In Your Dreams (Falling #4) (11 page)

“Three!” I shout, and we both fling our doors open, slamming them in our wakes as we spring up the slick walkway toward the door marked one twenty-nine.

There’s a small eave above the door, and it shields most of us from the rain, but with every gust of wind, our backs are pelted with freezing cold water. Summer storms in Oklahoma are not to be reckoned with.

“Casey! It’s us!” My brother is yelling and pounding a fist on the door, and my eyes are lit up like stadium lights. Oh my god!

“Dude, Casey’s…” starts a man wearing an outfit that looks like it came right off of Mr. Rogers. He twists his head to one side as his eyes bounce between me and my brother. “He’s not home…yet?”

He says it like a question. Am I supposed to know where Casey is?

“I’m sorry. We should have called first,” I say, putting my arm around Lane, whose shoulders are about as sloped as an anthill now.

“He’ll be home soon. It’s…it’s fine; come on in,” the guy says as we’re turning to leave.

I’m about to argue that it’s all right when Lane shrugs off my hold and steps around me, into the dark apartment. I have no choice but to follow.

“Okay, thank you,” I say, my lips tingly with the awkward smile I’m forcing on my face.

“I’m Eli,” the man says, rubbing his right hand dry from the soda he was holding, but has now switched to his left hand. He holds his palm out to shake, and I do.

“I’m Murphy,” I smile.

His eyes squint and a smirk begins on his lips as he points a finger at me.

“Yeah, you’re the chick with the song, right?” he asks, stumbling ahead of me toward the couch. He quickly grabs a few open gaming magazines and closes them, setting them on the coffee table before picking up no less than six empty beer cans. He shakes out a blanket that’s wadded in the middle of the sofa and spreads it out.

“Have a seat,” he smiles, gesturing to the couch.

Lane leaps into the far corner of the sofa, and I slide to sit close to him, a little self-conscious that we’re soaking his couch and the knit throw he put down to protect it.

“So, the song?” Eli asks again.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I smile.

“Casey’s going to make my sister famous,” Lane says, his cheeks like cherries and his smile beaming. I glance from him to Eli and shrug, hoping he understands that my brother is sort of an optimist. He sees the world in bright colors, full of possibilities. I wish I were more like him. I’m working on it.

“I bet he is,” Eli says softly. He isn’t making a joke or mocking us; he’s being kind.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Eli asks, and before I can answer, Casey’s voice booms from behind me.

“No more shots, man. I can’t drink any more of that shit in the bottle today…” he trails off as he steps into the living room, a plastic bag looped around one arm. His eyes land on me with surprise.

“I’m sorry. We should have called,” I say, tucking the folds of my skirt under my legs nervously. “We can go…if you have plans.”

“No!” he cuts in quickly. Eli chuckles and walks into the kitchen, and I catch Casey glaring at him briefly before looking back at me. “No, I’m glad you’re here. I uh…I got some sandwiches from the store. Houston…he works there, and he makes them at the deli. I didn’t get enough, but they’re big, so…”

I stand and start to open my mouth to protest, feeling awkward about him offering Lane and me part of his dinner, but the words fail me at first. I’m tired, and it’s hard to articulate when I’m tired sometimes, so I stutter. The
i
sound of
it’s okay
all that I can repeat while my mouth stretches awkwardly. Casey’s eyes flinch when it happens, and I stop speaking immediately.

“You know what? They can have mine. It’s cool. I was actually about to head out,” Eli says.

His gesture is sweet, but it only makes me feel worse, because I can tell he really wasn’t planning on going out. Before I can stop it, though, Lane is already thanking them both and taking the bag from Casey to take into the kitchen.

“Your brother’s pretty comfortable around me,” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” I nod, a tight smile holding in the overwhelming need to vomit my nerves all over the living room.

Silence settles in again, and Eli, Casey, and I are standing around the small coffee table in their living room—them with hands in their pockets and me with my skirt bunched in my fists at my side. At one point, Eli actually whistles and sways forward, which makes Casey and me laugh.

“All right, kids. This looks like a fun night, so…you three have a good time, and I’ll see you in the morning, Case,” Eli says, patting his friend on the shoulder as he moves over to the wall behind their front door. He pulls a bike from a metal rack mounted on the wall and walks it outside, closing the door behind him.

