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Luke
“Chili’s. Ugh,” Cassie said as we approached the decorative door flanked by cacti. “We’re in one of the culinary capitals of the United States,” she continued. “Why did your friends choose Chili’s?”
“They’re not foodies, Cassie. They’re just hungry.”
After Cassie had picked me up in her Subaru, the entire car ride through suburban Austin had been a stream of criticism. Or “just questions I have,” according to Cassie. Why didn’t you tell me we were supposed to dress up? All the army wives are going to look like Jackie Kennedy, aren’t they? Do you guys think drone bombs are taking your jobs, or are you all for drone bombs? Do I salute, too? I had tried to answer her as best I could while the annoyance pressed on my chest. I didn’t realize tucking in my one button-up shirt was “dressed up,” I’d told her, and I didn’t know anything about drone bombs, I was infantry, and, no, for God’s sake, please don’t salute. I assured her we’d be in and out of there, then we’d follow them to the hotel near the airport that Frankie had booked for us and a few other couples, then we would be done.
Inside, Chili’s was full, loud, smoky from fajitas. A teenage hostess with a too large headset greeted us and held up a one second finger. We nodded.
“I’m just saying.” Cassie leaned close to me and muttered, “What about barbecue?”
I sneezed in response.
“Are you getting sick?”
“No, your perfume makes my nose itch.” Her car smelled like someone lit a match to a field of herbs. Not unpleasant, just spiky.
“I don’t wear perfume. Remember? I told you that at the diner.”
I hadn’t remembered. I was probably too busy being pissed about all the stuff she forgot. “Okay, then the smell of your car makes my nose itch.”
“Are you allergic to my smell?”
“No!”
Cassie was laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The face you just made.”
I realized my jaw was pretty much wired shut. I tried to loosen it, took a breath, and said quietly, “Can you handle this?”
“Handle what?”
“This is the last impression people in my company are going to get of you and me in person. This is, like, our army moment. For an army marriage. So.”
“So?”
I was walking on the edge of pissing her off. A familiar place. “So. You know.”
“What?”
“Just, don’t ask them questions about drone bombs.”
“Dude.” Cassie gave me a relaxed thumbs-up. “I’ve been in relationships. Straight back, big smile, laugh at everyone’s jokes. I’m a pro.”
“And pretend you like me,” I added. My stomach flipped. I’ve heard couples say that to each other, but usually they were joking.
“Duh,” Cassie said.
She got quiet, biting her thumbnail, staring absently at one of those tacky black-and-white posters of Marilyn Monroe near the host stand. Reality was approaching. I sensed her nerves.
I nudged her shoulder. “Just pretend I’m that hot musician. Bon Iver.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t look like—”
“Father Jack Misty,” I tried.
“It’s Father John.”
“Father John Misty. Dressed like David Bowie. Holding a key-tar.”
