In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (21 page)

Her eyes dart around afraid to offend—and I think I love her.

Her hands dive in, picking up towels and folding shirts and sorting colors and whites, pants and socks—and I think I love her.

We’ve not really done anything but fight through demons and take chances on dreams in one another’s presence, but I think I love her.

It’s impossible.

It’s entirely possible.

My heart is a victim of this stress, and I know that’s the cause.

But I also think maybe…maybe it’s not. I at least admit to myself that I love the
idea
of loving her.

T
ogether
, with my mom and sister, the four of us spend three hours returning the kitchen and other forgotten rooms in my parents’ house to normal. My father is heavily medicated, and I haven’t seen him yet, but I know that part is coming soon. I also know nothing will prepare me for it. My best friend’s warning echoes in my mind:
It’s going to be harder than you think.

Christina has a power of attorney document drafted and a notary friend on call, ready to witness, but my mother is still wavering that it’s the right thing to do. Murphy continues to carry out housework, leaving the three of us alone in the kitchen to hash out one last argument, but I catch her eyes over both my sister and mother as she carries a final load of trash through the door. Her gaze is full of empathy, but there’s a silent message in it too—I’m doing the right thing.

“Mom, I know you’re scared,” I say, standing and raising my voice just enough that my sister gives way and lets me have the floor. I square myself with my mom and put my hand on her shoulder, my heart breaking when she leans into it—her fragile face against her baby boy’s arm. My father’s illness has aged her several years in a matter of weeks.

“He’s always made the decisions,” I say, and when I see her lips part in argument, I stop her. “I don’t mean this in that way. This is not about me and how dad and I cease to get along, this is about the way it’s been, the way life has worked, for you. And it’s okay, because for you, it
has
worked. But now, Mom? Now…this way is broken. And using Dad’s own logic, making the smart choice, even when it’s not the one your heart wants, is what you need to do to make sure you are doing what’s best for him. He is no longer capable of deciding these things.”

“He’s afraid things will cost too much,” she says through a panicked voice.

“You have insurance,” Christina explains, and I sense the conversation starting to spiral along the same path it’s been for the last half hour.

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. My palm to my mother’s warm cheek, I move her sightline to me again. “You know he wouldn’t have let something fall through the cracks. That man,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs, “he would have had everything prepared for something like this just in case. It’s all in place. He’s just no longer in a state where he can make the call.”

My mom’s eyes drop and her breath leaves her chest as her shoulders slump.

“I don’t know,” she says, her fingers pinching at the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know.”

“He did,” I say, lifting her chin. I bend to meet her gaze until we’re tethered—locked so she sees the truth in my expression. “You know he did. He knew. And he wouldn’t have let things get this far without being ready.”

We stare into each other for almost a minute, and by some miracle, my sister remains silent and still. I hear Murphy step in through the back door quietly, and I feel stronger just knowing she’s there.

“He knew,” I nod again, this time getting my mom to nod and agree with me.

With my mother finally ready to accept full responsibility, I prepare myself for what I knew would be the hard part about today—I am going to have a conversation with my father, alone, for nobody’s ears but ours. And I’m going to have to convince him that he’s wrong about something. And I am going to have to lie and capitulate and make promises that I have no intention of keeping, but it won’t matter, because it’s what’s right. If we could travel back in time to a year ago—before there were signs of pancreatic cancer, before my father’s appetite waned to almost nothing and his abdominal pain became impossible to ignore—I know it’s what he’d tell me to do. None of that is an option, so he’s going to have to listen to ones that are real.

With my sister’s coaching and the paperwork in my hands, I leave my heart and my family downstairs and step into the dark room at the end of the hall. His frail body is mostly bones, and the sheets are rolled down to his waist, his white T-shirt draping from his shoulders. A month ago, he looked strong enough to punch me. The man before me now is a ghost of the one he was before.

“They all give up on arguing with me? Is that why you’re here? Are you the last straw?” he chuckles to himself, his words falling into a coughing fit. He reaches for a tissue and holds it folded over his mouth, coughing into it until eventually he can get his breath.

“Something like that,” I say, my eyes meeting his. They’re so sunken in.

I sit at the end of the bed, and I think about how all I wanted when I was a little boy was to be able to rush into their bedroom for comfort during a storm. I ran to my sisters’ rooms instead, and the older they got, the less often they wanted to take me in, too.

