In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (19 page)

“Yeah,” I say, and I know I don’t sound as cocky as Paige expects me to or as defensive and ready to spar as Houston anticipates. Paige quirks a brow, and Houston looks between us both.

His eyes settle on me, and before I can open my mouth to fill him in, my phone buzzes with a call. I pull it out to see my sister Annalissa’s name. I watch each ring until the fourth one falls short and she goes into voicemail. I push my phone into my pocket and look at my friend.

“Murphy came in to record,” I shrug.

Houston doesn’t react, instead lowering his brow and resting back on his hands, studying me.

“We have chairs, Houston. Get your rear end off my table,” his mom shouts from the kitchen.

“Yeah, don’t be such a Neanderthal,” I tease, not really wanting to talk about Murphy.

Houston frowns at me, but moves to the couch next to Leah and Paige.

“Murphy came in,” he gets back to it right away.

I nod.

“And you’re not boasting about the big score, beaming with your amazing greatness, bragging…”

I cut him off before his choice of verbs continues to disintegrate.

“She’s not working with me. John wanted her with Gomez. He’s…he’s probably the smart choice,” I say, careful not to sound as bitter and sad as I feel. I’m happy that my phone is ringing again so at least I don’t have to see the expression on Houston’s face. He knows landing Murphy was important to me, but I’m pretty sure he also has some semblance of an idea that I’m also a little into her.

A lot into her.

And more than scoring professionally, I wanted to be there to see her fly.

I’m out of my comfort zone. I like a girl, and I don’t deserve her, and I’m going to end it at that. The buzz in my pocket comes again, interrupting. This time it’s my other sister calling, and I’m hit with that familiar clenching feeling in my stomach that I get when my sisters aren’t going to stop. This is how they wear me down. It’s effective—or at least it was, when I was a teenager, or when I was ten and I didn’t want to clean my room. This thing is much bigger, which means their attempts are probably going to be even more relentless. I push the power button to turn my phone off and step into the kitchen, grabbing a Coke from my surrogate family’s fridge.

“Who’s Murphy?” Paige asks, and my mind works fast to have a witty answer that will send her in the wrong direction. But I’m not on my game it seems, and Houston beats me to it.

“She’s this girl that dear Casey seems to be quite smitten with,” he says.

“Dude… seriously…smitten?” I say, pulling the tab on my Coke and moving it to my lips fast to catch the fizz bubbling along the top. “Why do you have to choose pussy words?”

Joyce’s hand finds the back of my head fast. I swear, that woman is a ninja.

“Sorry, Mrs. Orr,” I say, rubbing where she swatted me. I have a permanent bruise there from her church-loving violence.

“Ugh, is she some new conquest of yours?” Paige says, making all of the assumptions I figured she would.

“Yep,” I answer, just hoping to leave it at that.

Houston’s eyes narrow as he cocks his head and smirks, parting his lips about to blow my secret wide open for his vulture girlfriend to pick apart and make me feel like a sad, smitten, pathetic pussy when his phone rings out loud. He points at me with one hand while pulling his phone out with the other.

Lucky bastard.
That’s what he’s saying with that grin.

“This is Houston,” he answers, and I mock him while he cups his ear, trying to listen to the other line.

Paige steps up in front of me, prepared to take her boyfriend’s place in grilling me over the new girl, when Houston commands my attention.

“Case,” he says, phone now at his side.

His expression is dour.

I know without asking.

My sisters have called him.

The time to run has come to an end.

“So this is it? You’re legit now?” my best friend says while honking at someone who apparently cut her off.

Sam is the size of a Polly Pocket doll—wafer thin and reaching to my nose if she stands on her tippy toes. Her personality, however, makes her simply
feel
bigger. Her voice is loud; she’s brimming with confidence; her blue eyes even turn me on, and her blond hair has always been on my wish list of wants.

