#green card marriage
Green Card
My submission for 2022’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge. This year we’re keeping it simple: E/R, modern AU, fake marriage. Because why not.
“Hey, asshole,” Combeferre called over the din in the backroom of the Musain, where everyone was beginning to gather ahead of that evening’s Les Amis meeting. Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel all looked up, guilty looks on their faces, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Not you,” he huffed, brushing past them to stop in front of Grantaire. “When the hell are you going to change your address so that you stop getting all of your mail delivered to my apartment?”
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That depends,” he said mildly, taking a sip of whiskey. “When is my apartment going to stop being so shitty that it refuses to be serviced by even the intrepid USPS?”
Combeferre rolled his eyes and shoved a stack of mail at him. “You’re just lucky I check it,” he informed him. “Because there’s something in there that looks serious.”
Grantaire’s smile flickered. “If it’s from my bank—” he started, but Combeferre shook his head.
“It’s not.”
Green Card
My submission for 2022’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge. This year we’re keeping it simple: E/R, modern AU, fake marriage. Because why not.
“Hey, asshole,” Combeferre called over the din in the backroom of the Musain, where everyone was beginning to gather ahead of that evening’s Les Amis meeting. Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel all looked up, guilty looks on their faces, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Not you,” he huffed, brushing past them to stop in front of Grantaire. “When the hell are you going to change your address so that you stop getting all of your mail delivered to my apartment?”
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That depends,” he said mildly, taking a sip of whiskey. “When is my apartment going to stop being so shitty that it refuses to be serviced by even the intrepid USPS?”
Combeferre rolled his eyes and shoved a stack of mail at him. “You’re just lucky I check it,” he informed him. “Because there’s something in there that looks serious.”
Grantaire’s smile flickered. “If it’s from my bank—” he started, but Combeferre shook his head.
“It’s not.”
Green Card
My submission for 2022’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge. This year we’re keeping it simple: E/R, modern AU, fake marriage. Because why not.
“Hey, asshole,” Combeferre called over the din in the backroom of the Musain, where everyone was beginning to gather ahead of that evening’s Les Amis meeting. Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel all looked up, guilty looks on their faces, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Not you,” he huffed, brushing past them to stop in front of Grantaire. “When the hell are you going to change your address so that you stop getting all of your mail delivered to my apartment?”
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That depends,” he said mildly, taking a sip of whiskey. “When is my apartment going to stop being so shitty that it refuses to be serviced by even the intrepid USPS?”
Combeferre rolled his eyes and shoved a stack of mail at him. “You’re just lucky I check it,” he informed him. “Because there’s something in there that looks serious.”
Grantaire’s smile flickered. “If it’s from my bank—” he started, but Combeferre shook his head.
“It’s not.”
Grantaire’s smile disappeared when he saw the envelope in question, and he paled when he saw the return address. He quickly tore it open, his eyes widening as he read what was inside. “Well, shit.”
Combeferre frowned. “What?” he asked, grabbing the letter from him, the color draining out of his face as well. “Oh. Shit.”
Courfeyrac ambled up to them, clapping a hand on Combeferre’s back and trying to read over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Grantaire just shook his head wordlessly, and Combeferre sighed. “Grantaire just got a notice to appear.”
Courfeyrac grinned. “Oo, R, what’d you do now?” he teased. “Another public intoxication charge?”
“Worse,” Combeferre sighed.
Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Inciting a riot?” he asked eagerly. “Conspiracy to commit terrorism? C’mon, you gotta give me something.”
Grantaire cleared his throat. “The U.S. Department of Homeland Security has issued me a notice to appear because they’re seeking my removal from the country.”
Courfeyrac immediately stopped smiling. “Oh shit,” he said, sinking down into a chair.
“Yeah.”
Combeferre sat down as well, his expression serious. “What did you do?” he asked. “As an immigrant from Canada, you know that you run the risk—”
“I’m well aware, thanks,” Grantaire snapped, before sighing. “Sorry. I just, I don’t know what I did. There must have been some kind of mix-up with my latest visa application.”