This storm is too big to escape, and my father is no longer able to run.

“You have to sign the power of attorney, Dad. And you know you do,” I say.

“Horse shit,” he says, coughing again.

I look away, because he’s hard to look at.

“I figured you’d say that, but I’ve been thinking a lot,” I say. I draw in a deep breath through my nose and prepare myself for the words I don’t believe in one bit. “You were right. I was wrong. I haven’t been living a responsible life at all. But I can fix it. I’m finishing my degree, and then I’m going to apply for the apprenticeship.”

My father’s eyes take me in wide, and he doesn’t blink.

I just gave him everything he wanted. I just promised I’d live the life he had laid out for me. I promised it, because I know when the time comes for proof, he’ll be long gone. I lied. And it isn’t worth not giving him this strange peace of mind just so I can think I won the battle by the time he went to his grave. In death, nobody wins.

“Good,” he says. One word. That’s all I get.

“Good,” I repeat, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. It’s as if we’re making a deal. Nothing about this feels like a moment shared between a father and his son.

“Mom doesn’t think you have plans in place, but I told her that you wouldn’t let something like this slip,” I begin, knowing my father won’t be able to help himself from divulging just how prepared he is.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting his head fall in the other direction, away from me. I get a glimpse at his ribs and his frail body as he turns. My father is wasting away.

“I know, but you know how she worries. I can explain everything to her again if you want. I can show her where everything is, how the files are in order, how the claims work and when the coverage kicks in,” I say.

His head rolls back in my direction and his eyes glaze. He’s drifting a little. Christina warned me that he might.

“I can do it, Dad,” I say, and at the sound of those words, things become suddenly clear and the meaning of that sentence—it changes. My gut twists. This isn’t about my father being stubborn at all. This isn’t about not believing he needs the care everyone else thinks he needs. This isn’t about giving up control. This is about him not wanting to rest that burden on my mother. This is about him carrying out his mission to the grave—about him making sure everyone else is taken care of first. It’s the mantra that was literally beaten into his being, and he will die by it.

But me…I’m different. And our relationship is different. It always has been. I’m the man of the house, and giving the burden to me is not against his misguided creed.

“I can do it,” I say again, meeting him squarely in the eyes, lucidity there and his understanding perfectly clear. His weak hand rises from under the blanket, moving forward and reaching to grip mine. We connect, and everything about my father feels breakable in my palm, but I don’t waver or show how much I’m frightened by the feeble touch of him in my hand.

“I can do it,” I repeat. And I know by the flash of relief in his eyes that he accepts.

I nod slowly and back out of the room, grateful to find my sister sitting in the hallway alone. I catch her up on the new plan, and she goes to work immediately in my father’s old office, a small room down the hall, until an updated contract is printed that appoints me as the decision-maker for my father’s health and wellness.

Christina never questions, and I know it’s because she’s relieved it isn’t her. I’ve never fit the Coffield mold. I was the child born as a surprise—I wasn’t planned, and I never fell into step quietly. But I’m supposed to be here. And today, I’ve discovered my purpose.

I will do this so my mother and sisters don’t have to.

When the notary arrives, my father signs the document quickly and dismisses me accordingly so he can rest. I watch him close his eyes, and as frail as he is, he still manages to smile in his sleep—a certain smugness to it all that his plan in fact did work, and in the end, he got his way.

Christina leaves soon after, and Murphy and I both force my mom to retreat upstairs to what used to be my room, to sleep—something that we’ve learned she hasn’t done in about two days.

With order semi-restored, I fall into the only comfortable chair in the house. It’s a padded rocker my mom has had since I was an infant. I have always gravitated to that chair, and I think it’s because it’s the one she rocked me to sleep in as a child.

“Are you okay?” Murphy asks, sitting on the couch across from me. My eyes hold themselves open and fight against exhaustion as I look at the beautiful girl looking back at me.

“Not even close,” I answer honestly.

She smiles, but we both know I’m not joking.

“How was John about you missing today?” she asks.

I shrug and chuckle at the mess I’ve made of my own dream in the span of a single day.

“I didn’t tell him.”

Her eyes grow wider, and she swallows.

“It won’t matter,” I reassure her. “I’m on the hook for six more Fridays at his club. He doesn’t want to lose that. I’ll show up tomorrow and let his assistant know I had a family emergency.”

