In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (20 page)

I tease a little, but only because I’m not sure what to expect from him. He looks up at me from under the brim of a dark blue hat, and his eyes are confused. I move downward until I’m close enough to touch him, then I kneel and nod at the bottle he’s circling haphazardly on the concrete beneath him.

He reeks. But he doesn’t seem incoherent. I’m hopeful that he didn’t drive here this way. And I wonder if he was lit when he sent me his texts. His eyes fall to the bottle and he chuckles lightly.

“Want some?” he asks, gripping the dark brown glass with a full hand, but leaving his thumb stuck inside as he quirks an eyebrow at me.

“I try not to drink on my parents’ porch on a Monday night, but…thanks,” I smile wryly.

He smiles back, but it fades quickly. He brings the bottle into both hands and cradles it between his knees, leaning his chin forward and straining toward it for a sip. Not wanting him to make whatever this is any worse, I take it from his hand and slide down so I’m sitting in front of him with my legs folded.

“On second thought, I’d love some,” I say, taking a small taste—enough to singe the tip of my tongue and stain my lips with the flavor. I cough, because I’m a lightweight, and even this small amount is enough to choke me. It makes Casey grin, though, so I guess it was worth it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write back,” he says, and my heartbeat picks up, because he’s talking about us.

“It’s okay,” I say, moving the bottle to my side, far enough that it’s out of his reach. I look down at the label and smirk. “At least this isn’t Johnnie Walker.”

He laughs, but he doesn’t understand what’s funny about what I said. He’s just drunk.

“Was this…
full
when you started?” I ask, tipping it to my side and noting the liquid splashing behind the middle of the label.

“Just bought it about an hour ago,” he says, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I was supposed to go to my parents…”

His head falls to the side in his hands, his hat on the ground between his knees and his eyes land on me, the focus struggling a little, but the light still on behind. “I was going there…to be
the good son.
”

My expression falls at his words. I can’t help it.

“Casey,” I breathe.

He leans into me until I feel his head against my shoulder. My arm muscles tense automatically, but he doesn’t seem to notice, his hand coming up to curl around my bicep while he leans against me with more of his weight, cupping my arm and holding on to me as if I were a pillow.

“I wanted to hear about your day instead,” he says, his voice weaker, eyelids heavier. This is not the confident boy who can make people feel anything they want. This is the shell left behind circumstances. “But my sisters kept calling…”

His sleepy eyes grow pained as he lets gravity take over and pull his body to the ground, his head rolling to my lap. I tuck my hands under my legs at first, not sure what to do. Unable to look down into his deep brown sorrow, my eyes instead dart from left to right, waiting for my parents’ car to pull up with Lane and ice cream and questions.

“Casey, you can’t drive like this…let me take you home,” I decide, making mental excuses to tell my family as quickly as my brain will allow for reasons his car is here and I’m gone, driving him half an hour away to his apartment.

“I’m sorry I stole your spot,” Casey says. I glance down at him with my brow bunched. The whiskey is hitting him hard and fast—he’s not making sense any more. I parked where I always park. He didn’t steal anything.

“It’s okay,” I smile, my hand hovering over his hairline, my fingers twitching, nervous to touch him. I give in and let my hand slide into his silky soft hair, and the feel of it is just as I thought it would be. His eyes soften on my touch and the intensity makes me swallow and have to look away again.

I have to get him up.

“We just need to get to my car. Do you think you can walk?” I ask.

“It’s not okay,” he says. He’s not even hearing me.

“Casey—
my car,”
I say, slowing the words down and speaking more loudly. My hand rests against his face. I look into his eyes, trying to determine how much focus is left in them, when they lock to mine, and his hand comes up to hold my wrist, his touch soft and almost afraid as each finger closes around my skin one at a time and he holds me still.

“It’s not okay that I stole your spot, Murphy. I made you wait. It should have been you on that stage. You just needed someone to help you over that hurdle, and instead, I threw more in your way…” he trails off, his head rolling just enough to the side that my hand becomes pinned between his cheek and my leg. His eyes fall shut slowly as he lies in my hold, and he looks broken and overwrought with regret.

“Casey, I’m sorry, but I…I have no idea what…” I begin, the words falling away, but finishing in my head—
you’re talking about.
I don’t finish my sentence because clarity comes. And I can’t help but laugh. “Oh my god,” I whisper, my gaze coming up to look out at my quiet street, my eyes wide with irony.

