In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(14)

“Ah…uh, no. No, I didn’t,” he says, standing and folding his arms around his body, his feet shuffling as he tucks his chin into his chest. He’s either nervous with guilt, or he’s a tweaker. I glance to the side, to the matching scrape tinted with the red paint of my car on the front passenger side of his. I point to it.

“Uh, there’s a matching mark on your car,” I say, my eyebrows in my hairline as my sight shifts slowly from the evidence to his shaking head.

“Yeah, I mean so weird right? I wonder if there’s someone who hit both of us? We should check other cars,” he says, releasing his arms from his body so he can run his hands nervously through his hair and lift his hat from his head.

He seriously just said that. Out loud.

“That’s the kind of lie one of my second graders tells. No…actually…even they wouldn’t lie so blatantly and poorly,” I say, stepping closer to touch the damage he left behind. I hear his feet move backward as I come closer. Good. He should be afraid. I kind of want to punch him right now. “Dude. You wrecked my car!”

My blood pressure rises with my voice, and I start to think about everything wrong with this scene: Casey Coffield is here—at the place I work—and he’s dented my freaking car! How the f*ck did that happen?

“It was really only a tap. I don’t think all of this was me…” he starts.

“Are you serious? Oh my god, you’re serious,” I laugh. I start to pace a little, because this is a nightmare.

I bend down and reach into my purse to pull out my phone and begin taking pictures of both cars. I get about four snaps in before Casey completely folds.

“Shit, yeah. Okay, all right? I hit your car. There was a guy parked next to me, and he was all jacked in his spot, on the line and shit. It’s Houston’s car, and his car is tiny, so I thought maybe I could fit in the space and…”

“And you couldn’t fit in the space!” I shout, pointing once again at the evidence.

He stops fidgeting and lets his body slump, pulling his hat from his head and running his hand through his hair, pausing at the top of his head, the strands all pulled from his face and poking through his fingers.

“I might have misjudged it a little,” he winces, letting go of his hair and holding up his thumb and forefinger, pinching the air.

And with one look, he’s seventeen and angling to get out of every ounce of trouble he’d ever buried himself in. He hasn’t changed one single bit. Only that act, it doesn’t work with me. It never has, and it’s the reason I was maybe the only girl in our town who was actually disgusted by Casey Coffield.

I step back and hold my head in my hand, my phone pressed against the bridge of my nose. Think…

“That’s Houston’s car?” I ask, working through this unbelievable scenario.

“Yep,” he says. His mouth is tight, and he looks like a kid holding his breath, praying to get out of trouble. I’m so pissed I could throat-punch him. At least the * looks scared.

I stand still, and so does he. I’m pretty sure he’s staring at the top of my head while I shut my eyes to think, but I don’t care. I might stand like this long enough for him to count every stupid hair. And if he’s holding his breath still…he’ll turn blue. And pass out. God, what I wouldn’t give for a rewind button for life. I would park somewhere else. Or…maybe I’d walk today.

“It’s fine,” I say, holding a hand up and moving to the back door. He steps slightly out of my way, and I hear him breathe out in relief. That’s right, Casey—you’re off the hook, because I like Houston. I slide my guitar into the seat, shutting the door behind it. “I have to go. I’m late.”

I work the keys in my hand and open the driver’s door, cringing at the scraping sound it makes where the metal is bent at the hinge. I could throw a bigger fit until he paid to fix the car, but then I’d have to deal with him. The dent—I can live with it if it means he’ll go away.

“Well, now you’re lying,” he says.

My eyes fly wide, and I toss my purse into the passenger seat before standing with one foot in the car, my fingers wrapped tightly around the keys, squeezing.

“I’m sorry?” I say, my gaze finally meeting his squarely for the first time maybe ever. He has nice eyes, and I notice. Brown, big and kind of…well…perfect. But that’s it. Do those eyes really get him out of shit? Is that how Casey Coffield gets his way? They aren’t so nice that I can overlook all of the other flaws in his personality.

“You just lied,” he says, growing more assertive. He folds his arms over his chest again, and my gaze moves to the wrinkle he makes in the center of his chest in the gray T-shirt that is tight…so…so tight everywhere else. And wait—I just lied?

“Did not,” I say, with an actual pshaw sound at the end. I’m so mad at how he’s affecting me. I breathe deeply through my nose in an attempt to relax, but it’s hard because he’s smirking and looking at me like he has the upper hand. It pisses me off, and now I’m going to make him pay for my car ding. I might even sue him! I open my mouth to lay into him, but he cuts me off.

“You did, too,” he says. I glance around looking for schoolyard swings and kick balls because he and I have gone way back. We have just regressed. “You aren’t busy or late. You’re going home.”