Well, no, actually. Not always. When I started dyeing my hair colors other than the dirty dishwater one that naturally sprouts from my head, I fell in love with my trusses. My hair is the one thing that I have absolute faith in, and it comes out of a bottle I buy with a coupon at the drug store.

“This isn’t anything, Sam. This is a song deal. Which makes it even more stressful, because what if it isn’t good enough? What if…”

She cuts me off.

“You’re good enough,” she says. I slump down on my bed, letting gravity pull me completely down, my eyes blinking slowly as I watch my ceiling fan whirl in slow-moving circles above me as I wonder if that’s true.

“What does Casey think?” she asks.

I don’t like the tone in her question. There’s a hint of assumption that Casey is more than he is.

“He wasn’t really involved,” I say, pushing my feet free of the cowboy boots I wore for the seven straight hours of recording I did with Gomez—
not
Casey.

“I thought this was sort of his bag? Like…you were his discovery or whatever,” she says.

“I guess he’s not high up enough yet or something,” I say.

“Oh,” is her only response.

I listen to my friend recant her day at the office. She was hungover, which I knew she would be. Apparently, Cam was as well, and he opted to stay home with his
girlfriend
instead of coming into the office. Sam met his girlfriend at the end of the night when their party limo dropped him off first and a woman my friend describes as
hot enough to cheer for the NFL
stood in front of a set of steps leading up to a condo with her arms crossed, pissed that she’d been left at home waiting for him. I let her vent, and I fill in the gaps with the best agreeable comments I can muster with little effort.

I’m not really here for her tonight. I’m being a bad friend. But I’m too upset over my day to buck up and put things aside. Besides, she brought a party limo to my gig last night and heckled me with whistles; so, we’re kind of even. She’s lucky she’s getting my staged responses.

Eventually, Sam makes it to her destination and says goodbye. Without her distraction, my stomach sinks, recalling my day. They made me change my song. Not...entirely. And really, I understand their thought process behind it, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence necessarily either. My skin’s way too thin for criticism from these seasoned pros.

There was no easing in. The comments came about fifteen seconds in to my first cut. Music was paused, Gomez was in my ears, and feedback flew at me fast.

“Try playing one more bar before you come in.”

“You’re too breathy in that first line. Save it.”

And the one that stings most.

“Who the fuck is Casey Coffield? Let’s make it Johnnie Walker. Everyone knows Johnnie Walker. It will make it relatable; a better song.”

He’s right. And really—Casey was never the reason for the song. But he was the feeling. The sentiment—the symbol or trigger for the fire. And the fact that he brought me this far, and the magic that led him to me again in the first place is the first thing others want to change…I don’t like it. It makes me sick, when I should be happy.

He’s going to find out eventually. But I want to tell him first.

He was gone from the building by the time I exited the studio. They ordered in lunch, and the sun made it from one horizon to the other during the time I was inside.

I thought that he might text to check in, at least a simple
how’d it go?
But my phone’s been silent, minus Sam’s call minutes ago. I check again, and am just as disappointed to find it blank.

My parents are both at the high school for Lane, waiting to drive him home after a summer league basketball game. My brother manages the team, bringing towels to the players, making sure water cups are ready and chairs are lined up in front of the bleachers for every home game. The school thought it would be a nice way for him to make more friends, to be involved beyond his special education classes. It’s turned into something he loves. He does it for any team and season he can, and my parents usually go to watch him work, because seeing that is something
they
love.

I glance at my clock and consider going too, but leap to a sitting position the moment my phone buzzes with a note from
him
.

I heard you put down great stuff today.

I smile. Fucking heart so fast to betray me.

It was alright.

My fingers move to the edge of the case of my guitar that lies next to me, and I pick at the worn spots where the vinyl is peeling. It should have been amazing. It should have been
ours.
He writes back quickly.

You’re being modest. I bet you were fucking phenomenal.

