Purple Hearts(32)

“Let’s go, dude,” Frankie said.

Cassie stood next to the driver’s side, the car idling.

“Salazar, come here,” Frankie said. Cassie came to the other side of the car, and they embraced, speaking quietly to each other. They parted, and Frankie and Armando made their way to the curb, waiting.

I took my bag out of the trunk, and as I passed her, I brushed my hand on her shoulder. “Well,” I said.

“So your brother, Jacob,” she said, touching her pocket. “I guess, have you made arrangements with him in case of, uh, emergency?”

I nodded, squeezing the straps of my bag. “Jake would take care of things.”

“Jacob Morrow,” she said. “In Buda, right?”

“Right.” I got closer to her, speaking low into her ear. “You can tell him about us. Just make sure that you come up with a story for my dad.”

She nodded. “Skype in a couple weeks?”

“If there’s access, yes.” A car behind Cassie’s honked. We ignored it. A pigeon came fluttering down to her feet. We both glanced down, and when we looked up, we realized Armando and Frankie were still looking at us. As far as Armando was concerned, we were still husband and wife. Not only were we married, this would be the last time we saw each other for almost a year. And we were in love. Cassie took a deep breath. One more time.

I leaned down, closed my eyes, and this one was right on target. Soft. She took my face in her hands. My fingertips found her waist. For a moment, the world went quiet. We breathed each other in.

I lingered there until Frankie shouted. When I took a step back, I still couldn’t quite let go, even as she got in the car and drove off. Even as I boarded our flight and I watched Texas and everyone I knew fade away.





Cassie


I was pacing outside Nora’s house, eating handful after handful of raw almond slivers out of a plastic bag, wearing a fringed shawl and high, black witchy boots. Reality check: Every detail surrounding the last two days was very real, and yet did not fit together, like pieces of various jigsaw puzzles. Luke and I were married (the piece with the ring on a finger), we had consummated (hotel key), and I had his handwriting in my pocket in case I forgot his family name. We had woken up (his bare shoulder), gone to the airport (the plane icon), and I had made out with him in front of all of his friends like the nurse in that World War II photo, but with less back flexibility. We would now be thousands of miles apart for longer than we had known each other. Where did all of it lead? All I knew was that it was Fleetwood Friday, and my first deposit of one thousand dollars would arrive in two weeks.

“Come on, Nor,” I muttered, checking my phone. I had asked her to meet me early before practice tonight so I could make sure I didn’t invent all of this out of some delusional psychotic episode due to low blood sugar. I needed her to tell me everything was going to be okay.

She pushed open her screen door and made a fart noise, wearing her usual Fleetwood Friday–appropriate tunic, her long black hair feathered under her top hat. I ran past her inside and down to the basement.

She came clomping down the steps in platforms, eyeliner in hand. “What is the fuss, Cass?” she called.

I stood in the middle of her basement, hands on my hips. “I did it.”

“Did what?” She had to step sideways because of the boots.

I took a deep breath. “I married an army guy.”

She stopped in the middle of the steps. “Wait. What?”

“?‘Go army’? ‘Count the benefits’?” I echoed the language of the brochure. “Remember when that Armando guy proposed?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I did that.”

Nora came down the rest of the stairs, furious. “You married that Armando guy?”

I held up my hands. “No, not him—”

“Thank God.”

“But that other guy. Luke. Frankie’s friend. The asshole from the bar.”

Nora sat on the bottom step, eyes wide. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn’t. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or confused or admiring me or all three. She set down the eyeliner next to her and folded her hands.

“Except he’s not really an asshole,” I said. “It’s nuts. I can’t even believe I went through with it myself.”

“So it’s done?” she said. “You’re actually legally married?”

I lifted my finger. “The Walmart ring is at home, but yeah.” My gut twisted, staring at her. She stared back. Nora was usually the fuck yes person in my life. When I asked her for a drink the night we met at a Father John Misty show, fuck yes. When I broke up with Tyler, a big fuck yes. When I asked her to form a band, fuck yes. Even when I told her that Toby and I hooked up behind a hay bale at the Harvest Festival shortly after he started playing with us, a minimal but present fuck yes. There was no fuck yes yet.

“Well.” She shrugged. “You’re insane.”

That would bring the tally of important people in my life calling me insane up to two out of two. “Am I?”

“And yet.” She held up a finger. “All things considered, it was kind of my idea. Remember when we were at your apartment and we were talking about rich people we would marry for benefits? That was me. This is a Countess LuAnn, Bethenny Frankel Skinnygirl margarita situation.”