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Cassie
Igot cut from The Handle Bar early, so I had asked Toby to meet me across the street at Tucci’s. We’d eaten garlic bread and pretended like we knew something about wine.
Toby was signaling to the server for another glass, and pointed to my empty one. “You going to join me?”
I nodded then took another sip of water. “So, I’m thinking The Loyal needs to go on tour soon. If I can figure out a way to get off work for a month or so.”
“I’m ready whenever you are.” He took a strand of my bob and rubbed it between his fingers. My hair was longer again, brushing the middle of my neck. People say your hair and fingernails grow faster when you’re in love.
Oh, God, that was ridiculous. I wasn’t in love.
“We’ll see how this next show goes,” I said, taking his hand. He smiled at me, quiet, and a wave of warmth passed through me.
But I also wasn’t not in love.
My boyfriend got it. He’d known me from the beginning of this little band. He’d been on tour, and he was ready to drop everything and go on tour again. He’d been in bar fights and played with church groups. He’d broken down on the side of the road, taken payment in the form of baked goods. All so he could play. He understood what music meant to me, because it meant as much to him.
Toby had even gotten us a show at the Sahara Lounge. And this time, we weren’t splitting the marquee with anyone. It was just The Loyal, for an hour, playing the new stuff we’d put into our album.
“I want to take you home,” he said, reaching to brush a thumb across my cheek.
“My home or your home?” I asked, already feeling the nerves alight in my thighs.
My phone vibrated in my purse. I reached in to turn off the ringer, figuring it was my mom or Nora. They could wait till morning.
“Ready for the check?” a black-clad server asked.
“Yessir,” Toby said, placing his credit card on the table.
“Can I split it with you?” I asked.
He shook his head, folding his lips over that sweet gap of his, smiling with his eyes.
The phone vibrated again. Another call. I pulled it out and noticed it was from an overseas number, or what I figured was an overseas number.
“I better get this,” I told Toby as we stood up from the table.
“K, I’m going to use the restroom real quick,” he said, and walked away.
I answered.
“Cassandra Salazar?” a woman said quickly.
“Yes?”
“This is Captain Grayson, of the Thirty-fourth Red Horse Infantry Division. Ma’am, I’m calling because your husband, Luke Morrow, has been injured in the line of duty.”
I stopped breathing. I blinked twice, mechanical and slow.
“Ma’am, are you there?”
“Yes.” Injured?
“Your husband’s been evac’d to an army facility in Germany. In two days, he’ll be transferred to the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. I’m sorry to have to give you this news, ma’am.”
I unlocked my jaw, sat down at the table, feeling tears hit my eyes. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s in stable condition, but seriously injured. Bullets shattered his shin and kneecap. He should be ready for transfer very soon.”
