Purple Hearts(3)

Over their heads I found Frankie, watched him wrap his arms around a curvy woman in a yellow sundress. Elena. She’d brought flowers. Atta boy, Frankie. His parents watched, their arms around each other’s waists.

Armando ran a hand through his clipped black hair, bringing up a spray of sweat. “I just want a cold Bud, dude.”

I licked my dry lips, watching Gomez and her husband laugh and press their foreheads together. “I feel that.”

“You taking the bus, Morrow?” Armando asked.

“I guess,” I answered.

Davies put his gangly arms around both of us. “What y’all doin’ tonight? Wanna get turnt?”

“Hell yes,” Armando responded. “Now get off me, Davies, it’s too hot.”

Davies nodded at me. “Morrow, come on. What else are you gonna do?”

I checked my phone. At least Johnno hadn’t called yet today. “I don’t know.”

Armando shook his head, looking at me. “You’re one of the weird, quiet types, huh?”

“No,” I said, proving their point.

Maybe I was weird. So what. I wasn’t here, willfully getting my ass kicked, preparing to roam through the Middle East with a hunk of hot, deadly metal in my hands, because I got bored with my fantasy football league.

“Cucciolo!” Davies called.

Frankie and Elena approached, followed by his parents. His mother was a beautiful woman with Frankie’s big brown eyes, wearing white linen pants, and his father was pure Italian, with curly black hair and thick eyebrows and skin that glowed. Elena kissed Frankie’s cheek. He clapped his hands, approaching. “Anyone else going to Austin tonight? I want to get sloppy.”

“Chyeah,” Davies said. “I’m in.”

“Where should we go?” Armando asked.

Frankie turned to me. “Dealer’s choice.”

“I’m out for this one.”

“Aw, fuck that.”

I gave him a look. “I gotta go to Buda.”

“Tonight?” When I didn’t answer right away, Frankie’s smile faded. He lowered his voice. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing specific,” I said, feeling my chest tighten. “You know, just family stuff. I’ll find a motel on the way.”

“A motel?” Frankie stared at me. “What about your brother?”

I paused, and stepped aside. Frankie followed.

“I have some other stuff to take care of. I don’t want to—yeah.” I should have just said good point and let it drop. “My dad and I don’t get along. And Jake’s got a wife and a kid. I don’t want to burden them.”

Last time I had seen Jake, I had brought him a list of apologies I had written on St. Joseph’s stationery, where I had just spent ten days detoxing. He’d shut the door in my face. I still had the piece of paper folded up in my bag a year later, as if I’d never be able to write it again.

“Come on, you’re about to go overseas. Someone will let you sleep on their couch,” Frankie said. “Crash with me for a while.”

“It’s all good. I’m gonna get a hotel. Thank you, though.”

He shrugged. “My parents have a big house. You’d have your own room.”

My heartbeat sped. In the fight between spending the next two weeks in a bed in a home in Austin versus a room off Highway 49, staring at shitty TV, trying not to relapse, the air-conditioned bed would win. But I liked Frankie. He’d become my friend. I didn’t want to bring my shit into his house.

His large, comfortable, air-conditioned house.

“For the whole two weeks?” Don’t look desperate.

“As long as you need,” Frankie said, glancing up at me, giving me a nod.

Luke Morrow was not the kind of person you bring home to people like this. Even before all this shit went down, I wasn’t a shake-your-hand-and-ask-about-the-weather kind of guy. I never had a mom to teach me how to be a gentleman, how to offer to do the dishes after dinner. More like smoke on the back porch until everyone went to bed.

But no one here knew that. I could do the dishes and whatnot. I could call everyone ma’am and sir, I was good at that now. The air felt cooler for a second. I took a deep breath.

I lifted my hand. Frankie took it.

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Morrow’s in!” Frankie yelled.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen. There was Johnno. I silenced it.

And it wasn’t like I was going out to snort powder off a dirty counter. This would be a bar with music and light and friends, ice in a glass. Frankie’s smile was wide and open, carefree. We started walking back to his parents’ car with the rest of the families, with everyone else.





Cassie


When midnight rolled around, The Handle Bar had cleared. Bittersweet air from the smoking patio was drifting through the high windows and over the pool tables. A few sweaty Lana Del Rey lookalikes were posing for selfies under the twinkle lights and Lone Star posters, a man with a man bun balanced a full-to-the-brim pitcher over the heads of hipsters playing Scrabble, but other than that, no money coming in. Everyone was drinking, but no one was refilling. I wet my dry mouth with the rest of a Gatorade, retwisted the kinky, black mass that used to be my hair before the humidity got to it, and reviewed the list I’d made on a cocktail napkin: