In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (10 page)

I
played
the song no less than a dozen times in the hour I sat in the recording booth. Casey kept his promise and never looked up at me once, except for between takes when he circled his finger in the air and mouthed “again.” Each time, it was better. And the last one actually left me feeling proud.

I collapse in the rolling chair next to him—the match to my nemesis chair—and let out a puff. My shoulders hurt from scrunching, but I did it.

“Wanna listen?” he says, his right lip tugged up as his eyes sway to me. I nod, and he tugs my chair closer, plugging in a second set of headphones, handing them to me. I put them on and try not to notice the fact that my knee bumped into his—and just like the rest of him, it’s warm.

“I’m still going to do more layering, but here’s the general idea,” he says, his voice still loud from the music playing in his ears. “Sorry,” he laughs.

“It’s okay,” I smile.

Our headsets go silent as he drags the song back to the beginning, then I count out just as I do in the booth and wait to hear my own voice begin. I can’t look at him just yet. It feels oddly personal—both of us listening to me sing about him. Not that it’s about him, but it’s a little about him. It sounds so unreal. I don’t sound like this. This girl, the one playing back to me, is a professional. If I weren’t here to witness everything, I’d swear sleight-of-hand occurred. But it didn’t. This is just the me that Casey brings out.

He’s right about one thing. He’s good at what he does.

We get to the part with the pause—the dramatic break before the chorus—and then something amazing happens. There’s my breath. It’s so real and beautiful and raw. He left that in there…from the last take. I can’t help it and my eyes fly to his, and I’m startled when I find they’re waiting for me.

“You like that,” he smiles.

“I do!” I say, realizing I’m yelling too. We’re alone in here, though. And we both have the music playing loud in our ears.

“I was so excited when you did that. I pulled it out and was like
oh yeah
,”
he says, lifting his feet from the floor and pushing himself to spin around once in his chair. The cord wraps around his body, so he shimmies his feet against the floor in the opposite direction to unwind it.

I giggle, and cover my mouth when I realize. He narrows his eyes on me, smirking, then pushes the arm of my chair around so I loop in a circle too, then he stands and begins wrapping more of the cord around my arms and head, crossing over my nose and eyes.

“Untangle me,” I laugh, fighting to free myself.

“Not until you admit it,” he says, spinning my chair one last time, hard enough that my headphones unplug and the sound of me singing breaks into the air of the studio. I look up and my mouth falls open, but slowly works into a smile.

“Admit what?” I ask, my hands outstretched, but only the few inches they can reach being pinned to my sides with cable cord. He’s teasing me. I’m teasing back. I’ve left the back row and stepped into the spotlight just now and it’s not scary. It’s nice.

“That you’re special. Listen to that…and tell me you’re not,” he says, resting against the small desk by the console and folding his arms over his chest.

“I’m…” I begin, a small shake of my head. My own voice hits the final notes of the song, and the beat slows. I’m the blueprint. Casey is the artist. “I’m grateful.”

His head sags to the left and his eyes blink once slowly before coming to rest on me again. Being tied up—though I know I can easily escape—and under his scrutiny, does something to me, and the longer his eyes stay set on mine, the hotter I become.

“What?” I finally ask, looking down, my neck what is I’m sure the color of a beet.

“You’re something,” he says, reaching out a leg and nudging my chair an inch or two away from him. I shrug.

“Can you untangle me?” I plead.

He lets out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

“Oh, I suppose,” he says, unwinding me and draping the cord lightly around my body until I’m free.

When his phone buzzes on the console, I take the opportunity to stand and work out some of the nervous energy in my legs and arms. With my back to him, I shake my head one more time in disbelief.

“So, what happens now?” I ask.

“Uhhhh,” Casey begins. I turn to see him squinting at his phone, reading something. He puts it down where it was and begins shutting off controls, clearly affected by whatever he read. “I need to get time with John. Which…don’t worry. I will.”

“Okay,” I say.

He’s moved into a rather manic mode, cleaning up the studio and making sure things are shut off and put back in place, so I turn my attention to my guitar, opening my case and putting it away.

“Does he listen to things right away?” I ask, my eyes noting how agitated he’s become. He’s nervous about something. Shit…I bet we really aren’t supposed to be here.

Casey’s stepped into the sound booth now and is looking over things in there, moving the mic back in place and scanning the floor and the outlets. He rubs his chin as he stands in the center of the room, his eyes down and looking at nothing. He’s rattled. He pulls his hat off and scratches at his head before glancing up and realizing I’m watching. Only then does he force a smile back in place.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks, but his smile isn’t a solid one.

