In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (24 page)

“Save that…for later,” he says.

Tempted to disobey, I hold his gaze for a few seconds, but finally set the card aside, quirking a brow as I reach into the bright-yellow gift bag. My hand finds something hard, and I grip it, pulling it out to reveal what I think may just be the ugliest coffee mug I’ve ever seen. The glaze is still sticky, and I leave a fingerprint around the rim just from my touch. The design looks to be like green stick figures, maybe?

“What’s…this?” I ask, pointing to a slightly curved line coming out from between one of the green person’s legs.

“I know. It totally looks like I drew you a dirty picture, but…” he says, spinning the mug a little in my hand and reaching into the bag for the handle that broke off during its fall.

“Casey, that’s
exactly
what it looks like,” I giggle.

“But it’s not. Look, see? That’s you, right there, the green one with purple hair. And that’s a guitar, and that’s me at the sound board, and…shit,” he stops, shaking his head and holding both pieces apart in front of him. “Whatever. Fine…it’s a fucking dirty picture.”

“It’s hideous,” I laugh harder, and he rolls his eyes, packing it back in the bag, playing hurt. “But I love it,” I say, grabbing for it.

His hands relent, and he gives the bag to me, moving his palms flat against the counter as his tight lips smile and his eyes flick to mine.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Leah has a pottery kit, but I didn’t have enough time to bake it. She helped with the…” he says, pulling it back out and pointing at the guitar that looks a lot more like a penis.

“Yeah…let’s just put this back in the bag,” I say, laughing at my ugly stick-figure-porno-mug that was painted by a five-year-old.

“Houston was so pissed when he saw it, and then I told him his daughter drew it, and he was
more
pissed,” he laughs. I roll the top of the bag and move it to the cabinet, closing the door.

“You don’t have to keep it,” he says when I turn around. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks…happy. He’s happy, too. And that’s a far cry from the broken boy who landed on my doorstep two weeks ago.

“I love it. But I don’t think my dad will, and since you’ve already seen the ax…”

“Yeah, cabinet’s a good spot,” he agrees, kidding along with me, only maybe not as much as I’m kidding.

Lane comes down the stairs and gravitates immediately to Casey, hugging him to the side and punching at his ribs like bros do. Casey compliments my brother’s khaki pants, and I catch the way my mother looks over them both fondly. Ax-wielding aside, Casey is all right in her book. I’ve shared how much Casey has been helping his family with both of my parents, and they’re willing and ready to help. I know he would never accept it, though.

“Can we shack up?” Lane asks suddenly, and I watch in shock as Casey is left without words. His mouth falls open then shut before he looks to me, and I try not to burst into laughter. I simply nod with wide eyes, so Casey answers “Sure. Maybe in a few weeks.”

I leave Lane and my bother at the counter to talk about their favorite movies and about my song as I help my mother to finish setting the table. She pulls my favorite part of this tradition from the oven—a steaming pan of homemade enchiladas. It’s not something that’s often done well in the Midwest or South, but Jeannie Sullivan does it right. We all follow the scent to the table, and within seconds, our plates are full and our mouths are busy.

“So this half-birthday thing,” Casey says between bites, “is this something
I
can get in on?”

“Is your birthday on Christmas?” my father asks from the other end of the table, eyes on his food.

“March sixteenth,” Casey answers.

“Then no,” my dad says with no reaction at all before taking a bite.

Casey pulls his napkin up and wipes his mouth, and my mother and I both pause our eating, a little nervous. My father looks up, then busts into laughter.

“Ax thing really got you, didn’t it,” he says, lifting another forkful to his mouth.

“I take axes and daughters really seriously, sir,” Casey says, and I keep my hands on the edge of my seat, kind of nervous about what stupid thing he may say next. But those words, however crazy they may sound—they aren’t stupid at all. They’re lovely.

“If ever you think I haven’t done right by her, I hope you’ll let me know,” Casey says, putting his fork down and placing his napkin next to his plate on the table. His hands fold in his lap and his eyes are directly on my father’s. I slide my leg to the right until my foot stops at the weight of Casey’s shoe, and my heart thumps wildly. My how far we have come.