Casey Coffield honestly believes that song is about him—that I’ve harbored some sort of resentment toward him since I was…what…fourteen?

“Casey, look,” I start, but he’s too lost in his own delusion. I need to let it play out.

“I saw it—your yearbook,” he says, his voice coming from my lap. “When I was here the other day. I saw what I wrote, and then it all just came back to me. And I just wanted you to know—I was a prick.”

I laugh loud and hard at the way his drunken voice delivers that last word. Shaking my head, I let my eyes close for a moment, and I remember it all. Casey wasn’t the only one who laughed when I stuttered on stage. He wasn’t even the loudest. He was just the one who always stuck out in my mind—like the leader of everything just out of my reach. But I meant what I said when he first walked into Paul’s to ask me about the song and recording—that song isn’t about him. Or at least, it wasn’t before, but now that the studio made me change it…

“Casey,” I sigh, my chin falling to my chest and my hands both falling to either side of his face. He’s handsome when he’s sorry; I’ll give him that.

I chuckle and shake my head, staring into his deep round eyes that are slanted in their begging for forgiveness. I part my lips, ready to tell him the story of how it really went—how I knew I wasn’t ready, how my mom promised me fifty bucks for trying out for the talent show, and that was all that really mattered to me—she paid me for just getting on the stage. Then, the memory of Casey’s now
infamous
signature comes to mind. I handed my yearbook to Houston to sign on the last day of our senior year, and he passed it down the line of people instead of just handing it back, forcing me to chase it as it was passed along unsigned from popular girl to
it
boy and so on until it landed in Casey’s hands. I could read what he wrote upside down, and then he looked up with a smug smirk and told his friend he didn’t even know who the chick who owned the book was. It passed through several more hands before someone tossed it on a table and I rescued it. I started to scribble out unwanted messages, and almost took my pen to his, when I decided
fuck him—
and I left it.

Casey didn’t ruin me. He didn’t set me back. He pushed me out of my nest and is probably partly responsible for the tiny fire I found to dye my hair and climb up on the stage at Paul’s a year ago.
Fuck him
was my mantra—
in your dreams, Casey Coffield
just sounds better in a song.

But lying in my lap, drunker by the second, reformed with age and wiser with time, perhaps—or maybe just broken and never whole with a family so cold compared to mine—Casey wants to tell me he’s sorry. And since he never broke me in the first place, I let him have this release, because right now it’s what he needs, and it isn’t a dying father and a house full of women who are probably blaming him for everything that’s going wrong.

“You’re a good man,” I say, and I can see so many things fall away behind his eyes.

A cocktail of forgiveness and redemption, however warranted he may believe, is tucked against my hip. If he weren’t drunk. If my father weren’t walking up the driveway with a cardboard carrier full of cones and sundaes. If this were another life—I’d lean forward and kiss this sweet boy on the head to show him just how far he’s come.

I wish for the perfect time and place, and smile with tight lips as Casey snuggles into me like a lost soul and my father quirks a brow above his glasses.

“He’s going through something difficult,” I whisper, nodding down toward the chuckling head in my lap. He’s amused by something—the kind of thing an hour and the equivalent of six shots
makes amusing.

“He can’t drive like that,” my father says, looking down, his glasses at the tip of his nose.

“I agree,” I say, moving one hand away, but bringing it back when Casey starts to pout.

“Casey came over—sweet!” Lane shouts, taking long strides up to where my father stands.

“He’s not feeling very well,” I say, eyes wide and head shaking. My father chuckles, but corroborates my lie, promising Lane he can catch up with his friend in the morning.

My mom furrows her brow and hands me her melting cone as she crouches down next to me. “For god sakes, Casey,” she says, sliding one of her arms under his and helping him to stand so I can join them and help her walk him inside. “You’re making me regret telling you where to find my daughter in the first place,” she scolds.

My mother’s brothers are all alcoholics. Grabby ones at that. But that’s not what this is. This is the moment when denial comes calling and the heart runs full tilt into acceptance. It’s duty and refusal facing off. Either way, Casey is going to lose in the end. What matters now is what scars he wants to live with.

We get him to the hard sofa just inside the door. It’s furniture that’s only there for decoration—a pointless room my father’s been begging to put a pool table in for more than a year. I’m glad the sofa is here now, though. It’s the only room that Casey can be left alone in. It’s a place for him to sleep it off while he hides.

