Page 4 of Assigned

He stares dead-eyed ahead, his chiseled profile void of any emotion. Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a blink. Must be the SEAL training because the Lucas I once knew was full of life and I could read every emotion on his face.

Or someone hurt him badly enough to make him shut down.

There’s an unwelcome twinge in my heart at the thought about what responsibility I might bear in this situation. Maybe the someone who hurt him was me. It’s been more than a decade since we were together, though. We were kids in high school. Plenty could have happened between then and now. For all I know, I’m barely a memory of his childhood.

Our future together, however, is very much my concern. “Lucas, you spent most of the morning loading my belongings into your truck without talking to me. You reached out via text message to discuss the living arrangements. Is this really how it’s going to be?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

He exhales loudly through his nose. Moments pass without him responding. I readjust myself to face forward and glare out the windshield. I’ve all but resigned myself to a silent car ride when the dumbass finally decides to express his thoughts. “How long you been out this way?”

Ah, darn.

Maybe I should’ve prepared for this conversation. I can imagine how it looks from his perspective. He should know I moved to Virginia from Texas before I signed up for the program, though. Being local to him was a matter of chance. I didn’t know he was here. I mean, I knew he’d joined the Navy, but he could have easily been stationed in San Diego or any of a dozen other states. “Don’t flatter yourself thinking I moved here because I knew you were stationed on this side of the country or anything.”

“Wasn’t. Asked a question.”

Fine, then. “I’ve been here almost a year. I wanted a change.”

He snorts. “Yeah, living in a studio apartment must’ve been some change.”

I whip my head sideways and glare at him, my top lip twitching. “Why, because my parents own a big house? Their own ranch? They worked hard for that place and I worked alongside them. I’m not some spoiled brat. You know that.”

For the first time, his mask of indifference falters, only not in the way I’d hoped. His lips press into a thin line and his nose scrunches, like he smells something sour. “Nice try, Cupcake. Did you selectively forget what you and your parents told me the day we broke up? How I would never be well-off enough to take care of you... with my family being from the local trailer park and all. You all said I’d never have anything good enough for you and I might as well face that and get the hell out of your way.”

That’s by far the most words he’s strung together since I set eyes on him today. Now I’m sort of wishing he’d stayed quiet. I fold my hands in my lap while my chest tightens and my heel taps the floor at high speeds. It wasn’t exactly a day I was likely to forget. I’d been standing on the landing of the grand staircase that led from the foyer of my parents’ house to the second floor. Lucas had been standing on the ground level looking up at me, like Romeo looking up at Juliet. Then my dad had said those hateful things and I hadn’t bothered to contradict him. But that was more than ten years ago, and I’d had my reasons. I still do.

In fact, the real reason I broke up with Lucas directly relates to my reasons for agreeing to this arranged marriage. What a crazy, fucking circle this is. Lucas knows none of this. I couldn’t tell him then and I can’t tell him now. If only circumstances were different, but they’re not.

“That was a long time ago. People grow and change. I’m certainly not the same girl.” The words are truer than I care to explain, so I continue. “Can we move on? Or do you intend to use the program as a way to punish me for something I did when I was seventeen?”

A second passes. “No, ma’am. Not looking to rehash the past.”

The conversation ends and we fall back into an uncomfortable silence. Lucas doesn’t even flip on the radio.

I tilt my head away from Lucas, to hide my grimace. The abdominal cramps aren’t so mild anymore and I pray a flare-up isn’t on the horizon. It’s a pipe dream, I know. A flare-up is always on the horizon. My Crohn’s has never been completely under control, which is why I joined the program. Health insurance is expensive. My parents would have kept me covered, but that came with a difference kind of price—my independence.

They want me tucked away in their house under their watchful eyes, like a figurine on a shelf. As if I were some kind of fragile porcelain doll that might break if allowed out into the world. I get it. They love me and they took care of me through so many surgeries and treatments. It had taken a toll on them and on me. There were times I didn’t know if I could go on, but I did. I got through it. They never seemed to be able to let go of it, though. They never stop treating me like I’m sick.

I know part of it is their guilt over my sister, Michelle, who died when she was twelve years old. She’d been out in the barn, mucking out a stall, when she was hit with a sudden onset asthma attack. My mother never forgave herself for not watching her more closely, not being able to get her help in time, and she swore she would keep better watch over me.

That had been fine when I was seven, right after Michelle died, but I’m a grown woman now, and I can’t spend my life under my mother and father’s watchful eyes. I want a chance to enjoy the times when I’m not sick, when pain and fatigue don’t sideline me from everything else women my age get to enjoy.

So, I packed my bags and moved to Virginia Beach. In return, they dropped my insurance coverage since I no longer worked at the ranch. They probably believed that would have me running home. But nope. I was determined to make it on my own.

Turns out, independence is a heck of a lot easier to achieve when you don’t have a serious autoimmune disease that requires routine medical care and expensive drugs. Finding a job while managing constant GI flare-ups has been a mess and the money in my savings account is running out. Now the current medications that had stabilized me over the past few years have stopped working. There are other drugs, other treatments, but not with cut-rate health insurance. No. A person needs the good stuff for those treatments, the kind that comes with being married to someone in the military.

I’d been about to pack it in and head home when I heard about the Issued Partner Program. So yeah, I joined. I needed to. For the medical benefits. And even if it doesn’t last, the program gives me a chance to get a tiny slice of that big pie—a husband and a home—while also buying me some time to obtain the financial and health insurance security I need to become independent. I mean, a job must exist that not only will offer me my own damn insurance but also be flexible when it comes to my disease.

I figured I could do a year with someone. Lieutenant Graham said the level of intimacy would be completely up to me. Being someone’s married roommate sounded a whole lot better than crawling back home with my tail tucked between my legs where my parents would suffocate me to death with their concern.

And I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve missed out on so much of life already because of my disease. Spent years in and out of hospitals. This is a gamble I have to take because I’m not sure living the other way is worth it.

And who knows? It could work. Maybe it wouldn’t be for just a year. Maybe the military really had discovered a scientific way to find love. Only, I was matched with Lucas Craiger. I glance at his stony expression out of the corner of my eye. My chest burns with guilt. I hate the fact I’m essentially using him for the military medical benefits, but if I want a chance to experience all the things I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid, I need Lucas to get access to more expensive treatments, like the biologics Medicaid won’t cover.

Until I can find a more permanent solution that doesn’t rely on my parents.

As if…because that would mean pretty much handing them a reason to be overly intrusive. No way are they just going to hand over money without inserting themselves into my business.

For now, here I am. About to trade vows with an old boyfriend who thinks I’m shallower than a kiddie pool.

---