I laugh out loud all alone as he complements me with my own words, and suddenly I miss him. I hold a hand over my mouth and shield my grin. This is the first time I’ve smiled all day. I spent the afternoon trying to please people that I kinda think I maybe don’t like very much. None of this is how I thought it would be. But then one small word from Casey makes me think I’m better than them all, and they’re the lucky ones. I type before thinking.

I was. We should celebrate.

I send quickly and watch my phone screen with wide eyes as seconds turn to minutes with no response. Minutes turn to five minutes, and then ten, and soon I become the fool again.

Instead of moping, I decide to join my family at the high school gym, making it there in the middle of the third quarter. I eat a stale hotdog and share some questionable nachos with my father while my mother sneaks out her small plastic bag of salted snow peas for a snack. She’s a health nut, and after having to endure years of this woman feeding me at home and packing my school lunch for high school, I vow never to eat a snow pea again.

I overplay my enthusiasm when my parents ask how my day went. “It was amazing! I felt like a star!” I say. My mom hugs me to her side, gushing with pride, but my father looks on over his glasses, noting every single tick I make while lying. Our eyes meet just long enough for me to show him how un-amazing my day really was. He keeps the secret and plays the part for my mom, and as we walk out to the parking lot to wait for Lane to finish stacking chairs and putting away the scoring table, my father whispers that he’s sorry and pats my back.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, my mom far enough ahead that she can’t hear. My dad and I like to keep her in her bubble—the one where nothing sad happens and where her kids are happy. She has enough to worry about with Lane.

“Just…not what I was really expecting,” I explain.

“Well, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” my father reminds, and I smile with closed lips to keep my mouth shut. I know what I signed. And my father won’t like that I didn’t show it to him first. I’m locked into doing a few things, whether I want to do them or not.

I wait with my parents until Lane joins us in the parking lot, his Knights jersey on over his yellow T-shirt that hangs longer over his sweatpants on the bottom. The team made him a special jersey with his name on the back, and Lane makes sure to dress out for every game.

“Murphy, you made it!” he beams.

I pull him in for a hug, and we rock while embracing as if my brother hasn’t seen me in weeks. It’s impossible not to feel healed after moments like this with him. I grin at my parents as my chin rests on my brother’s shoulder, and I worry less about the fact that I gave away some of my creative freedom in trade for fame.

“You’re a rock star now,” Lane says, backing away and looking at me with pride. And for his sake and my mother’s, I keep the smile from before in place and simply agree.

“I won’t have the song for a while. But I promise, Lane—you’ll be the first one I let hear it,” I say, cringing inside because Lane will notice every little change from the original, and he’ll be disappointed. My brother hums the melody, though a little off, and my mom joins him as they link arms and amble around their car and climb inside.

“We can go home first and drop your car off if you want to join us for sundaes,” my dad offers. It’s become a tradition after the Knights win a game, and unfortunate for my ass, my brother’s school team is on a bit of a streak.

“I think I’m just going to head home and call it a night. I have school tomorrow, and…it’s kinda been a day,” I say, raising the corner of my lip along with my shoulder.

He squeezes my arm and leans in to kiss my cheek. “All right then,” he says, those few words more than just an acknowledgement.

My father winks and offers to bring two scoops with hot fudge home, an offer impossible to refuse. I wait for them to pull away before checking my phone. And when it’s blank, I think of how wonderful it would be if ice cream really
did
,
in fact, solve all of life’s problems.

I don’t even bother to turn the radio on as I drive the few blocks back to our house—and when I think about it, I realize I haven’t listened to music the entire day. The silence is somehow more comforting. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll hear something that sounds like the music we were making today. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to feel like I’m not good enough, but really…really I just don’t want to know how I could be so much better—if I hadn’t compromised.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the rusted Volkswagen parked at the edge of the driveway until I pull around it, into the driveway. When I look in and see the front seat is empty, I snap my attention to the front door—to the small stoop outside, and the rough-looking man sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and what I quickly identify as a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam next to him, his thumb poked in the hole at the top.

“Casey?” I ask, stepping up to him cautiously. “You…you go and get your thumb stuck?”