My father doesn’t respond with words. With a long sip from his soda, he eyes the man who has quickly and not-so-silently stolen my heart, then lifts his brow before raising the can and tilting it in a toast to that very promise before returning to the meal in front of him. I exhale slowly, and pull my plate closer, taking smaller bites because my tummy is too filled with butterflies to eat anything for real. Eventually, Casey’s knee moves into mine under the table, and I glance at him, catching his crooked smile on me as I make a mental note that this has now become my most favorite half birthday ever, as in
I’m-pretty-sure-I’ll-write-a-song-about-it good.

I woke up different today.

I’m not saying a person can mature as much as
I
probably need to in the course of twenty-four hours, but still…I woke up different today. Maybe it’s happened slowly, maybe it’s been happening for weeks, and I just didn’t realize. I’m sure part of it is the responsibility I now carry for my family, forcing me to look at things differently.

But I also kind of think it’s the girl.

I would do anything for this girl. And if the time came where I could no longer make her smile, I would want someone else to try. I’m not sure what that is, but I have a feeling.

Her bare feet glide across the carpet as we walk to her bedroom, our bellies sick with rich chocolate cake—the best I’ve ever had. I was greedy and took a second piece, and when I couldn’t finish it, Lane slid it from my plate to his. He said I was like family so germs didn’t count. Family.

This is some family. And Murphy is some girl.

I watch her fold up her guitar case, tucking a few loose picks inside along with her familiar notebook.

“Were you playing?” I ask.

“I started to, while I was waiting for my hair to dry,” she says. I love the way she’s looking at me with sideways glances—bashful, the memory of last night fresh in her mind.

“Something new?” I ask.

She shakes her head
no
, but I bet there are a lot of ideas hidden in there. She’ll show them when she’s ready.

“Can I open my card now?” she asks, pulling it from her back pocket where she had it tucked during dinner. I shrug, a little embarrassed at how silly my gesture feels now. If I’d had time, I would have done something more—given her a better gift. This was all I could think of at the moment though.

She slides open the envelope and pulls out the thick stack of notebook paper stapled at the seam. Quirking a brow, she moves so she’s sitting on her bed, holding the makeshift booklet in her lap, and I sink to my favorite spot on her floor and begin pressing my hand into the carpet just like I did the last time I sat here.

“Senior year,” she reads, and I look up, pulling my hat from my head and resting it on the floor next to me. Our eyes meet, and I urge her silently to keep turning pages.

She laughs lightly, folding the paper down and turning it to face me so I can see the round circle with bright red lips and yellowish brown hair.

“You don’t have to show me; I drew it,” I say, smiling on one side of my mouth.

“Am I going to get more dirty pictures?” she jokes.

I give her a tight smile and our eyes meet and pause for a beat before I shake my head
no
.

I watch her flip each page, and I can tell from her expressions where she’s at in the book—her giggle at my sad attempt at drawing the basketball team and the hand she puts over her heart when she gets to the page I drew of my favorite picture of her. I wish I drew better, because Leah’s silver crayon could never do those eyes justice. In the margins around each picture, I wrote kind words from made-up people all saying how amazing she is, how beautiful and how they know she’s going to be a star.

When she reaches the final page, her fingers turn it slowly, and my heart races so fast that I have to lie down, my hands folded over my chest while I watch silently as her eyes scan back and forth reading. Eventually, I close my eyes and picture the words, having memorized them the moment I wrote them on the page.

Some will adore you.

They will be captivated by your voice and fall for you because of your kindness.

Others will envy you.

They’ll yearn for your talent, want your success, and covet your spotlight.

The world will know you. For all of the best and right reasons.

Time will prove me right.

But in the meantime, I will simply wish for you.

I’ll wish on stars, on pennies, on candles at half-birthday parties.

I’ll wish for you because wanting you isn’t enough and having you is too fleeting. And should we find ourselves apart, I’ll wish twice as hard, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be lucky enough to run into you in one of our dreams.

