In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(18)

“Probably not,” he agrees.

I’m really disappointed that I screwed this up. She’s talented, and something about her voice motivates me to think big. And, oddly enough, it’s not just because I think she could help me get ahead, but I really think I can help her, and the thought of helping her makes my chest squeeze the way it’s supposed to.

“I really think she’s good though, man,” I sigh.

“She is,” he approves again.

I look into my friend’s forgiving eyes and build up the courage to test him again, to add to my ever-growing list of IOUs.

“I’m gonna want to go to her next open mic,” I say.

“I know,” he says, holding up his hand to stop me from saying more. “And yeah, I’ll go with you.”

I breathe out a soft laugh and smile at him, even though he’s standing and not looking at me. He’s frustrated with me. I do that to him a lot. If I could afford it, I’d buy him an entirely new car. Hell, I’d buy him a new house. Maybe one day I’ll get to.





Murphy


I threw that ugly card away a dozen times over the last week. Two dozen! I threw it away again on my way into Paul’s. I thought if I threw it away somewhere public, where I didn’t have the safety net of knowing it was my own fairly-sterile trashcan, that I wouldn’t go diving back in after it.

Chalk this one up to a fail. I got mustard—or at least I hope that’s mustard—on the sleeve of my blouse as I reached in to pull his card back out.

It’s that whole special thing he said. I’m pretty hung up on it. It wasn’t a line or some cheesy hook to push me into something. In fact, the entire time we talked, that one sentence about me having a real talent was the singular time it felt like Casey Coffield was truly being real.

I know it’s weird to have a dream, but to also be terrified of it. But that’s where I’m at. I have a dream—and living that dream scares the ever-loving crap out of me. I want to write songs and sing them and have people download them into their iTunes accounts. Then, I want to be so popular, people will bother to buy my music in record format, to play on vintage turntables, because I love that retro sound with the small pops and cracks that accent the crisp magic that comes from a needle on vinyl.

But…I also don’t want them to boo. I don’t want them to say my lyrics are weak, or that my voice doesn’t evoke enough emotion, or—like on those reality singing shows, when the judges tell the contestant they’re pitchy. Sometimes, I am pitchy. I just don’t think I can handle someone saying it to my face, or in print, or on Twitter. This is why I freaked out when my brother put the video on YouTube—that place is a gateway to criticism, and my hard shell, it’s still soft. And mushy. I have a mushy shell.

“Murph, hey!” says Steph from across the room.

She’s another regular here on open-mic night. She and I have a similar vibe, and we hit it off instantly. I like it when we’re both performing on the same lineup. She’s quiet in crowds, like me. A friend. I step through the small gathering forming at the tables near the back of the club, and grasp her hand when we reach one another. She knows I don’t hug—one more thing I love about her.

“Congratulations!” she says through a bright smile. My hands freeze and fall from hers as my head tilts to the left. My eyes catch hers and I know I look puzzled.

“Your deal?” she continues. There’s something I’m supposed to know. But I don’t know it. That makes my stomach feel a little sick.

“My deal…uhm…” I say, my head turning to the side just enough to lock my eyes on the explanation.

Casey stands and Houston shakes his head behind him in apology as they both approach me.

“Murphy, we’re really looking forward to the show tonight,” Casey says, that f*cking smile that had me confused all week simply pissing me the hell off right now.

“I’m sure you are.” My eyes narrow on him. Houston chuckles.

“I knew you’d be the first one plucked outta here,” Steph says next to me.

“More like conned,” I add in a hushed tone.

“Huh?” she asks, her lip bunched and one eye squinting.

“She said she’s excited,” Casey fills in quickly.

Steph does a double take because that sounds nothing like what she thought she heard. Probably because it’s nothing like what I actually said.

“Sorry to surprise you like this, Murph,” Houston says, stepping beyond his friend and hugging me quickly.

“Wow—y’all must really go way back, or she must trust you, because Murphy don’t hug anyone,” Steph says, her hands on her hips. I swallow under the heat of everyone’s instant attention.

“I just…it makes me feel trapped,” I explain.

My family is a huggy family. They all hug. Unfortunately, even the uncles who get a little too touchy feely when they drink. Nothing ever worth throwing a punch over, but enough to put me at odds with hugs for the rest of my life. My brother Lane is the only one who I can take affection from without red flags flying up all around me, and that’s because he’s the brightest sunshine in my life.

“Sorry,” Houston mouths. I shrug him off and tell him not to worry about it, but I doubt he’ll hug me again, and I’m okay with that.