In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(10)

“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 *. 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.