My mother comes back from the hall closet, her scowl even deeper and her lips pursed. She’s about to lay into him when I reach for her arm and whisper in her ear.

“His father’s dying—he has cancer,” I say.

She freezes, and I see her look at him differently all of a sudden. Casey tries to work himself to a sitting position, but his eyes are so heavy and red I know that it will take little convincing to make him fall asleep. I hush him and take the seat at the end of the sofa, pulling his head back into my lap—the one place that seems to give him peace. My mother throws the blanket over us both, and I meet her gaze and nod that I will be fine.

She leaves the room, turning out the lights and joining my father and brother in the kitchen. I look on from the darkened room, my hand stroking this broken boy’s hair until his breathing changes course. I remain there until I dream.

I
t takes
me exactly six minutes to figure out where I am. I know because I count the soft ticks hitting my ears from a clock sitting on a nearby end table and round the seconds up to minutes.

My eyes hurt, and the blanket I’m weighed down beneath is scratchy, and I think…I think maybe it smells like mothballs. Were it not for harmony being sung by Lane, I would have sworn the humming from the woman making breakfast in the kitchen was coming from Houston’s mom. Jeanie and Joyce would be good friends, I think.

I’ve been thinking about sitting up for the last ten minutes. Everything looks stranger from this horizontal view. Curio cabinets house precious saucers and teacups, and cross-stitch images hang framed on the walls. There is sunlight peeping through the slats in the blinds, and every so often, I catch a glimpse of Murphy, moving plates and bowls from the table to the sink and back again. I let another minute pass, willing my legs to shift so my feet hit the floor, but Murphy beats me to it, and when I see her round the corner, I give in to the embarrassment and press my face into the couch pillow while I remain cocooned in the world’s ugliest blanket.

“It’s not a very comfy couch, I know,” she says, her voice low and soft. Thank god. “But in my defense, you’re freaking heavy, and this is as far as you’d let us carry you from the porch.”

Us.
Her whole family had to deal with me.

“Ugh,” I moan into the foam cushion. The harsh fabric scratches my nose. “I’m…” I twist my neck so my face is forward, and I find her kind eyes waiting for me where she sits on the coffee table in front of me. “I’m so sorry I showed up and dropped all this on you. That…that wasn’t the plan.”

I tug one arm loose and then the other, rolling to my back and kicking the blanket free from my chest and then legs. I came here in the clothes I wore to the studio yesterday—stiff jeans and a vintage baseball shirt that’s too tight to sleep in without feeling the collar choke around the neck. I realize my shoes are still on, and it makes me chuckle at my pathetic self. Murphy looks to my feet and nods.

“You sort of used my lap as a pillow, so I couldn’t get to your shoes. I didn’t think you cared what you slept in, though,” she says, raising the left side of her mouth in pity. She’s pitying me. This is only getting worse.

I force myself to a sitting position and press my palms against my eyes, feeling the swelling of bad decisions all over my face.

“Your parents must think I’m a massive tool,” I say, meeting her gaze again and hoping that thought isn’t floating through her mind.

She breathes a gentle laugh and shakes her head
no
, which releases some of the pressure in my chest.

“Lane thinks you have pneumonia, but other than that—no. Nobody thinks anything, Case,” she says.

Right on cue, my phone buzzes on the coffee table, and both of our eyes move to it. I can see from the brief preview on my screen that it’s lit up with dozens of messages.

“Your sisters, I presume?” she asks. I move my head slowly to signal
yes
, then lean forward and pick up my phone, scrolling through the list of
call me’s
that repeat over and over. They’re taking turns now—a coordinated effort to pull me into that house.

“I was almost to my parents’ house yesterday,” I say, thumbing through the never-ending stream of messages that cut off around eleven last night and pick up again about thirty minutes ago. “Then I just got on the freeway instead and came here.”

“And Jim Beam came into the picture?” she smirks.

I wince.

“The first time I came to your door, nobody was home, so I went up to the corner, to the convenience store, for some snacks. Then my sisters started calling, asking where I was and why wasn’t I there yet? I answered and they put me on speaker, each one taking turns—yelling. They were relentless. I walked to the other end of the store, bought a bottle and drove back here to wait for you. I wasn’t going to drink it until I got home, but then I suck on all sorts of levels, and figured I’d just take a swig to chill out,” I say, leaning my head to the side and squinting one eye. “My swigs are kinda big.”