“He’s going for a bike ride?” I ask, my eyes fixated on the now shut door.

“Yep,” Casey says.

“In the rain?” I ask.

“It appears so,” he says.

It takes me a few seconds to flit my eyes in his direction, and when I catch his looking over me, he turns away quickly.

“What’s in these?” Lane yells from the kitchen.

“Turkey and ham. Pick your favorite, and Murphy and I will split the other,” Casey answers, one side of his mouth raised in a smile at me. “I hate ham, so I hope he picks that one,” Casey whispers.

“I’ll take turkey. Thanks, Casey,” Lane responds, and Casey laughs silently along with me.

“Sounds great, buddy,” he says loudly through stifled laughter.

Eventually, the funny fades and his expression shifts into something more understated. There’s a hint of smile there and his eyes are sort of dancing. They can’t seem to leave mine, and the scrutiny makes me hot and fidgety until I finally have to look away and join my brother in the kitchen.

“Sorry for the surprise visit. Lane wanted to see some of your equipment, and…” I start, but Casey interrupts.

“It’s fine,” he smiles, pulling two plates from a cabinet and setting the sandwich on one to cut in half. He slices it unevenly, giving me the bigger piece, then glances up when he’s done, sliding the plate in my direction, the slight smirk back again. “You can come here any time.”

I nod, then turn my focus to the sandwich on my plate, taking a bite that is probably far too big for me and definitely way unfeminine. I have to chew with my mouth open for the first few seconds, but it’s better than locking gazes with him. He’s looking at me like he knows a secret. Or maybe…

“Are you drunk?” I ask.

He chokes on his bite and pounds at his chest with a fist through his laughter.

“Right now? No. About twelve hours ago? Definitely,” he laughs.

“Oh,” I say, looking back to my sandwich. I bring it to my mouth and take another ridiculous-sized bite, my eyes busy reading the ingredients on the back of a bottle of soy sauce sitting out on the counter.

We all chew in silence for a few minutes, and I memorize the first sentence on the soy sauce label: ALL PURPOSE, NATURALLY BREWED AND OVER 300 YEARS OF EXCELLENCE. That feels like a really long time to be excellent at soy. I’m working on the second line when my brother pipes in, folding the paper around half of his sandwich.

“I’m full,” he says, pushing the paper toward the sink. Casey grabs it before it falls in.

“That’s okay; I’ll eat the rest,” he says, winking at me. He’s hardly touched the ham.

“Can I see your recording equipment?” Lane asks.

“Lane, let him finish his dinner,” I say, mouthing an apology at Casey. He shrugs it off.

“Sure…yeah, let me set you up with something in my room. Come with me,” he says, fingering over his shoulder. My brother practically skips after him, and I follow them a few steps behind.

I wait at the entry to his room, watching while he twists my brother toward his desk and shows him his headphones. He pulls a mic forward next, unwinding the cord and plugging it into a jack on the side of his laptop.

“You can sing or talk or make whatever sound in here, then this…” he pauses, dragging his finger over the touchscreen to open up a set of files, “is where you can mix it with other sounds. If you find something you like, hold it like this…and drag it down here. When you think you’re done, hit the play button and put these on to see how it sounds.”

“Awesome,” my brother breathes out, his feet kicking nervously under the chair he’s sitting in.

It doesn’t take Lane long to begin, and Casey eyes back toward the kitchen with a smile. “I have a turkey sandwich with my name on it,” he grins. I giggle and follow him out of the room, leaving my brother’s heartfelt but off-key vocals in the room with the door mostly closed.

“Thanks for doing that,” I say, picking at the edge of my bread. I’m not really that hungry, but I don’t want to waste the sandwich Eli gave up. I’m picking at it to make it look like I gave it hell.

“Of course,” he says. “If he wants, I can take him to a gig sometime and show him how I mix for a club.”

“He’d like that,” I smile at him. His eyes linger on me again, like they have since we’ve arrived. It’s arresting.

“Are you…okay?” I ask, partly to turn the focus away from him looking at me.

It works, and his gaze falls to his plate, where he’s now picking at the edge of his bread too. He tears away a piece of cheese and pokes it in his mouth, nodding slowly. Eventually, he pushes the sandwich away, and I feel double amounts of guilt. Two sandwiches wasted.