“Nothing, was just wondering how long he takes to listen. I’m patient though…” I say as he locks up the small sound booth.

“I’m hoping right away, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see,” he says through a deep breath. His chest seems heavier all of a sudden.

He swings the key ring around his thumb a few times, his eyes once again lost, looking toward the door to the hallway. After a few seconds, he holds them up and looks at me. “I need to make sure these are back at the front desk. Be right back?” he says, almost asking permission to leave me alone.

I nod and lean against the table, the handle of my guitar case in my hand because I have a weird sensation that I might need to make a break for it now. The door swings shut behind him, but doesn’t latch completely. I tip it open slightly and catch the sight of him walking down the hall, his arms swinging, his steps normal—he isn’t running. I can still hear the other group faintly down the hall. We aren’t totally alone, which gives me some relief that maybe I’m wrong.

His phone buzzes again. And again. At the third buzz, I grow dangerously curious, so I slide from my position toward the console, glancing through the small glass window in the door before flipping the phone over on the table.

I can only see the beginning of messages.

Christina: You can’t keep ignoring this…

Myra: Christina said you haven’t called…

Myra: It’s so bad, Casey. We need you…

I flip the phone back over. It’s personal. Whatever that is—Myra and Christina. Whoever they are. Something’s bad. They need him. And…what if it’s an emergency?

I glance at the door again and step closer, to gain a better view through the small window. I don’t see him, and the hallways are quiet, so I’ll probably hear him coming.

My thumb moves back to the phone, and I hover over it for a second, pretty sure I’m invading his privacy, but something is definitely weird. The phone buzzes again, making my decision for me, and I flip it over again.

Christina: He’s going to die, Case. We’re meeting with…

I swipe the phone awake and touch the message icon.

…Hospice.

I swallow.

Casey walks in.

His eyes move right to the spot mine were—to the phone pinned under my finger—to the open message. We both freeze in our positions—me because I’m not sure if there’s a way to delicately extricate myself out of this, and because of what I just read; him because he clearly knows I’ve just read his messages.

“It was buzzing…a lot…and I…” I say, a tear threatening my composure.

I hear Casey swallow. He steps closer to me, dragging the phone out of my hold with his forefinger. He twists it so it’s facing him. I hold my breath, careful not to make any sound. I don’t want his eyes to come to me. I don’t want him not to read everything there waiting for him. Something is wrong.

He sniffles finally, a slight sound—a manly kind of sniffle that indicates he’s pretending and whatever he does next is going to be bullshit.

“You know your way home?” he asks, his eyes shifting to mine, his mouth flat.

What?

“I’m sure I can figure it out, but…” I say, but he turns from me when he’s heard what he wanted.

“Okay, good. I’ll call you when I have the final ready, and when I’ve had a chance to meet with John,” he says.

He’s moving toward the door, and without warning, he flicks the light off, and I’m standing in the cascade of florescent hallway illumination coming through the half-open door propped by his forearm.

Okay. So, we’re going to just leave. And whatever that was is…it’s none of my business. He’s right. It’s none of my business.

I step under his arm out the door, and I follow him down the same corridor I did on the way in. As quiet as it was then, it’s even more so now—and not just because the sun has gone down. This silence—it’s almost palpable. I taste it.

We walk through the back door, through the group of guys still hanging around smoking, and one of them nudges Casey, asking him for a lighter. He shakes his head that he doesn’t have one, then adjusts the hat on his head, smoothing his hair underneath and rolling his shoulders as if he’s trying to lose something—a burden perhaps. He walks me to my car, and takes my guitar from my arm without even asking. I let him, and move to my trunk, opening it and watching him quietly lay it back inside.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he says, only half of him smiling. His eyes are warring against the smile though—they want to go back to being lost in thought, so I don’t keep him.

“I did. Very much,” I say, laughing lightly and swinging my arm toward the handle of my car door. I pause with my fingers on the latch. “I know it didn’t look like it, but…but I did. I enjoyed that very much.”

I glance up at him and his eyes are waiting. His hands deep in his pockets, he merely lets out a small breath and smiles tightly. So much locked behind that façade. He can’t hide that he’s shaken, but he’s stubborn enough not to share any of whatever it is with me. Or maybe I’m just too afraid to ask.