Courfeyrac glanced between them “Ok, so resubmit your application.”
“I can and I will, but…”
“But now that you’ve got ICE’s attention, the likelihood of your visa being approved given everything Les Amis does isn’t exactly great,” Combeferre said heavily.
Grantaire jerked a nod. “Pretty much.”
Courfeyrac winced. “Well, shit.”
Grantaire raised his glass of whiskey in a mock toast. “My sentiments exactly.”
“Ok, so what are we going to do?” Courfeyrac asked, glancing at Combeferre as if looking for backup. “I mean, we’re not just going to let them send you back to Canada.”
“I don’t know that I have much choice,” Grantaire said bracingly. “If I go through the proper channels and opt for voluntary departure, at least there’s a higher likelihood that I can come back once this all gets squared away.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Combeferre said sharply. “Once you’re out of the country there’s no way they’re going to let you back in.”
Courfeyrac frowned. “What about a green card?”
Grantaire shook his head. “I’m not eligible.”
Something shifted in Combeferre’s expression. “You could be.”
Grantaire looked sharply at him. “No. Absolutely not.”
Courfeyrac again glanced between the two of them. “What are you talking about?” he asked warily.
Combeferre cleared his throat. “If Grantaire marries a US citizen, he can apply for a green card that way.”
Grantaire made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat but Courfeyrac nodded slowly. “Ok, but what’s the likelihood of USCIS believing that Grantaire’s suspiciously timed marriage is legitimate?” he asked skeptically. “ICE has been cracking down, so if he’s going to do this, it has to be as plausible as possible. Someone where no one would question a hasty marriage.”
“And who the hell would that be?” Grantaire asked sourly.
“Well, Joly and Bossuet would be the natural choices, since they know you best—” Combeferre started, but Courfeyrac gave him a look.
“Except for the slight snag of the fact that they’re married to each other already and even if they were to agree to a hasty divorce, that’s definitely not passing muster.” He sighed before offering, “I suppose it could be any of Les Amis—”
Combeferre shook his head. “No, there’s really only one person who it could be. Who absolutely anyone would believe.”
Grantaire gave him a disbelieving look. “Who?”
“You know who.” Grantaire just looked at him blankly and Combeferre sighed before saying, as if he was dreading where this was bound to head,, “Enjolras.”
Grantaire let out a noise like a cat that had just been doused in cold water. “There is no way in hell that anyone would believe that Enjolras and I are married.”
But Courfeyrac just shook his head slowly, understanding Combeferre’s line of thinking exactly. “Grantaire, you get asked if you’re dating like three times a week.”
Grantaire shot him a betrayed look. “Ok, but dating and marriage aren’t the same thing.”
“Says who?”
Grantaire spluttered something incoherent before draining his glass of whiskey and muttering, “This is stupid. Even if anyone would believe it, there’s no way in hell that Enjolras would agree to it.”
Combeferre sat back in his chair. “Then what’s the harm in asking?”
Grantaire couldn’t meet either of their eyes. “I can’t.”
On any other day under any other circumstances, Courfeyrac would have been happy to leave Combeferre and Grantaire in their silent test of wills, but not that day. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Well if you won’t, then I will.”
Grantaire called something after him, but Courfeyrac ignored him, weaving through the crowd to sit down next to Enjolras. Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth, never once looking away, even when Enjolras glanced up at him, his expression unreadable. Only when Courfeyrac stood a few minutes later did he finally manage to tear his gaze away, transferring his panicked stare to Combeferre, who met it evenly.
Courfeyrac’s expression gave absolutely nothing away as he saw down next to Grantaire again. “He’s in.”
“He – what?” Grantaire managed weakly.
“Enjolras agreed to marry you.”
For a brief moment, something indescribably soft passed over Grantaire’s expression before being replaced by an attempt at his usual sardonic grin. “Well, I can’t say that’s how I ever imagined hearing those words. Someone pinch me, I think I’m dreaming.” Combeferre rolled his eyes and reached over to slug Grantaire in the shoulder. Grantaire winced. “Ouch, fuck, I said pinch, not punch.”
