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

H
ouston’s alarm
sounds at five on the nose. It’s loud, and it plays country—old-fashioned, unhappy, dog-died country. He hates country, so I have no clue why he would torture himself at the crack of dawn with that noise, but what I really care about right now is why he would make that thing so loud that it wakes me up too.

“Mornin’,” he says with a smirk, coffee in one hand and newspaper spread open in the other. Who the fuck still reads a newspaper?

I slide in my socks the rest of the way down the stairs and flip him off, which only makes him chuckle. I spent the night in his spare room on that bed made of rocks. Houston and his daughter live with his mom, so the house is quiet. It’s also kept at eighty degrees, and every time I spend the night here, I sweat my balls off. The last person who slept in this room was Houston’s new girlfriend, Paige. She went home to California for the summer, but I swear she left a gallon of her strong-ass perfume behind on this bed. Add being hot—and smelling like lilacs—to the fact that my friend woke my ass up before the sun, and I’m pretty much a ticking bomb right now.

“Why?” I ask, rubbing my face and climbing into the chair on the opposite side of the table from him. I pull the hoodie I’m wearing up over my head, trying to shade myself from the glaring lights of his kitchen.

“Why what, Case?” he answers, not really looking at me. Goddamn smile is hovering over his coffee cup, though.

“Since when are you a country fan?” I ask, letting my forehead fall to a complete rest on the table.

“Oh, I’m not,” he says. I roll my head to the side and quirk a brow as he bends the newspaper down to do the same and meet my gaze. “But I know
you’re
not, and that made a rough wake-up call worth it.”

He stares at me for a few seconds, and I let my eyes fall to slits.

“You’re a real dick,” I say, rolling my head back toward the table, hiding my eyes again.

“Sure I am, Casey. You keep telling yourself that,” he laughs.

“I need your car again,” I say.

“No,” he answers quickly.

“I’ll drop you off at work and have it back to you in time for you to be done with your shift. I’m buying one on Craigslist today,” I say, talking over him and ignoring his first response.

“I’m pretty sure I said
no,
” he says.

“Yeah, but you always do. Anyhow,” I say while he sighs at the other end of the table. “Where does this Murphy live? Show me on the way to the store.”

“Case, it’s…” he twists in his chair to look at the clock over his shoulder, “…not even five thirty in the morning. You can’t go to her parents’ house right now.”

“Uhm, believe me. I’m well aware of how butt-crack early it is right now. I’ll go later. Just show me where it is so I can,” I lie. I’m going to that house the second I drop his ass off at work. I won’t wake anyone up, but I’m sure as shit sitting in the driveway until I see some sign of life inside.

“Fine, but just…I don’t know…be a gentleman? Murphy’s always been sorta shy, so maybe just try not to be so…so…
you,
” he says. I turn my head to look up at him again, keeping my eyes on his until he breaks away, shaking his head.

Less me. Less selfish. Less…unable to feel.
My mind flashes back on the voicemail I haven’t played again, but can’t seem to delete.

“Fine. I’ll be less…me,” I say, rolling my eyes, playing the part of Casey, the asshole. Being this guy is easier. I give in to the broken parts. I push away from the table and grab a mug from Houston’s cupboard, emptying the rest of the coffee pot, and dropping in two ice cubes so I can drink it fast. I hate coffee. I just like what it does.

Houston finishes his cup and clears off the table, shutting out the lights and locking the back door behind us as we head to his car. It’s a warm summer morning, but my shaggy hair looks like I spent the night in an alley, so I keep my hoodie pulled tight around my body.

We hit the main turnpike and drive about six or seven miles out of our way, taking the exit for Cloud Road. I’ve lived in this town since birth, and I don’t think I’ve driven down this street once. We pass seven or eight houses when we get to one on a corner. It’s small, but nice, and there’s one of those wagon wheels buried halfway in the front yard for decoration.

“That’s it?” I ask, taking in the sight. The house is plain, and the only car in the driveway is some hybrid electric car that probably gets a hundred miles to the gallon.

“I think so,” Houston says, taking in a deep breath and spinning around at the small intersection where the neighborhood streets meet.