“Drive safe,” he says, pulling one hand from his pocket and swinging it toward me. It grazes against my side, and I shudder from the touch. At least he’s too distracted to notice.

I watch him spin on one leg and walk away, his shoulders high and his hands both tucked away again in his pockets. His head is slung low, his eyes on his feet, careful not to look too far ahead. Casey’s future is like that, I’m guessing.

As he rounds the building, I slip into my car and start my engine, letting the tear finally fall, but only halfway down my cheek before I swipe it away. I’m not even sure why I’m crying, only that…I felt something. I felt something for him, because of him, or maybe it was that I felt
him—
his pain. Whatever. It’s private, and I shouldn’t have looked.

Just like I shouldn’t have driven around the building as I left and paused at the exit long enough to catch his reflection in my mirror. The sound my blinker makes is assaulting—
clicker-clonker, clicker-clonker, clicker…
That sound drowns out everything else. I can’t hear him. But I see him pounding on the roof of his car with two angry fists, his hat wadded in the right one. I see him kick at the door until I think he may have dented it, or broken his foot. I watch as he throws his hat against the metal side and grasps the edge of his car with both hands, hanging his head forward until his body shakes.

I see him completely fall apart for a full minute and a half. And then I watch him wash it all away, picking up his hat, smoothing out his hair before placing it on his head, climbing into his car, and driving to the opposite end of the parking lot.

S
ometime around three
in the morning, I quit punishing myself with guilt for not going to see my family and replaced it with obsessing over Murphy. That’s also around the time I sobered up after having three shots of whiskey the second I came in the door.

Okay…four shots of whiskey.

And a beer.

And three beers.

And by sober, I mean…I mean lucid.

It’s a miracle I didn’t drunk dial her.

My yearbooks are all at my parents’ house, which is just putting myself back into the cycle of thinking about that thing that I’m not going to let myself think about. I spent the last two hours searching online for plan
B
. Plan
B
, of course, in my
lucid
state, was to find some land of all yearbooks online where I would be able to type in Murphy Sullivan and get a magic play-by-play of all of her high school greatest hits.

What clubs she was in.

What dances she went to.

Who she dated.

Who her friends were.

And…most importantly…what she looked like.

Of course, now the
truly
sober, and slightly hung-over, me knows that the magic yearbook-land is a crazy figment of my imagination, and I wasted a shitload of time on Google a few hours ago. My fuzzy mind is also in this weird place—like I’m on the verge of making a connection. I remember her, and I can even sorta, kinda, almost, make out what she looked like at seventeen. But I know if I could just get my hands on a photo, see a picture, it would clear it up.

Which is why I’m joining Houston and Leah for breakfast this morning.

“Juice me,” I say, opening the back door to the sound of frying bacon and the sweet scent of Joyce Orr’s cooking.

“Do you ever knock?” Houston says, flipping over a notebook on the table next to his breakfast, only glancing up for a second before scribbling more notes. He shoves a piece of toast in his mouth and mumbles to himself.

“Are we grouchy because we forgot to study and have a test today?” I tease.

Houston looks over to his mother, confirming her back is turned, and then flips me off.

“Mrs. Orr, your son just gave me the finger,” I whine.

“Houston, your daughter’s at the breakfast table. Show some class,” she says, never once turning away from the bacon in front of her.

Houston leans back and rolls his eyes, landing them squarely on me.

“Seriously,” he breathes.

“You started it,” I say.

“Uhm…okay. Whatever,” he shakes his head and returns to his notepad. “I did stay up late studying, for one test…but not the other. I had to practice my Spanish over the phone with Paige. I’m passing that class this summer if it kills me. The other test, this one,” he lifts the pad and lets it fall back to the table, “is just programming. I’ll be ready in five more minutes.”

I nod and slide out a seat at the table just in time for Joyce to put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and hand me a fork. She pats the top of my head like I’m seven. I love it. I love coming here. This house—it’s always been more of a home than any other place on earth. My mom’s half Italian, and her parents—my grandparents—were very loud and proud people, big on hugs and family. When I was really little, maybe five or six, I remember holidays with a full house and the smell of food. But when her parents passed, all of that sort of stopped.

My dad comes from a different world. His parents were hard workers, nose-to-the-grindstone people, and he was their only kid. Their house was always in perfect order, and I hated going there; I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. I’m pretty sure my parents had a big family because kids made my mom happy. If Dad had his way, I think they would have stopped at my sister, Christina. Because there were so many of us, I still got to experience being the runt of the litter with four big, loud, embrace-your-Italian roots sisters to beat my ass at every turn. Things only got quiet when Dad came home.