“Sorry,” Combeferre said, though he didn’t particularly sound it, and his tone turned brisk. “Anyway, I’ll call Marius and put him to work on applying for the marriage license on your behalf, I’ll figure out how to get one of us ordained and Courfeyrac is in charge of planning the wedding.” He gave Courfeyrac a look. “Remember, it needs to look legitimate.”
“As if I would plan anything less,” Courfeyrac scoffed.
“And ideally it needs to be ready in 72 hours.”
Courfeyrac winced. “Ok, that might be a little harder to—”
“Enjolras is letting you use his AmEx card.”
Courfeyrac breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God.”
Grantaire scowled. “So, what, I just show up on the wedding day?”
Combeferre shook his head. “Not quite. You’ve got some work of your own to do.”
He nodded towards Enjolras, who was looking at the three of them expectantly, and Grantaire blanched. “I think I’d rather be deported.”
— — — — —
If Grantaire was being honest, marrying Enjolras, even for a fake, green card marriage, was everything he’d ever dreamed of. If he had known Enjolras in junior high, you could bet that he would have written ‘Mr. Grantaire-Enjolras’ on all his notebooks in gel pen with little hearts. And, sure, if he was normal, he’d have loved to have just dated him, if that was an option, but Grantaire, who did everything else in his life half-assed, would never have settled for just dating Enjolras. It was all or nothing for him.
Which is why it was a good thing that Grantaire wasn’t in the habit of being honest, especially where Enjolras was concerned.
Enjolras had suggested meeting to go over the list of potential USCIS interview questions, as well to more thoroughly develop their cover story, and Grantaire was certainly not going to turn down the opportunity to spend time with him. Even if it meant dragging himself over to Enjolras’s at the unholy hour of 8am the next morning. “I brought coffee,” he said by way of greeting, handing a cup to Enjolras, who looked surprised.
“Oh, thanks,” he said. “Of course, I do own a coffee maker, which you know because you broke my last one.”
“I had help from at least two other sources in breaking your last coffee maker if memory serves,” Grantaire said, plopping down on Enjolras’s couch, surprised and strangely gratified when Enjolras chose to sit next to him instead of in the adjacent chair.
“So I suppose it would stand to reason there was only a 33% chance you would remember,” Enjolras said, amused, and Grantaire snorted.
“Something like that.” He fiddled with the lid of his coffee cup before telling Enjolras, a little reluctantly, “So, uh, I guess I should start by thanking you. For agreeing to this.”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of coffee. “What, for agreeing to meet to discuss our cover story?”
Grantaire rolled his eyes. “No, for agreeing to marry me,” he said impatiently, making a face and amending, “Well, fake marry me. I mean, the marriage itself is real, but like…” He trailed off, feeling himself flush. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” Enjolras said before nudging him with his elbow. “I also knew what you were thanking me for originally. It’s called a joke.”
“Well hardy-har,” Grantaire said, a little sourly.
Enjolras cleared his throat. “Anyway, are you ready to get started?” He set his coffee cup down on the coffee table and picked up a manilla folder full of printed pages. “I did some research on the process and common areas of concern, which is why I figured it would be best if we started with the interview portion.”
He looked expectantly at Grantaire as if waiting for him to agree, and Grantaire shrugged. “Um, sure.”
“Did you read through the list of sample questions that I sent you?” Enjolras asked, flipping the folder open.
Grantaire scratched the side of his neck. “I opened the email that contained the list of sample questions that you sent me,” he said.
Enjolras scowled. “Did you spend any time whatsoever thinking through what our story was going to be?”
Grantaire smirked. “I spent plenty of time thinking about you, Apollo, but I’m not sure you or the ICE agents who will be interrogating us will want to hear those particular thoughts.”
He winked, but Enjolras looked significantly unamused. “You seriously didn’t do any work to prepare for this.”
He said it flatly, a statement more than a question, and Grantaire just shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like this is a final exam or some shit. And you and I have known each other long enough that this should be a breeze.”