“My dad’s sick,” he says, his eyes narrowed and his attention on the smooth counter before him. He runs his hand along it, pushing a few small crumbs into the sink.

“Casey, I’m so very sorry,” I say, remembering everything I saw on his phone.

“Don’t be. It’s…it just is what it is, I guess,” he says, looking up. His eyes hit mine like stones through glass. There’s the hint of tears in them, but he laughs them away quickly with a sharp guttural sound. “It’s…cancer, I guess. I don’t really know much. I…we don’t…talk.”

He leaves that thought in the air and closes his lips tight, keeping his gaze on me. My head falls to one side as I imagine how that’s even possible. My father travels between here and Dallas a lot for the few rental properties they have. He’s the handyman for them. But he always comes home. I can’t imagine life if one day he just…didn’t. I can’t imagine what it would be like for my mom.

“Casey—” I begin, but he starts to talk again.

“I never really wanted to beat to his drum,” he says, his gaze falling back to the counter, where his hands push together, his fingers forming a diamond. “My dad’s an engineer. So’s my mom. My sisters are all successful, all…you guessed it…engineers,” he chuckles once, but his mouth remains a flat line. “Except for my oldest sister, but that’s because she’s a lawyer. And her path was…I don’t know…acceptable?”

He glances up for a moment and shrugs.

“I’m sure it sounds petty and stupid. I mean, every parent wants their child to be successful. It’s not cruel; it’s wanting something good for your kid. But…”

He stops mid-sentence and purses his lips, taking in a long deep breath as he drags his fingertips along the counter, rounding it as he walks a path toward the couch. I follow him, sitting on a chair opposite him. His eyes lock on mine, and it feels sort of like he’s waiting for me to give him the answer to some riddle.

“My grandparents were serious people, and my dad’s never really said anything, but I know his dad was always pretty strict—like a drill sergeant. This part I only know because my mom told me once. My dad wanted to be an artist,” he says, his eyes moving from the floor to my face, his mouth open and aghast as if he’s hearing this himself for the first time. “Fucker was apparently this brilliant painter. When he met my mom, he painted her portrait and gave it to her as a gift. I’ve seen the painting. It’s wrapped up in sheets in their attic. I’m pretty sure he has no clue my mom still has it.”

“Why would he hide it? I don’t understand,” I say.

“Because it makes him weak,” he laughs, stopping quickly, his face falling into a serious expression. “He got into this really great art school in Rhode Island, and he was going to go there, study, and maybe try painting in Paris or London for a semester. And then he told his father the plan.”

“He didn’t approve?” I ask.

His eyes find mine again, and they grow dark.

“He beat the shit out of my dad. Hit him so hard he lost sight in one of his eyes. He ruined him. My dad tells everyone that he was born that way—even us kids. But my mom knows the truth,” he says.

“And she told you…” I fill in.

“She told me,” he repeats. “She was trying to explain why he is the way he is, why he’s so set on me becoming an engineer, why he basically kicked me out of his life when I wouldn’t bend to his rules.”

“Why would he do all that? Wouldn’t he be just the opposite? Wouldn’t he
want
you to follow your dream since he wasn’t allowed to?” I ask.

Casey breathes a short laugh and leans forward, folding his hands in front of him with his elbows on his knees.

“I guess there are a lot of ways broken people heal. For my dad, he twisted everything around in his head—probably focused on some of the shit my grandfather had said when he was hitting him. You know what he said when I told him I was going into deejaying and sound mixing?” Casey pauses, his eyes sweeping toward me slowly.

“What?” I whisper.

“He said ‘dreams are excuses for not doing what
needs
to be done in life,’” he says, chewing at his bottom lip as his eyes trail away from me again.

I don’t have an answer for him. I wish I did, but that kind of dynamic, that style of parenting—my family is as opposite as it could possibly be from the Coffield house. Dreams in the Sullivan house are fluid—growing, and changing, and always reachable. Limits are hurdles you just jump over. Unless, of course, you’re me and your fears loom larger than life. But even my fears are things my parents have always believed could be overcome. I guess I
am
overcoming them. I guess they were right.

“You want to see something?” Casey asks, bringing my attention back to him. He’s leaning forward and looking at me from the side, his head tilted and his smile crooked. There’s a light in his eyes, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it.