Home.

Hospice
.

I shake away the thoughts creeping in, and dig into my breakfast, massive forkfuls of egg all at once. My plate is clean in less than a minute, and I prop my elbows on either side and run the napkin over my mouth.

“Daddy? Can I wear a robe to pre-school like Unco Casey?” Leah asks. She’s now standing next to me, tugging on the red, velvet sleeve on my arm.

“No, sweetie,” Houston says, standing from the table and reaching for her. He slings her up on his hip and touches her nose. “Uncle Casey is dressed like a bum, and I just don’t think that’s a good way to go to school.”

“All right,” Leah says, her voice disappointed. I’m rooting for the puppy eyes, because what’s wrong with going to school looking like a bum?
Get your way, Leah!

Houston sets her down and pats her butt once as she sprints up the stairs to finish getting dressed.

“So what’s the deal? Why are you wearing your hangover robe?” Houston asks, sliding his notebook and laptop into his backpack.

“Uhm, probably because I’m hungover,” I say, not thinking that Joyce is standing nearby. She smacks the back of my head and points at me. It hurts. “I’m sorry,” I say to her.

She points at me once more with gritted teeth, just for emphasis. Over the years, Joyce has pointed at me like that a lot.

“Recording with Murph not go quite as planned?” Houston asks after his mom walks away.

“It was good,” I say, splaying my hands flat on the now-empty tabletop in front of me. I rap my fingers against the wood a few times, playing out Murphy’s melody in rhythm—only I can really hear it. “Hey, you still have your yearbooks?”

My transition into the real reason I’m here is neither suave nor subtle, and Houston chuckles.

“You still don’t really remember her, do you?” he asks.

“I do, I do,” I say, pulling my hat off and resting it on the table. Joyce walks by quickly and snags it, placing it on a hook by the door. I smile at it and run my fingers through my messy hair. “It just…I have this hazy picture, and now that we’re hanging out…”

I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I shrug and roll my neck a few times.

“You want to know more about her,” Houston finally fills in.

“I don’t know…” I say, not able to look him in the eye. My lips purse.

He doesn’t prod. He also doesn’t say anything for about fifteen seconds, and it makes me really uncomfortable. For fifteen long seconds, my stomach squeezes and I picture her hands strumming her guitar, grazing over the small butterfly painted on the wood. I think about how one of the wings is larger than the other, and how her brother—Lane—probably painted it there for her. I think about that time in her house. I think about the stupid Bioré strip I let her put on my nose. And how cute hers was.

“You do,” Houston finally says through a light chuckle, breaking me from my thoughts. I nod just enough for him to notice and let my eyes meet his to admit my guilt.

He jerks his head toward the stairs, and I follow him into the hallway closet. He pulls a few boxes from a top shelf, finally sliding one out labeled HIGH SCHOOL STUFF, and then hands it to me.

“They’re probably in here, but I’ve gotta get Leah to pre-school and head to campus for my test. Just throw them in the box and leave it in the hallway when you’re done,” he says.

“Right on,” I say, bumping his fist.

He laughs under his breath, but I ignore him and step into his room, dropping the heavy box on his bed and discarding the various certificates and photo collages his mom made. I dive into our senior one first, because that one’s probably the closest to her looking like the version of her I know now. Our classes weren’t very big, so I get to the page of
S
students quickly and scan until I see her name.

Murphy Lynn Sullivan: Theater, Chorus, Future Business Leaders of America. I smirk at how that third one doesn’t match the other two—or her. I run my thumb toward the center of the book and then I land on a very plain, quiet-looking blonde. Her hair is wavy, like it is now, and it’s long enough to cut off at the bottom of the picture. It isn’t purple, and other than a large flower pin on the side of her head, tucking back a small braid, there isn’t much that’s flashy or memorable. All this picture does is confirm my hazy memory. This is how I pictured her, and I’m starting to think that maybe that’s what she was in high school—a haze.

I flip through the pages until I get to the section for group photos, stopping at the chorus one and running my finger over every penny-sized head until I find one in the middle that looks like it
might
be her. This photo doesn’t help, so I flip through more pages to the theater section, repeating my process on the group shot until I get to her. She’s standing in the front on this one, wearing a dress that looks a little more like the kind I see her in now. It’s red with large black polka dots, and she’s wearing black tights and Doc Martins. The image still isn’t familiar, but it makes me smile.