She nods quietly, but looks down at her twisting hands.

“Don’t worry about me, Murphy. I’ll be just fine,” I lie.

Her eyes come up to mine, and I can tell she knows I am.

We sit in silence for several minutes, and I let my thoughts drown in my present. I have a day, maybe less, left of freedom. And then I know hell will truly begin.

It’s harder than you think, Casey.
You were right, Houston. And you have no idea.

W
hile Casey’s
dad isn’t getting better, for the moment, he’s also not getting worse. That’s the thing with pancreatic cancer—it can be so rapid, and so slow all at once. It had spread to his liver and kidneys by the time they caught it, the day he left work early for what he thought would be a simple physical exam from his doctor. But he had been ignoring signs long before that.

Casey became guardian of his father’s decisions, and while he says he can handle it, I’ve noticed how it’s all changing him. He’s gotten nurses involved again, and help for his mom so she’s not the only one trying to keep the house in order. But the need to make
real
decisions hasn’t come yet. It’s always looming.

Casey and I have fallen into a new pattern. He calls me in the morning while I’m on my way into school and he’s on his way to his parents’ house. I usually check in with him again during my lunch when he’s driving into the studio. They let him shift his hours to come in later, which means he’s also there well into the evening.

Sometimes, he’ll call me while he’s logging sound files, and I can hear bits and pieces in the background. He always plays his favorites for me, and our taste is almost always in sync. We talk about little things—like why I always dye my hair purple, and how he wishes I’d try pink. We flirt, but cautiously and sweetly. It’s chaste courting, and I love every minute of it. We talk about things like our favorite movies—he likes horror, and I’m more of a jaded rom/com fan—and we share stories from growing up and high school. When he asked what song I was trying to play for the talent show, I told him it would have been Willie Nelson, and he sighed in regret that he never got to hear it all the way through.

I look forward to every call, and I’ve started watching for his name to appear on my phone minutes before I know it’s going to come. That’s what I’m doing now, because it’s almost seven, and it’s Friday. Casey is deejaying at Max’s tonight, and he made no promise to call, but somehow I still think he will.

I
know
it.

I’ve been putting Sam off for days, and my girlfriend guilt has started to get the best of me, so I agreed to meet her downtown for dinner tonight after work. There’s a Thunder game, and it took a while to park. The wait for her favorite restaurant is at least an hour and a half, so we’ve spent the last forty minutes sitting at the bar swapping stories that have nothing to do with anything that’s really rolling around in my chest and head.

Eventually, Sam calls me on my bullshit.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” she says, pulling the spear from her martini and working the olive into her mouth. “You aren’t really here. You haven’t been with me in days. I can tell when I’m spilling my guts about Cam.”

“I’m here, Sam. I just think that guy is a loser and you need to not mess around with people in relationships,” I pipe in. While I may have tuned out for some of our conversations this week, I’m always fired up and aware for that one. She’s still pining after the cheater, and I’m done pretending the fact that their names rhyme isn’t stupid—and that he’s not an ass-faced jerk-hole.

“Fine, you’re invested
sometimes,
” she says with an eye roll.

I’m regretting coming out tonight even more, and it’s almost seven. I could be at home in pajamas listening to Casey get his equipment ready and run sound checks. My friend waves a hand in front of me, and I sigh, leaning forward and drinking my Diet Coke through a straw without the use of my hands. I set my gaze back on her and take the rest of my lashings.

“You’re lost in some hazy mystery, and frankly, Murphy, it’s starting to hurt my feelings,” she says. I shrug, acknowledging my failures with this one small gesture, and then seven o’clock comes and my phone buzzes on the table, bringing my friend to life like never before.

Our gazes lock. She saw Casey’s name. She’s jumping to conclusions. Her conclusions are probably not far off from the truth, only hers are probably dirtier and contain things, that for me, are only fantasy-level realities right now.

We both reach for my phone.

She’s faster.

“Shit,” I scrunch my face.

“Miss Murphy Sullivan’s phone,” she answers, putting on a southern accent as if she’s from Georgia.

I lean my head to the side and knit my brow at her as I reach for my phone. She holds up a finger.

“Uh huh…Uh huh…I see,” she teases, her fake accent still strong.