“Be serious,” Enjolras snapped, his favorite two words to say to Grantaire. “This is a hell of a lot more important than a final exam, because it’s not my ass that’s going to get sent back to Canada if we don’t get every detail right.”
Grantaire eyed him warily. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell me,” Enjolras said, derision clear in his tone, “how exactly did you think this worked?”
“I mean, I figured we get the legal paperwork out of the way, we cohabitated until after our interview, and then we’re pretty much free to carry on how we always have.”
“With you, as usual, putting in the least amount of effort,” Enjolras snapped. “But that’s not actually how this works. We have to actually pass as a married couple because if there is any hint that we are not married and sharing our lives, ICE will deport you. And for us to do so, that requires actually learning about each other. Hence the list of questions that I sent you with the expectation that you actually wanted to stay in this country.”
The sudden whiplash of Enjolras making jokes to acting like his usual disapproving self was making Grantaire’s head spin, and without the joy of having gotten blackout drunk the night before, and he forced himself to shrug unconcernedly and take a sip of coffee. “Well if that’s all this will take, I’m not worried. Because while you may be required to learn about me, I already know everything I need to know about you.”
Enjolras gave him a look. “You think you know everything about me?”
Grantaire smirked. “I know that I know everything about you.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Favorite color.”
Grantaire looked pointedly at the red hoodie Enjolras was wearing. “Red.”
“That was too easy,” Enjolras admitted. “Ok, favorite movie?”
Grantaire didn’t hesitate. “You tell everyone it’s All the President’s men, but really it’s Legally Blonde.”
Enjolras scowled, as if he hadn’t expected Grantaire to get that. “Fine, how do I take my coffee?”
“You mean the coffee that I brought for you this morning?” Grantaire asked, amused. “2 creams, 3 sugars, which is an abomination before God, if you ask me.”
“Which is why I’m not asking you that,” Enjolras muttered. “What brand of toothpaste do I use?”
Grantaire paused. “Is that from the list of USCIS questions? Or does my breath smell?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “The former.”
“Ok, well, last time I checked you used Crest 3D White toothpaste because you need those incisors to sparkle.”
He fluttered his eyelashes at Enjolras, who ignored him. “What was the first election that I ever voted in?”
That one made Grantaire pause to think – for all of thirty seconds. “In second grade, your class held a mock-election for the 1996 presidential election, and you were the only one to vote for Bill Clinton over Bob Dole.”
Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “What dorm did I live in in college?”
“Trick question,” Grantaire said, taking another sip of coffee. “Harvard has houses, not dorms.”
“Not for freshmen,” Enjolras said, just a little smugly.
“And freshman year your assigned dorm was undergoing renovations so you lived in an on-campus hotel.” Enjolras was silent, and Grantaire allowed himself a moment of triumph before asking, “Any other questions? Because I can do this all day.”
Enjolras took a deep breath. “Just one.”
“Fire away,” Grantaire said breezily.
“Why did I agree to do this?”
Grantaire’s smile faded. “You– I mean, you’ve always said the immigration system is broken,” he said, a little weakly.
“And it is,” Enjolras said evenly. “But that’s not the answer.”
“And that’s not a question they’re going to ask,” Grantaire shot back.
Enjolras just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.” He took a sip of coffee before adding pointedly, “Maybe you don’t know everything about me after all.”
Grantaire was silent for a long moment, before finally shaking his head and admitting defeat. “Evidently I don’t.”
Enjolras leveled a look at him. “So does that mean you’ll take this more seriously?”
“I guess,” Grantaire said. “Though it also doesn’t change the fact that you can’t answer any of those questions about me.”
Enjolras scowled. “That’s not true.”
“Oh?”
Enjolras pointed at Grantaire’s coffee cup. “You take your coffee black, like your soul, though when the peppermint mocha comes out at Starbucks in the winter, you’ve been known to get one now and then. And your favorite color is green.”
He sounded almost smug, and Grantaire gave him a golf clap for his effort. “Well color me impressed.”
Enjolras half-smiled before adding, “Also, though I don’t actually know what brand of toothpaste you use, I know that you tell people that you emulate Kesha and brush your teeth with a bottle of Jack.”
