In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(30)

“I’m hoping right away, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see,” he says through a deep breath. His chest seems heavier all of a sudden.

He swings the key ring around his thumb a few times, his eyes once again lost, looking toward the door to the hallway. After a few seconds, he holds them up and looks at me. “I need to make sure these are back at the front desk. Be right back?” he says, almost asking permission to leave me alone.

I nod and lean against the table, the handle of my guitar case in my hand because I have a weird sensation that I might need to make a break for it now. The door swings shut behind him, but doesn’t latch completely. I tip it open slightly and catch the sight of him walking down the hall, his arms swinging, his steps normal—he isn’t running. I can still hear the other group faintly down the hall. We aren’t totally alone, which gives me some relief that maybe I’m wrong.

His phone buzzes again. And again. At the third buzz, I grow dangerously curious, so I slide from my position toward the console, glancing through the small glass window in the door before flipping the phone over on the table.

I can only see the beginning of messages.

Christina: You can’t keep ignoring this…

Myra: Christina said you haven’t called…

Myra: It’s so bad, Casey. We need you…

I flip the phone back over. It’s personal. Whatever that is—Myra and Christina. Whoever they are. Something’s bad. They need him. And…what if it’s an emergency?

I glance at the door again and step closer, to gain a better view through the small window. I don’t see him, and the hallways are quiet, so I’ll probably hear him coming.

My thumb moves back to the phone, and I hover over it for a second, pretty sure I’m invading his privacy, but something is definitely weird. The phone buzzes again, making my decision for me, and I flip it over again.

Christina: He’s going to die, Case. We’re meeting with…

I swipe the phone awake and touch the message icon.

…Hospice.

I swallow.

Casey walks in.

His eyes move right to the spot mine were—to the phone pinned under my finger—to the open message. We both freeze in our positions—me because I’m not sure if there’s a way to delicately extricate myself out of this, and because of what I just read; him because he clearly knows I’ve just read his messages.

“It was buzzing…a lot…and I…” I say, a tear threatening my composure.

I hear Casey swallow. He steps closer to me, dragging the phone out of my hold with his forefinger. He twists it so it’s facing him. I hold my breath, careful not to make any sound. I don’t want his eyes to come to me. I don’t want him not to read everything there waiting for him. Something is wrong.

He sniffles finally, a slight sound—a manly kind of sniffle that indicates he’s pretending and whatever he does next is going to be bullshit.

“You know your way home?” he asks, his eyes shifting to mine, his mouth flat.

What?

“I’m sure I can figure it out, but…” I say, but he turns from me when he’s heard what he wanted.

“Okay, good. I’ll call you when I have the final ready, and when I’ve had a chance to meet with John,” he says.

He’s moving toward the door, and without warning, he flicks the light off, and I’m standing in the cascade of florescent hallway illumination coming through the half-open door propped by his forearm.

Okay. So, we’re going to just leave. And whatever that was is…it’s none of my business. He’s right. It’s none of my business.

I step under his arm out the door, and I follow him down the same corridor I did on the way in. As quiet as it was then, it’s even more so now—and not just because the sun has gone down. This silence—it’s almost palpable. I taste it.

We walk through the back door, through the group of guys still hanging around smoking, and one of them nudges Casey, asking him for a lighter. He shakes his head that he doesn’t have one, then adjusts the hat on his head, smoothing his hair underneath and rolling his shoulders as if he’s trying to lose something—a burden perhaps. He walks me to my car, and takes my guitar from my arm without even asking. I let him, and move to my trunk, opening it and watching him quietly lay it back inside.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he says, only half of him smiling. His eyes are warring against the smile though—they want to go back to being lost in thought, so I don’t keep him.

“I did. Very much,” I say, laughing lightly and swinging my arm toward the handle of my car door. I pause with my fingers on the latch. “I know it didn’t look like it, but…but I did. I enjoyed that very much.”

I glance up at him and his eyes are waiting. His hands deep in his pockets, he merely lets out a small breath and smiles tightly. So much locked behind that fa?ade. He can’t hide that he’s shaken, but he’s stubborn enough not to share any of whatever it is with me. Or maybe I’m just too afraid to ask.

“Drive safe,” he says, pulling one hand from his pocket and swinging it toward me. It grazes against my side, and I shudder from the touch. At least he’s too distracted to notice.

I watch him spin on one leg and walk away, his shoulders high and his hands both tucked away again in his pockets. His head is slung low, his eyes on his feet, careful not to look too far ahead. Casey’s future is like that, I’m guessing.