~ Casey Coffield

“It’s stupid, and corny, I know, but…” I stop, running my hands over my face as I stare up at her ceiling. I roll to the side and watch her finger tracing over the purple crayon-written scribbles I wrote six times, still not satisfied in the end that my words were right or enough.

“I love it,” she says, flipping through the pages again from the beginning.

“You can hide it in the cabinet, with the mug,” I joke, and she laughs, but it fades quickly as her head lifts and her eyes find mine.

“That’s how I
should
have signed your yearbook,” I shrug, reaching forward and grabbing her smallest toe between my fingers and tugging gently. “If I weren’t such a juvenile prickwad, I would have noticed you a lot sooner.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head and moving to her knees, to the front of her small bookcase where she slides her new book in place. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to. You showed up exactly right.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

She rests back on her legs, her palms flat on her thighs, and looks at me, a thick braid of purple over one shoulder and the neck I love to kiss bare on the other side. Her smile is quiet and still, and it lasts for minutes yet seems to constantly change and say something new. She’s the Mona Lisa.

“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” she asks, a glimmer in her eye as if she’s gone back to that girl she was—the innocent one still in high school—and that girl is giving me a chance to see what would have been.

“I’d love to, birthday girl,” I say, letting her stand first and hold her hand out for me.

I wait while she slides her bare feet into a pair of black tennis shoes and reaches for her guitar case. I follow her down the stairs and remain quiet and still in her kitchen while she whispers in her father’s ear. There’s nodding, and a quiet conversation with her mother next, and soon she’s holding her keys and is linking her free arm through mine to guide me out the door.

“It isn’t far,” she smiles.

I don’t ask questions.

She loads her guitar into the back of her car, and I notice the scratch that still mars the side. I’ll fix it for her next week when she’s at school, because I know she can’t be without her car long enough to get it done.

She remains secretive during our short drive that winds through her quiet suburb and along a dark country road until I notice a row of flashing lights flanked by two farm fields. When we pull over and she punches in a code on a gate that looks weak enough to just drive through—even with my car—I sit up and roll down my window.

“Is this…a runway?” I ask, tilting my face to the sky. There aren’t any planes lining up, but this is definitely some sort of runway.

“My dad has a hangar here. It’s where they keep a lot of the crop dusters and the tankers for fire season,” she shouts, finishing the code to the countdown of beeps as the gate slowly slides open. She jogs back to the car and slams the door closed, speeding in and racing to a row of metal buildings away from the lights.

“Your dad’s a pilot?” I ask.

“No,” she smiles, screeching to a stop outside of the last building.

Falling forward, my hands hit the dash and I’m stunned still while she’s already out her door and pulling her guitar from the back. I have an odd sense that we’re about to visit an alien ship or that I’m about to see the time machine her family’s been hiding.

I exit the car and follow her to the door on the side, stepping into the dark space behind her when she gets the door unlocked. She lets it slam closed behind us, and before my eyes adjust, I feel her hand on my cheek and her lips against mine.

“Well, hello there…” I tease, grabbing her ass and squeezing.

She giggles in the dark, and without her touch, I’m lost. I can’t find her.

Seconds later, there’s a loud clatter and lights begin to buzz on. The glow is dim at first, and it takes my eyes a few minutes to adjust, but soon the plane comes into view. It’s red and magnificent, and the propeller at the front looks sharp and well cared for. I’m already afraid of flying, even in seven-forty-sevens, so there’s no way I would step aboard something that, at a quick glance, looks like it runs on rubber bands. But I can appreciate its beauty.

“It was my grandpa’s; he built it himself,” she says, running her hand along a wing as she walks toward me. There isn’t even a single speck of dust to be found.

“It’s something,” I say, taking a small tour around the body of the craft.

“It’s just a replica. My grandfather was a history professor, and he was fascinated by flight. It’s the same kind of plane they flew in the Czech Army Air Force in the late twenties,” she beams. Her hand wraps lovingly around one of the support rods and her head falls against her arm as she looks at me. “My entire family is afraid of flying, so she’s never even been airborne,” she laughs.