Grantaire laughed. “Ok, I haven’t told anyone that since, like, 2013.”
Still, it was enough to have Grantaire looking at Enjolras with a new appreciation. Perhaps the man was more observant than Grantaire had given him credit for in the past. As if sensing Grantaire’s train of thought, Enjolras cleared his throat, his cheeks suddenly looking a bit pink. “Anyway, you should get comfortable,” he said, turning his attention back to the manilla folder. “There’s a long list of things we need to talk about, and a lot less surface-level than what our favorite movies are.”
“Fair enough,” Grantaire said. “Though for the record, mine is When Harry Met Sally.”
Enjolras glanced up at him. “The rom-com?”
“The very one,” Grantaire said. “Though, uh, I wouldn’t get so high and mighty about it, seeing what your favorite movie is.”
“I wasn’t getting high and mighty,” Enjolras said, laughing lightly. “I’ve just never seen it.”
Grantaire gasped and clutched his chest. “How have you never seen it?” he demanded. “Honestly, I don’t think this marriage is going to work if you don’t watch it.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, just slightly. “Well, I’ll see if I can squeeze in a viewing between figuring out our backstory, going to get fitted for a tux, and drafting our pre-nup.”
“As if you don’t have a custom tailored tux hanging in the back of your closet.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know how you know about that, but clearly I’m going to have to put a lock on my closet door the next time I have everyone over.”
Grantaire grinned. “Yeah, but in 72 hours, it won’t matter if I see what’s in your closet, right?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”
— — — — —
Of course, Enjolras wasn’t entirely wrong – the next 72 hours were a whirlwind of preparations, half devoted to Enjolras and Grantaire working out their backstory, and half devoted to doing everything that needed to be done to have a convincing wedding ceremony.
The former was made easier by their mutual decision to stick to something simple that fit their history: they had been friends for so long that once they realized there was more between them, it didn’t make much sense to have a long, drawn-out engagement.
The latter was made easier by the fact that with a clipboard and AmEx in hand, Courfeyrac turned into an authoritarian the likes of which was normally only found in a third world dictatorship.
How Courfeyrac had managed to convince the most sought-after chapel in town to let them use the facility on a Saturday in May no less was a secret he would almost certainly take to his grave, but Grantaire didn’t question it, or the out of season red roses that artfully decorated every surface as he made his way inside, his rented tux in a garment bag over his shoulder.
He dressed in record time, which left him with little to do but sit in the groom’s suite sipping champagne and thinking about what a monumental mistake they were probably making, not the least because this almost certainly cemented the fact that this would never happen for real.
After all, people didn’t get real-married after getting fake-married and then fake-divorced, right?
A knock on the door sounded and Courfeyrac poked his head into the room. “You about ready?” he asked, a bite of impatience in his voice.
“I didn’t realize I was the one holding proceedings up,” Grantaire said mildly.
Courfeyrac sighed. “You’re not. But we have exactly forty-five minutes to get this done and some people—“ Knowing their friends, Grantaire had a pretty good idea which ones Courfeyrac was referring to. “—don’t seem to understand that.”
Grantaire nodded. “So I have plenty of time to chat with Enjolras before we get hitched, right?“
Courfeyrac threw his hands up. “You might as well at this point,” he huffed before stalking off.
Grantaire hid his laughter and instead snuck across the hall to knock lightly on the door of Enjolras’s dressing room. “It’s me,” he said.
“Come in,” Enjolras called.
Grantaire pushed the door open, stopping in his tracks when he saw Enjolras standing there, adjusting his cuff links. “Holy shit.”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
Grantaire shook his head. “That good,” he said. “You look – wow.”
Enjolras half-smiled. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nicely yourself.”
As much as Grantaire wanted to just stand there drinking in the sight of Enjolras in a tux, he had come over here for a reason, and he finally tore his eyes away to tell Enjolras, “Thank you, again, for all of this. You didn’t have to—“
“I know,” Enjolras interrupted. “But I wanted to.”
“Why?”