“Why are you suddenly from the South?” I whisper with my hands out in question. My best friend moved to Oklahoma from Los Angeles when she was fourteen. South to her is San Diego, and I’m pretty sure it always will be.

She bunches her face at me and sticks out her tongue, and I look to the table of older women next to us and wonder if they act like twelve-year-olds with their friends still.

“We’d love to,” she says, bringing my attention back to her conversation with the guy who called
me.
I furrow my forehead and let my face fall to my palm as I spear ice cubes with my straw. “I’m sure she remembers where it’s at. We’ll be there. Y’all have a good day now.”

My brow flies up my hairline.

“We’ll be where?” I ask.

She smirks, and sits back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly while her lashes wave at me.

“Sam, what did you do?”

I feel sick. She’s going to make fun of my crush. Especially because I made fun of hers, which—come on, hers is stupid. But my ego can’t handle teasing, especially since my butterflies are just getting used to this new flight pattern with Casey. This is why I haven’t over-shared things about him with Sam. Plus, his situation is private—I wouldn’t feel right talking about him and his family without his okay.

“I hope you’re comfortable in those shoes,” she says, her grin growing more devious as she knocks back the rest of her drink.

My forehead bunches in confusion, and I look down at my feet. I’m wearing my riding boots and my favorite country dress that’s shorter in the front, flared in the back. I wanted to look nice, but feel comfortable. It’s not pajamas, but I suppose it’s pretty easy to move around in, though it would depend on the circumstances, and…fuck. Friday night. Max’s.

“Sam!” I yell.

Her smirk grows as she flashes her empty glass to the server who quickly fetches her another one.

“And suddenly it all makes sense,” she says, eyes narrowed on me as if she’s a sniper. It’s friendly fire, but fuck, it still burns. My cheeks flame up and I wish I weren’t wearing something so heavy. My body is flushed.

Sam leans in, setting her fresh drink on the table while she folds her arms over her knees, her eyes twinkling in giddiness as she prepares to make me pay.

“That guy from our high school, you remember him, he’s working at a record label now,” she says, a high, naïve voice that sounds nothing like me. She keeps going with her imitation. “Oh, we’re just going to work on some recordings. Someone else handled them, so I’ll probably never see him again. Cute? Really? You think he’s cute? I don’t see it.”

And then comes the one where I know she has me.

She has me.

Caught in my lies.

Damn, damn, damn, damn…

“Sure, Sam,” she says, amping up her voice so it’s
super
flattering, her lips pressed in a self-satisfied grin. “I’ll find out if he’s single. Oh…yeah…I asked—
he’s not
.”

She leans in close for the kill, her eyes twinkle with all of that best-friend-gossip-neediness that I have never been good at. I’m the listener. That’s my role. My college boyfriends were boring, my high school ones non-existent. Damn it all to hell if I haven’t just shot straight into scintillating territory for her with Casey!

“Fine, I have a little crush,” I say, my voice jumping eight octaves, my shoulders shrugging to my ears. Stamp guilty on my forehead.

Her grin spreads slowly. I swear she draws it out just to torture me.

“You don’t have a little crush, Murph. You freaking have the hots for Casey Coffield!” she practically cackles. “Oh and girl…mmmmm...he’s got it back. I know it!”

“Sam, please, I’m begging,” I lean forward and touch her arm. “Stop, please.”

Even though I want nothing more than the teasing to end, I giggle. It slips out, from god knows where, and I cover my mouth as if I have the hiccups.

“Oh, girl…we are
definitely
hitting that club now,” she teases, raising her hand to get the attention of our waiter. “She’s going to need one of these,” she adds, lifting her drink, shaking her pinky against the glass and winking.

I grimace. But when it comes, I sip it down fast, because my friend is right—nothing wrong with a little liquid courage.

T
he first time
I came to Max’s, I was with Casey—from the very beginning. I was here before the lights were off, which is a lot like getting to see a haunted house before all of the creepy things take over. Things are different in the light. In the dark—things are scary.

Sam and I walk in through a set of elaborate double doors, passing a line of beautiful people who I’m sure assume we’re part of the staff, because as beautiful as my friend Sam is tonight, she’s still not supermodel hot. The people in line? All supermodel hot. Even the men.

