In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(28)

Not my type.

I say that phrase again in my head. I say it a few times, and my lips move with it, but I don’t even whisper a sound. I’m here because what Casey did to my song was perfect. It’s like I gave him a blueprint and he understood how to make it a skyscraper—this little blend of coffeehouse and pop. The electronic touches were so freakin’ cool. And if there’s a chance that he can make more of that—that he can build me a city of those skyscrapers—then I can manage to get through a two-minute song without falling into old habits.

“You ready?” he says. His voice fills my ears. I like having him in headphones. It’s safer. His voice is calming.

I don’t look up, because I know that will just shoot me back to square one. Instead, I hold up a thumb and nod my head to get my beat.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

One two three. Two two three. One two three. One more time. Here I go. Hands are live. Touch the strings. Sound is good. Smile.

I run through the opening pass three times on my guitar, just to get a feel—to get a little more lost. But I keep smiling. I grin because this guitar—it has never sounded so good. Everything about it is smooth and crisp and I swear somehow it sounds like it’s playing from an old forty-five on my dad’s turntable. I love this room.

“Shadow of a girl…” I begin, but stop quickly, my tongue feeling fat out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes still closed. I shake my head, but keep playing.

“It’s fine, just pick up from there and start again. I can edit in,” Casey says.

I like having him in my ears. He’s like my confidence—if I had confidence.

I strum again. The rhythm is there. One two three, two two three.

“Shadow of…of…of,” I say, my lip quivering when I realize what’s happening.

I stop playing this time, but I leave the headphones in place. I don’t want Casey to come in. I want him to stay in my headphones—out there.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, opening my eyes, but looking down where my hands are stilled on the base of my guitar. They’re shaking now too.

“I’m coming in,” he says.

“No…” I say, but not quickly enough. Stupid small room. I don’t like it any more. He’s standing in front of me in a breath, leaning on the ledge of the glass window that I was happy to have separating us. My heart is beating more wildly now. That’s the nerves. It’s the nerves, which feed the problem, and I can feel it all pulling me out of line. I’m a squiggle. I’m not going to be able to get back to normal—I’m not going to be able to make it through this if he stands there. It’s too much.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I let out a sharp laugh-slash-cry, and the sound surprises me enough to make my eyes sting. I’m literally going to lose it.

No. I lost it.

“I’m so sorry, Casey…I…I…” I begin, and my mouth is so heavy. My lips refuse to round to form the right letters, and my brain is in a fight with my muscles—my mind throwing punches and swearing and my f*cking nerves!

“Let me see your guitar,” he says, his hand suddenly next to mine along the strings. I glance up at him, blinking away the evidence of the tears that just shot out of my ducts without warning. “Just for a second,” he smiles.

I nod, pulling my strap from over my body. He pulls it around his and sits on a small stool in the corner of this closet of a room.

“I always wanted to be really good at guitar,” he says, his fingers slowly picking out a melody. It’s faintly familiar at first, and I soon realize it’s Van Halen. “My dad thought music lessons were a waste of time, so I had to teach myself. I had a buddy down the road—Brandon Morales? You remember him?”

I nod. I remember them all—that’s what happens when you spend four years of high school with your mouth shut, only whispering in the chorus for school musicals. Four years of hiding in the back gives you plenty of time to watch the people out in the front.

“Brandon’s dad owns that music store in Stillwater—Low Notes? Anyhow, he’d let me come over and mess around, and I could hang out in his dad’s store and play whatever I wanted. I didn’t have money for lessons or whatever, so I taught myself what I could,” he says, sucking his top lip in and focusing on his fingers. He isn’t smooth, but he’s not bad. He plays a run and then holds a note, swaying the guitar like he’s Eddie Van Halen. “Anyhow…what you do? I wasn’t bullshitting you, Murphy. It’s amazing. You’re special. Trust that.”

He plays a few more lines, messing up once or twice and restarting, laughing at his fumbles along the way. When he hands the guitar back to me, my heart rate has calmed some. It’s still not to the level of alone in my bedroom. But it’s at least close to a usual Saturday night at Paul’s with strangers.

“Let’s take it from the top,” he smiles, handing me the headphones. I smile back, sliding them in place, and this time when he points at me to begin—through that ever-so-wonderful piece of glass between us—I begin singing on time, and the words come out just as they’re supposed to.



* * *



I played the song no less than a dozen times in the hour I sat in the recording booth. Casey kept his promise and never looked up at me once, except for between takes when he circled his finger in the air and mouthed “again.” Each time, it was better. And the last one actually left me feeling proud.