He glances at the house one more time as we pass a second time on our way to his store. I crane my neck to memorize everything about the way it looks, the numbers, the streets, the exit. I’ll backtrack this entire trip the second he gets out of the car.

“So, if I don’t know this Murphy chick, how do you know her so well?” I ask, unzipping my hoodie and turning the air vents toward me to cool off.

“Why are you wearing a sweatshirt?” Houston asks, jerking to the side as I pull and tug at my sleeves, trying to get the damn heat blanket off.

“My hair’s all whacked. I didn’t shower,” I say, finally freeing myself and throwing the sweatshirt in the back. I twist in the seat and search the floor of his car, grateful to find one of his hats there. I push it on my head, stretching the tight fit a little. It will have to do.

“I hate it when you do that,” he says, eying me from the side.

“I know,” I say. No real excuse, and it ruins his hats. But I’m a mess, and I haven’t seen him in this one in months. I’ll get him a new one if he throws a major fit.

“Murphy’s mom was going to watch Leah. She ran an in-home daycare,” he says, his attention now focused intently on the road. He doesn’t talk about the past often. I get it. He had just married Beth, and an accident took her away from him. His dad died in that crash too.

“Oh,” I say, not adding an apology or anything more. Houston’s had years of apologies. He always told me they get old.
I wonder if people will apologize to me about my dad?

“My dad’s sick,” I confess, the out-loud admission stunning me a little. It felt good to say, though. Maybe it just feels good to say it to Houston, because he’s my real family. Maybe that’s how grieving works—perhaps this step, sharing, is important. “Real sick,” I add, and for the first time since my sister called, my tongue sours, and my mouth feels the burn of acid. My breath hitches, but I hide it by letting my forehead fall to his passenger window.

Maybe not completely broken.

Houston doesn’t respond for almost a minute, and when he does, it’s with the same understanding that comes with being lifelong best friends.

“Oh,” he says.

I watch his expression for a second or two as he swallows and his eyes dart about the roadway. We pull into the lot on the side of his store, and he pushes the car into park, stepping out while I walk around the front to take the driver’s side. He takes out his backpack from the back seat for his summer class in the afternoon.

“I’ll pick you up outside the student commons. What time?” I ask.

“Four,” he says, backing away a pace or two before swinging forward again and leaning down to look at me through the window. “It’s harder than you think it’s going to be. Just…I know you and your dad aren’t close. And you’re angry at him. And I’m on your side with that. Don’t think I’m not. But I just…I don’t know. As your friend, I need to tell you what you don’t know, and even if you think you hate him, it’s still going to be hard; harder than you think.”

Houston looks up at me with his last word, and our eyes meet for a second—long enough that I get it. I’m just not sure I believe it—at least, not for me. Houston had a dad he worshipped, a man who didn’t miss a single game, who came to birthday parties and who hoisted him up on his shoulders. I had a set of instructions—a life plan to follow, that he checked in on periodically. I don’t think he attended a single birthday party. My mom planned them, but even when she held them on Sundays, my dad was missing. Work always came first.

Whatever. I’m sure there’s a mother load of emotional problems brewing in the background—shit I’ll probably come full tilt against when I’m thirty or when I have kids of my own—if that ever happens. But right now, all I care about is this Murphy girl.

“Good talk,” I say, lifting a brow. I reach to the back seat and pull my sunglasses from the pocket of my hoodie and slide them in place, looking at Houston one last time as I drive away. He gives me that older, wiser, big brother stare, and I do my best to ignore it. I have it mostly out of my mind by the time I make my way back to the house on the corner with the environmentally-friendly car. I turn into the driveway and kill the engine, then lower the seat a few notches for comfort so I can begin my wait.

After twenty minutes, I begin to see some activity inside, a head moving past the open window that overlooks the front of the house. It looks like it must be the kitchen window. A few minutes later, a couple walks through the front door, locking it behind them. They’re dressed for work; he’s in a suit, and she’s in a long skirt and red shirt. They’re young, too. Way too young to be the parents of someone my age, which means…

“Can I help you?” the man asks, opening his passenger door and dumping a briefcase in the back behind the seat.

