“Luke, get in the backseat with her.”
I watched Luke come around the car, the black suit a little too short at the arms and legs, but cutting his form in all the right places. Wide, wiry shoulders, a runner’s waist, long legs that he shoved behind the front seat. He smelled like sharp, wet wood and herbs, probably Frankie’s cologne, too.
At least everyone would understand why I’d be attracted to him.
“And what are we supposed to be thinking about, anyway?” Luke asked.
“Whatever comes to mind,” Frankie said.
“Like what?”
I almost said sex as a joke-not-joke but decided against it. I mean, we were in a backseat together. It was kind of funny, but not the time. I popped my knuckles and tried to focus.
“All right,” Frankie said. “Look at each other in the eyes. Don’t break. Don’t laugh.”
I laughed immediately. But then I took a deep breath. Do this for Frankie. Do this for Mom. Do this for the album.
“One one thousand, two one thousand . . .” Frankie began to count out loud, but then fell silent. Three one thousand, four one thousand, five . . .
I looked at Luke. I remembered those eyes from when we met last week, before he became an ass. The blue and gray, with long lashes under delicate brows. He had light purple circles underneath them.
I could smell his breath, mint toothpaste and a hint of something else, not unpleasant, just warm. Lungs and nerve endings and bones, that’s all Luke was. Just like me, just like anyone else.
He’d said he ran six miles a day. He must like to push himself. Yet it seemed like he’d been taught that man body must go with man thoughts, must be strong and never show otherwise. I didn’t envy that.
In the corner of my eye I saw his hands, wide palms, smooth, thick fingers, resting on his thighs. Occasionally, they tensed.
He had done something to his body that he was trying to undo, I could sense that being next to him now, and from the way he carried himself.
Believe me, I told his sad eyes silently, I can relate.
Luke
Twenty-four one thousand, twenty-five one thousand, twenty-six one thousand.
After this is stupid had drifted through my head a couple of times, I noticed Cassie had a freckle under her left eye, and some of the hairs in her eyebrows, full and dark, were lighter at the tips.
The freckle was a tiny island on the otherwise uninterrupted skin of her cheek.
It was strange that I probably could have gone the whole year of knowing her, being “married” to her, without seeing it.
I watched her blink and keep hold, and, goddammit, Frankie was right, maybe I grew a little more trust in her ability to stick with the whole situation. Not ability, I suppose, but desire to stick to it. I was thinking about earlier, about her being beautiful and breezing through every opportunity.
She was, but the way she was looking at me now, eyelids almost twitching with the effort of staying put, I could tell she hadn’t let that be the thing she used to get by. If her appearance was how she defined herself, she probably wouldn’t be here, at the back door. She’d be at the front door with whatever person she wanted.
Looking at her, though, erased every other possible life out of my mind. She was so unquestionably here.
Cassie
“Time’s up,” Frankie said, and all the sounds of the street and world came crashing back. The spell was broken.
Luke cleared his throat, and grabbed his army-issued bag. “Let’s do this.”
Our footsteps echoed in the foyer along with all the other footsteps of people Making Things Official everywhere—permits, lawsuits, licenses. I ducked into the bleach-streaked bathroom and pulled out my glucose meter. Who knew the next time I would be able to check my blood? I had no idea how long a city hall marriage would take. I had a weird vision of it being like Ellis Island, mile-long lines of women who looked like old pictures of abuela, flared skirts and rolled hair, their arms hooked around the arms of D-day survivors in uniform.
When I emerged, I paused, watching Frankie and Luke mutter to each other. I took a deep breath, and walked toward them. The Travis County Clerk’s office was on the second floor.
We shared the elevator with a woman and a man about our age, dressed in formal clothes. They had their arms around each other. The woman was holding a bouquet of daisies. Oh, God. These people were actually getting married. Luke and I stood with our shoulders barely touching, Frankie humming quietly along with the Muzak version of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” We were such a sham.
As the elevator doors opened, the woman turned to me. “Y’all getting hitched, too?”