“You slept like a baby,” she says, raising her shoulders and leaning back on her palms. Her eyes linger for a few seconds, and I realize through her words and expression that she stayed with me through the night. I don’t acknowledge it, because it’s too sweet, and I don’t want to ruin it by making it something she did out of obligation or worry. Even if it’s pretend, I want to think she
chose
to stay with me. I suck in my top lip and nod.

“My mom made breakfast,” she says, twisting and peering over her shoulder. While she looks into the kitchen, I look at the way her loose hair tickles against her neck.

“I should probably just go,” I swallow. “I’m sure your dad wants to bury me in a hole in your backyard.”

She twists back quickly to face me, and our eyes lock for a second. I feel my heart rush with a dose of adrenaline from her grays, and I move my attention to my feet and body as I stand.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says, standing with me and reaching for my hand. Her fingers connect with a few of mine for a brief second then let go. “Besides, we don’t have any holes ready, and dad doesn’t like to make boys dig their own graves. That would just be cruel and unusual,” she grins.

I chuckle and swallow the hard lump in my dry throat. My head is pounding, and my stomach is somewhere between starving and a storm of old whiskey. My mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on newsprint, so I give in with a slight nod and follow my muse into the kitchen.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” Lane says, moving a few steps away from me. He holds his hands up, then covers his mouth with one. “No offense. I don’t want to get sick. I really like summer school, and germs can spread.”

I grin because—who likes summer school? And he really does think I have pneumonia. I nod in agreement with him and cover my own mouth, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Jeanie places a plate of what looks like French toast in front of me, and my stomach flips to being completely hungry.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the fork from the edge of the woven placemat in front of me. I slice into a piece and stuff it in my mouth, immediately going in for more. “This is amazing,” I mumble through my bite.

Jeanie’s hand comes to my back, and she pats me in a slow circle. I glance to Murphy in question—wondering how much of my messy life her mother now knows. Murphy shrugs with a tight smile. Her mom knows enough.

“Were you able to get a sub, Murph?” her mom asks from somewhere behind me. I work through four more bites, hoping the offer for seconds will come while I listen in on their conversation.

“I did. I can drop Lane off, but…I’m not sure I’ll be home in time for his bus,” she answers her mom, their conversation happening in plain spoken words that feel like a code.

“Are you recording more?” I ask, wondering if they want to try something else with her or if they ended up needing another day to get it right. I know sometimes Gomez is a perfectionist, and he changes his mind a lot on direction.

I would have let her shine.

I glance up when nobody responds and notice the strange way everyone is looking at one another, talking without words. Lane is the only other person into his breakfast like me, so at least two of us are left out of the secret. I stuff my final bite in and twist in my chair, running a napkin over my mouth while I look up at Murphy. She’s rubbing a hand behind her neck and staring at me.

“I’m…I’m taking the day off to come with you,” she says. My brow bunches. Come where? Like choreographed thunder, my phone buzzes against my hip, and I swallow as my eyes fall shut.

“You don’t have to, Murphy. I’m a big boy. I can handle this,” I say.

I’m not sure I want to expose her to that house again. The last time I went there, I was afraid and I just needed reinforcement. I’m not sure what I am this time, though. The messages from my sisters don’t explain a very happy environment. My mom is not dealing well, and I guess my dad won’t let anyone in the house to help that isn’t family. When she sets up assistance, he calls and cancels it. It’s become this enormous battle, and my sisters are like adding a peanut gallery to the gladiator ring of a very unfair fight.

I’m pissed off. That’s what I am.

“Jim Beam would beg to differ,” her father says in a wry tone while crunching on a piece of toast. I glare at him, but he isn’t looking at me. He continues to eat, slow bites breaking off and crumbs falling into his beard that he dusts away. My bitterness capitulates to this man quickly, because he’s right. And I showed up like that on his doorstep looking for his daughter, so…game, set, match to him.

“Really,” Murphy says, bringing a small plate of fruit to the table and sitting next to me. “I don’t mind. I…I want to help,” she stutters. I catch it now. And suddenly the rest of last night pops into my brain—I apologized for asshole deeds of the past. I don’t need to drag her down again.

“You have work; you’ll miss the paycheck,” I grimace.

She laughs once hard.

