Purple Hearts(15)

And Tyler loved all this about me. Tyler told me he wanted to marry me on our third date, a late showing of Sabrina at Violet Crown Cinema. Tyler was in law school, Tyler brought my mom chrysanthemums the first time he met her. Tyler regularly got his hair cut by an actual barber. I bought toys for his niece’s birthday, I decorated the apartment we found in North Loop with large vases full of dried reeds. I got a job at the firm full time, with every intention to get into law school once Tyler had passed the bar. I was twenty-three, I had gotten my wild years behind me, and I had it all figured out.

Then, something started to crumble, but in a good way. A hard shell falling off. I started to avoid Tyler by going on long walks, listening to album after album, any artist, any genre I could find, as long as I’d never heard it before.

I had realized the only times I felt sad, tired, inadequate, were the hours spent at the firm, or in that sterile, empty apartment. When I was out in the world, by myself, I felt free.

I’d moved into Rita’s attic within a week.

That was a year ago. I’d been making minimum payments on my student loans, trying to keep my mother happy, teaching myself to hone my rough voice into something listenable, collecting synthesizer equipment, working fifty to sixty hours a week, and now learning how to cook food that wouldn’t kill me.

And with the exception of exchanging occasional booty calls with the drummer of my band, I’d been doing all of it completely, gloriously, and sometimes terribly alone.

Now I needed help.

Finally, Frankie texted. Sorryyyy, on our way.

Frankie would get it. He was still there, still willing and kind, at least. He could go overseas, I would stay here, and by the time he got back, well, I would have had my shot. If I wasn’t making a living from music then, and if Frankie was ready after deployment to pursue actual marriage with someone else, we’d break it off. I’d go back to having shitty jobs with crappy health insurance and figure out another way. Until then, we could just be two independent people in a mutual agreement.

I took a deep breath and started walking toward his house. My gut was burning, but on my side. I’d fed it expensive quinoa for lunch. That always helped.

After a few blocks, I looked up at his enormous house, hearing the door of the Lexus shut. People were laughing.

Up the driveway, three people got out of the car: Frankie. Luke, the asshole from the other night. And a woman in a turquoise dress, maybe Luke’s girlfriend.

I nodded at the woman and pretended Luke didn’t exist.

“Frankie, can I talk to you for a second?” I said, holding the army brochure like a weapon, smiling big and scared.

“Sure, Cass,” Frankie said, his brows furrowing. “Be right there,” he called, and Luke and the woman made their way into the house.

“First of all, hi,” I said, and laughed for no reason, nervous.

“Hi,” Frankie, said, laughing with me. “Good to see you after an ‘eventful’ night.”

“Right, about that . . .” I had bent the brochure into a cylinder.

“Sorry. Again. Also, please tell me we’re going to get to see you play before we ship out.”

“Yeah!” I swallowed. “I mean, no, but that’s also kind of why I’m here.”

“What’s up?”

“I found out I have diabetes, and—” Frankie’s face twisted in concern. I stopped him. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be okay. Hear me out.”

“But that’s so scary,” Frankie continued, softer.

“It is. And I just lost my day job.” Before Frankie could pity me further, I said quickly, “So here’s what I’m thinking. With your army contract, married couples get two thousand dollars extra a month, and the spouse gets covered under your health care. So, like—” I paused, smiling with my teeth, my gut sloshing. “So what are you up to tomorrow?”

Frankie squinted, smiling. Then an expression of understanding passed over his face. “Wait, is this a proposal?”

“N-not like that,” I stammered. “We go to the courthouse. We get a marriage certificate. I’m your legal spouse. We split the money.”

“Cassie,” he said.

I handed him the brochure. He flattened it out of the crumpled mess.

“It’d be so easy,” I pushed, on the verge of pleading. “We wouldn’t even have to pretend for that long, because you’ll be overseas.”

“Housing and subsistence benefits for married couples?” Frankie laughed, incredulous. He stared at the paper. “Where did you get this?”

“Armando gave it to Nora that night at the bar.”

“Fucking Armando.” He shook his head. “Cass—but, like, why? Why are you even considering this?”

A knot of regret was already forming. This wasn’t how I’d pictured this going. I pushed through it. “My health insurance is fucked, and if something were to go south with my diabetes, I couldn’t afford it. Especially on top of my student loans.”

Frankie exhaled. “Why don’t you just get a new job?”

A flat laugh escaped me, thinking of the hospital room. This is a good hobby. “You should talk to my mother.”

“There just has to be another way.”

“I’ve been living the other way, Frankie,” I said. I felt the desperate edge to my voice. “It sucks. I did everything right. I went to college, I paid my own bills, I took care of myself. I had a career. Even when I was doing everything right, things went wrong. They’re going to go wrong again, especially now that I’m sick. So I might as well pursue my passion instead of grinding away at some buffer job that will get me nowhere anyway.”