Hoping for more, I flip the page and am greeted with a spread of photos from the various plays performed at the school. I’m about to give up that she’s in here when one on the bottom right catches my eye. Her hair is darker in this photo—I think maybe dyed—and she’s wearing a dress that looks like its made of rags. She’s clutching another girl around the waist and looking out into nothing. Her eyes—the gray—
my god
.

My god.

She’s somehow appearing to cry without tears. I think about how if she hits it big in music, I’d put her eyes on her first cover. I should tell her that. Right after I tell her that I’m crazy, and that I apparently stalk her and stole my best friend’s yearbook so I could bring it home and look at this photo when I can’t sleep at night.

I toss the rest of the photos and papers back into the box and leave it by the closet as Houston asked, then head down the stairs and give a short goodbye to Joyce as I grab my hat from the hook and leave, the yearbook tucked inside my robe. I don’t reveal it until I’m in the safety of my car, and I laugh at myself, because I’m behaving absurdly. Joyce would tell me to just take it, and Houston hasn’t looked at it in years. There aren’t even many signatures in it, other than mine.

Before I pull out from the driveway, I flip the book open against my steering wheel and land on that picture wishing I could black out everything but her. I read the caption—which says the play was
Helen Keller
starring Murphy Sullivan—and smile. Of course, she starred in the play where the lead never speaks. I linger on her eyes for another minute before forcing myself to slide the book to the passenger seat to drive home. I leave it open, though, because I want to look at it a few more times.

I want to remember her more.

I want to go back in time and get to know this girl. Of course, then maybe she’d never write an anthem about me, and then she’d never have this shot that she has right now—this shot to make it, to have a hit that people play on the radio and download on iTunes. And she’s got one. I couldn’t trade her dream for my own gain. And that’s a first for me.

That’s an
only
.

It didn’t take much.

Lane asked if he could see Casey again sometime, and suddenly I found myself in the car on the highway headed south toward his apartment with Lane in tow—at least, toward what I
hope
is his apartment. I Googled him and this is what came up.

I probably should have called and asked if he was home, or at least called to confirm his address. That would have been smart. But then he would have had the opportunity to tell me he was fine, and I wouldn’t have known for sure, because I feel like a person kind of needs to
see
someone to really get a read on how fine they are.

“Do you think Casey will let me play music on his stuff? Does he have stuff like that at home…like at the studio? Like you described? Can I record a song, too?”

Lane has been super curious about how the whole recording thing works ever since I got home last night. Frankly, it was nice having his questions there to distract me. It kept me excited and thinking about the song and what might happen to it. It kept my thoughts on how it sounded when Casey put the headset on my ears. It reminded me of the smile on his face when I listened.

I didn’t dive into the other visual—the one of him falling to pieces—until Lane went to bed. And then, I thought about nothing else. When sleep came, I dreamt his pain.

The irony that this one guy I wanted to never—not ever—notice me, is now not only consuming my thoughts and dreams, but he’s spurred me to action. I filled up the tank and drove the forty-five miles or so to the other side of the city suburbs just to make sure he’s okay. All under the pretense that my brother wanted to see if they could hang out.

I laugh once out loud as I wait at the light before the last right turn that leads to his apartment, a light rain beginning to fall and dust my windshield. I’m being ridiculous. I have no plan beyond knocking on the door. He’s going to think I’m nuts.

“You should turn on the wipers,” Lane says, swaying his fingers back and forth in front of his face.

I smile and thank him, pushing the button to clear the window. I leave them on low, and by the time we park in the only free space along the road near Casey’s apartment, the rain is pouring down. I should leave. This is a really stupid idea.

“You ready? We should run,” Lane says.

I’m letting him call the shots. Coming was his idea. I keep lying to myself.

“Right,” I smile, pulling my purse from the floor in the back and clutching it to my front as I pull the keys from the ignition. “On the count of three, okay?”

“Okay,” Lane agrees.

“One,” I begin, pausing for several seconds as my eyes watch the rain blur everything on the other side of the window. I shouldn’t say
two.
I should leave, go home and wait—wait for him to call about the song and forget everything else. Quit worrying about things that don’t concern me.

“Two,” Lane finally says, clearly ready to run, his hand poised on the door handle.

My breath hitches with fear, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. He doesn’t catch subtleties, and he’s locked in on this visit. He wants to see his new friend. I nod and bat my lashes slowly. These next five minutes—they’re going to hurt.