I let Sam take over. She gives our names to security, asks a hostess—who yes, is supermodel hot—where the VIP booths are located, then leads me by the hand through the thick crowd of hot hotness grinding together in one mass sexual motion along the dance floor. I bump into no less than thirty people, and I utter
sorry’s
and
excuse me’s
the entire distance to the private booth lifted a few feet higher than most of the other rows and nestled next to the best view I’ve ever seen of downtown Oklahoma City.

I collapse into the leather, crawling on my hands and knees until I’m so deep into the curve that I have an entire six-inch-thick table made of glazed redwood between me and every other person in the club right now.

“You look like the wild woman they find in the forest who has lived her life among the animals and is frightened by the city,” Sam laughs, sliding into the booth next to me.

“That’s because
that
woman? She’s my people,” I pant.

A waiter glides by our table and drops off eight water glasses, and I drink through two of them in the time it takes Sam to place an order. She adds a cosmo to the order for me, as well, then slides her water glass my way as the waiter leaves.

“At least you’ll get to see what the restrooms look like if you keep that up,” she jokes.

“I saw them last time. They’re nice. Kind of plain, but,” I stop talking to guzzle water. Drinking is sort of like singing—it distracts the millions of synapsis misfiring in my brain and lets me remain calm. The only flaw I’ve found is that at some point, I have to
stop
drinking, and the panic is usually still there waiting.

“Damnit. You were right, I owe you twenty bucks,” a perfect-ten of a blonde says as she slides into the opposite end of our booth. My mouth is agape, and I’m about to bolt from my safety zone when Houston steps up behind her and holds out his hand, which Barbie’s twin slides a folded-up twenty into.

“I told you she was real,” he chuckles. “Murphy, meet Paige—my girlfriend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paige says, reaching to take my hand. Her shake is firm—like a business deal—and her eyes continue to scrutinize me. I was already acutely aware of every square inch of my basic make-up, hair and outfit, but it all suddenly feels tighter under her inspection.

“My friend tricked me into coming here. I have nicer clothes. Not that this dress isn’t nice. It’s actually really nice. It’s Dior. I got it at that little bargain shop in old town, right down the street from the arena, and I was so surprised to see it there because, I mean usually there aren’t expensive things mixed in with all of the vintage stuff, but this one was, and when I found it, I was like
score!
And it really only goes with boots, so that’s why I’m wearing boots, and…hmmmmm….”

My eyes shut tightly, I let my face fall flat against the table, forehead against the wood and mouth firm so I can try to see if wishes come true and I can zap myself out of this place and time.

I look up slowly and peel one eye open and then the next. Paige is looking at me with the exact horrified expression I sort of expected. Clearing my throat, I smile with tight lips and do my best to start over, sliding my hand her direction again, this time shaking with the same firmness she gives.

“I’m Murphy,” I say, meek and demure. “I’m not great with crowds, and stress usually makes me stutter. However, you seem to have the opposite effect on me, and I
deeply
apologize for that assault with words and nonsense I just unleashed.”

Her horrified expression melts into something kinder, and her smile is accompanied by a sweet, raspy laugh as she brings her other hand up to cover the top of mine in a gracious shake that somehow calms my chest.

“Murphy,” she smiles, looking to Houston as she lets go of our hold and points to me with one waggling finger. “I like her, Houston. If Casey fucks this up, I’ll punch him.”

Houston pulls my new ally close to his side and kisses the top of her head, and I can tell by the way he dotes over her—the small gestures like his fingertips along her bare shoulder and the gentle casting of his eyes over her face while she speaks—that Paige is someone special. I’ve been approved by her, and that alone has made the moving sea of people around me feel less threatening.

“Hey, you all made it!”

Casey’s familiar voice pulls me to sit straight up in my booth. I’m wedged in the very middle, which means I can’t reach him, and I inwardly kick myself for blocking my body in.

“Nice to see you again, Casey,” Sam says, a tone to her voice that denotes her eyebrows are wiggling teasingly. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s doing it by the small chuckle Casey gives before his eyes land on me.

I love seeing him in his element. He’s wearing a dark hat with a flat brim, a black long-sleeved tee and black jeans. The only thing that doesn’t fit the shadow is the white scarf around his neck tucked under the headphones he has resting there. When I talk to him on the phone tomorrow during his drive to his parents’ house, this is how I’m going to imagine him.