren't I?"

"You're nibbling at the same slice that you've been holding for twenty minutes," I said. "Come on, fake fiancee. Don't keep secrets from me."

"Don't break your promises to me, then," she said, her voice edged with a knife that would always lacerate me. "You said you'd call."

"And my father died."

"You didn't even go to his funeral." Georgia's voice was no longer knife-edged, but now raw, a bloodied fist, a splintery beam ready to scrape me open. "You didn't even call home. What were you doing?"

"Grieving. I thought you'd know a thing or two about that. Or is it so hard to grieve a man you've never known?" I lashed out in the only way I knew how, a crab scuttling into his defensive shell, ready to defend his weakest points even if it meant hurting those who didn't deserve it.

"That was a low blow," she said.

"Yours was too. I thought we'd moved past the past."

She shook her head. "I thought so, too."

"You can't distract me from worrying about you," I snapped. "You're barely eating."

"It's none of your business–"

"If your eating habits are none of my business, then me being deported or leaving the country is none of your business," I said. "Which one is it?"

Tears gleamed in her blue eyes. I realized I'd never seen Georgia Philips cry before.

"Can we not talk about this now? Or here? I'm just..." She took the final bite of her pizza. "I'm not ready yet."

"Okay," I said, softening my tone. "When you're ready."