“It’s sixty-five dollars. Forty-seven after taxes for the day. I think I’ll be all right,” she giggles, standing and clearing her half-eaten plate.

I stare at my own empty dish in front of me and reflect on how nobody leapt to their feet, up-in-arms that Murphy wasn’t doing enough to prepare for her future. Perhaps I could use more of her spirit around today.

“Okay,” I nod, glancing up with very weary eyes and a tired body. She bows her head once in return—it’s agreed—and she helps clear the rest of the table while nibbling at her fruit plate until it’s gone. When breakfast is done, she begins gathering her things for the day. I hope she’s packing armor.

I miss floating through life—coasting without a care. I need to get back to that feeling, to card nights with Eli and the boys, to video games, and days spent in my pajamas with nothing to do but jam out in a small club later that night and mix my music—
my
music under
my
direction. Maybe I alter my dream—simplify it to something that hurts less when it doesn’t happen like I think it should. Murphy’s in good hands, so bailing wouldn’t get in her way.

I can’t really do much about anything until my mom is no longer locking herself in the bathroom and my sisters quit calling me for solutions I don’t have, though, so I’ll take this one last thing from Murphy. I’ll take her help. And then I’ll just be her biggest fan.

Murphy gathers her things, and we make plans to meet outside of my parents’ house, giving me enough time to race home and shower and her time to get Lane to his summer classes. Fate gives me a break, and I pull up to my family home before her. I park at the end of the driveway behind Christina’s car, which is dead-center, leaving no room for anyone else. I smirk at it, because of course it is. My oldest sister and I aren’t so different after all—asshole runs in the family.

The door isn’t locked, which is strange, but I’m grateful that I can walk right in. I glance behind me, scanning the street, relieved that Murphy still hasn’t arrived. I want to know what we’re getting into, because there’s still time to save her from it.

The house is quiet. Perfect silence—per the norm. But I can typically find my oldest sister at her usual post—the corner stool at the kitchen counter. But the kitchen is disheveled, grocery bags half-emptied and a pot of boiling water spilling out over the edges. I step close to the stove quickly and recognize what I think was at some point noodles. I shut the burner off and move the pot to the sink, dumping the water and mush of noodle down the drain before running the disposal.

It takes me a few minutes to clean the mess up and finish clearing groceries from bags. When I see the number of pads and adult diapers that were purchased, I shudder and my muscles contract, not wanting to carry me any further into this.

“I’m doing the best I can!” I hear my mom’s voice cry out from upstairs. I leave the few cans of broth I was putting away on the counter next to the fridge and dry my hands before rounding the corner and taking cautious steps toward what I quickly recognize as my mom and sister arguing. Their conversation falls to a whisper again, but the kind that’s laced with Christina growling and my mother’s weeping.

“He doesn’t want anyone here but me. I can’t have the nurses come. I can’t…he doesn’t want it,” my mother is pleading. Even in this state, my father is bullying her.

“He doesn’t know what’s best for him, Mom. Do you want me to tell him? I’ll tell him—I’ll be the bad guy,” Christina says. I only halfway understand what this argument is about, but my sister is making sense.

“I’ll be the bad guy,” I say, stepping into view and startling them both.

“Shit, Casey,” my sister says, hand clutched to her chest, a pile of towels at her feet.

“Chrissy, don’t swear,” my mother chastises her, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Mom, if ever there is a time to swear—this is it. Let the woman slip out a little
shit
here and there, would you?” I say, stepping over what looks to be a week’s worth of laundry for a family of eight and making my way to my mom.

As tired as I feel, my mom’s look is far more haggard. She holds her hands out hovering over the mess before her, helpless, and finally sighs out a whimper. I pull her into my arms and hug her, feeling the mountain she is carrying shake with every sob.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m here now. And I won’t let you do this alone,” I promise, feeling my lungs shrink and the traps set around my chest with my words. For my father, responsibility has always been financial—making sure there are nest eggs and safety nets. But I kind of think being responsible for someone means stepping in to roll up your sleeves when their world is breaking. This is my world, too. I thought leaving it would be better for everyone, but I see now that it’s really only better for me and the man it all revolves around.

Murphy clears her throat, and her meek sound catches all of our attention. I can see the uncertainty written on her face. Stress has the ability to downright cripple her, and yet she signed up as a volunteer to swim neck-deep in it with me. I can’t help but look at her with nothing but love.