“I think I might have the wrong house. I was looking for the Sullivan family? They used to live here?” I ask, hoping I’ll get some clue, or maybe I’m just one house off the mark.

“They moved four or five years ago,” he says.

Awesome.

“I see. Thank you. I’m sorry for being all creepy in your driveway,” I wince and chuckle uncomfortably. The man doesn’t laugh in return, which makes me feel like a total douche.

I turn the engine over and push the seat back into a good driving position before reaching for my belt. I’m about to leave when the woman speaks up, shoving her hand in front of me with a card pinched between her long, red fingernails.

“We rent from them, though. Here’s their business card,” she says.

A card. With a phone number.

“Thanks,” I grin, taking the card from her and rolling it in my fingers once or twice before sliding it into the cup holder.

I wave in acknowledgement and back out of their driveway. I pull over on the side of the road before the turnpike and wave once more when they pass me on their way to work. The sun is up now and practically blinding me; I head to Sally’s near campus to grab a breakfast burrito and some much-needed coffee before stopping at my apartment to take a shower and figure out my next move.

There’s no address on the card, and the only hint at the website is some clever email address about rental gods. I give up and finally dial the number, and am just about to end the call, and scrap this plan completely, when a woman answers.

“Hi, this is Jeanie,” she says in the most cheerful voice I think I’ve ever encountered. I smile at her first word, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I pass by the mirror in my bathroom. I try to scowl quickly, but it’s no use. She injected pep right through the phone, and I’m full on it now.

“Hi, Jeanie. My name’s…Eli,” I barely recover. “A friend gave me your card and said you might be able to help me find a new place. I’m…moving. For work.”

I’m the shittiest liar ever. I throw my hat from my head and run my fingers through my still damp hair. I’m sweating from this conversation.

“Oh, wonderful. Who recommended us?” she asks, same fairy godmother voice.

Shit.

“Uh…” I pause for a breath. I’ve got one shot at this. “Tom.”

In the millisecond it took to think of a name, about a dozen, completely typical names flew through my head. I almost went with Michael, but I had a feeling in my gut. Everyone knows a Tom. She
has
to know a Tom.

“How nice,” she practically sings. I collapse on the bed. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

“Yeah, so I’m in a bit of a pinch. My lease is up here, and I need to find something ASAP, so…”

“I’ve got time this afternoon. I have three properties that are all near downtown. I’m not sure what area you need, but they’re great deals. How about we meet near the State campus?” Her business side is kicking in, which is good. But campus won’t get me close to Murphy.

“I’m getting dropped off, and my friend has to work early. Is there a restaurant or something near you I can meet you at and then just ride with you?” I bluff, pinching the bridge of my nose while I silently whisper
please.

“That sounds fine. How about the bagel shop on Ninth and Wood on the north side? I’m in Archfield,” she says.

Archfield.

“Perfect. I’ll be waiting there,” I say, grabbing my keys and heading to the car before she has a chance to hang up.

I pass my roommate on my way out down the main walkway and wink at him, doing my best to embody his personality for the next hour. He looks at me like I’ve been taken over by an alien. Maybe I have. Or perhaps it’s the jolliness in Jeanie Sullivan’s voice infecting me. I hope her daughter’s just as nice as
she
seems to be on the phone.

It takes me almost an hour to get to Archfield. I spot the bagel shop on my first pass, pulling around the corner and parking in a far spot, then walking around the building once more to make it look like I was dropped off. When I enter the restaurant, I scan for anyone watching people walk through the front door. My eyes meet a woman’s with bright yellow-blond hair that falls down to her waist in loose curls, and she quickly offers me a short wave.

I approach her table and smile with the same enthusiasm I had on the phone an hour ago. I’m not sure what her deal is, but I’m starting to think she might be a witch.

“Jeanie?” I ask.

She stretches out her hand and about a dozen metal bracelets slide forward on her wrist as our fingers meet for a firm grip and shake.

“Eli, glad you made it,” she says. “Hope it wasn’t hard to find.”

“Not at all,” I say, silently repeating
Eli
in my head to remind myself to answer to it for the rest of the day.