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Cassie
Idrove us to a motel, still seething, though Luke, staring out the passenger window at the car dealerships and gas stations whipping by, didn’t seem to notice. PC police. Sure, whatever they wanted to call it.
And then I had all but blown our cover. Was it worth it? Depended on which part you were talking about. Was being around a bunch of xenophobic, oversized children worth the one thousand dollars a month? Was calling out a bunch of xenophobic, oversized children worth throwing away the health insurance? Either way, my mother was right. This was crazy. And thank fucking God we were almost done.
“Well, are you coming in or do you want to officially call this thing?” Luke asked as we pulled into the parking lot.
Instead of answering, I parked, and followed him out of the car. He was already bounding up the motel steps.
“It’s 201,” he called out to me.
We creaked up the metal stairs to the second-level balcony.
The room was a smoker’s lung with a funguslike carpet and walls peppered with blurry watercolor prints by Thomas Kinkade.
Luke sat on the bed, unlacing his boots.
Thebed. Bed, singular. There was nothing in our agreement about having to share a comforter. “Why the hell did you get a queen bed?” I asked.
He untucked his button-down and I felt my body getting hot with embarrassment, and a strange pang like lust, which I hated.
“Frankie said that’s all they had available,” he muttered.
“Oh, I’m sure.” I took off the Walmart ring and flung it on the table next to a telephone from 1992, finally able to feel my finger.
He kicked off his boots. “Yes, I’m the one who did everything wrong. Blame me.”
I slipped off my Converses and socks, switched off the lamp, and got under the covers. He slipped in next to me. It was strange to feel his weight, his breath on the back of my neck.
After a moment, Luke said, “Everything was going fine until you had to be a... fuckin’... social justice warrior.”
“I’m not a social justice warrior.” I kicked off my jeans, trying to keep the comforter in place. “I’m a sane human who got scared to be around, like, violent chanting.”
He said nothing. I could feel him forming an opinion. “You’re not the only one who’s in this, you know.”
He sat up behind me, leaning on his arm. “It’s not the same, Cassie.”
“How is it not the same?” Silence. My palms turned clammy from sweat, heart thumping. “Tell me exactly how it’s different. If we’re caught, we’re both in trouble.”
He swallowed. “You’re going to be safe at home.”
I turned to face him. “I wouldn’t call diabetes safe. And that’s not an answer.”
He sat up, bare chested. “Can I get any respect from you?”
I sat up with him. His eyes went to my bare legs. I didn’t care. “Talking about killing motherfucking A-rabs? I think you and I have a different definition of respect.”
“I didn’t say those things,” he said slowly, emphasizing each syllable, moving his face closer to mine.
I imitated him. “But you let them happen.”
“There’s a culture, Cassie. I’m the one going overseas with these people.” Then he muttered, “And you get to stay at home and reap the benefits. So a thank-you would be nice.”
Okay. Enough. I took his face in my hands. “Oh, Luke, thank you, man.”
“Stop,” he said. He pushed my hands away.
I clapped my hands together in fake prayer. “For all that you do for everyone. Thank you so much.”