The question was out of Grantaire’s mouth before he could stop it, and Enjolras frowned. “Why what?”
Even if Grantaire hadn’t meant to ask it, now that he had, he knew it was the only one he wanted answered. “Why did you want to do all this? Hell, why’d you agree to this in the first place?” Enjolras shook his head but Grantaire didn’t let him interrupt. “You said that was one thing I didn’t know about you, and I still don’t. I’ve got half your family tree memorized at this point, and I still don’t know why you agreed to marry me.”
“It’s not important,” Enjolras said quietly. “Like you said, USCIS isn’t going to ask that.”
“It’s important to me.”
Enjolras searched his expression for a moment. “I’ll tell you later. I promise. For now, if we’re even thirty seconds late getting out there, Courfeyrac will murder us both.”
He held his hand out to Grantaire, who stared at it for a minute as if not sure what exactly he was supposed to do with it. Then he took it, and the feeling of how perfectly Enjolras’s hand fit in his was enough to occupy his mind entirely as they made their way to the chapel doors, and even all the way down the aisle.
But nothing could have distracted Grantaire as he stood in front of a hastily-ordained Jehan and all of their friends, staring up at Enjolras as they prepared to say their wedding vows. “I understand you have opted for the traditional vows, correct?” Jehan said, looking between the two of them.
Grantaire nodded, but Enjolras took a breath before saying, “Actually, there’s something I wanted to say first.”
Grantaire’s heart stopped in his chest, then started beating double-time when Enjolras turned to take his hands in both of his. “Grantaire,” he said, his voice low, his words meant for no one else besides Grantaire, whose mouth went dry, “you asked me why I agreed to do this. And the truth is, when Courfeyrac told me that you might be deported – it was like the entire world stopped. The idea of not having you in my life was something that I knew I couldn’t live with.”
Grantaire’s throat felt tight. “Enjolras—”
“Normal people might do things differently. They might date and move in together before deciding to get married. But luckily, no one’s ever accused either of us of being normal.” Their friends all laughed lightly in agreement, though Grantaire was pretty sure he saw Joly wipe a tear from his cheek. “The truth is, I love you. And—” Enjolras took another deep breath. “And when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Despite himself, Grantaire laughed, even though to his own ears, it sounded more like a sob. “You watched When Harry Met Sally.”
Enjolras half-smiled. “I did.”
“And?”
Enjolras squeezed his hands. “And I decided that maybe it does work this way. Because I love you. I love that you show up to every protest, and every rally, even when you’re half-asleep or hungover or still drunk. You always make it. I love that you tell terrible jokes at the worst possible time because you can’t stand to see anyone upset. I love that you know so much about me, and I love that if this all works out, I’ll get to spend the rest of my life learning everything there is to know about you. Including and especially what brand of toothpaste you use.”
Grantaire was crying for real now, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Instead, he did the only thing he could, surging forward to kiss Enjolras, one hand wrapped in the label of his fancy, custom tailored tux jacket as if he would never let him go. “You see, that’s the thing about you, Enjolras,” he whispered, his nose brushing against Enjolras’s, neither man wanting to pull back any further. “You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you.”
Enjolras smiled, and the sight was even more beautiful up close than Grantaire had ever thought it could be. “Yeah, but you have to admit, you never tried very hard.”
“No,” Grantaire agreed, kissing him again. “I definitely didn’t.”
Jehan cleared his throat. “Um, not to ruin a beautiful moment, but we’ve still got a wedding to finish.” Grantaire snorted a laugh and Enjolras wrapped an arm around his waist as they turned to again face Jehan. “I’ll take it you both take each other to have and to hold, etcetera?”
“I do,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras turned to press a kiss to his temple.
“So do I.”
“Then by the power vested in me by the internet, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss— And you already are.”
They certainly were, kissing like it was just the two of them, wrapped up in each other. When they finally broke apart this time, their friends cheered and applauded, not that Enjolras or Grantaire saw them – the only thing they saw were each other.
Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand again and squeezed it. “So what do you think?”
Grantaire grinned. “I think we’re going to ace that interview.”
