In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(31)

As he rounds the building, I slip into my car and start my engine, letting the tear finally fall, but only halfway down my cheek before I swipe it away. I’m not even sure why I’m crying, only that…I felt something. I felt something for him, because of him, or maybe it was that I felt him—his pain. Whatever. It’s private, and I shouldn’t have looked.

Just like I shouldn’t have driven around the building as I left and paused at the exit long enough to catch his reflection in my mirror. The sound my blinker makes is assaulting—clicker-clonker, clicker-clonker, clicker… That sound drowns out everything else. I can’t hear him. But I see him pounding on the roof of his car with two angry fists, his hat wadded in the right one. I see him kick at the door until I think he may have dented it, or broken his foot. I watch as he throws his hat against the metal side and grasps the edge of his car with both hands, hanging his head forward until his body shakes.

I see him completely fall apart for a full minute and a half. And then I watch him wash it all away, picking up his hat, smoothing out his hair before placing it on his head, climbing into his car, and driving to the opposite end of the parking lot.





Chapter 7





Casey


Sometime around three in the morning, I quit punishing myself with guilt for not going to see my family and replaced it with obsessing over Murphy. That’s also around the time I sobered up after having three shots of whiskey the second I came in the door.

Okay…four shots of whiskey.

And a beer.

And three beers.

And by sober, I mean…I mean lucid.

It’s a miracle I didn’t drunk dial her.

My yearbooks are all at my parents’ house, which is just putting myself back into the cycle of thinking about that thing that I’m not going to let myself think about. I spent the last two hours searching online for plan B. Plan B, of course, in my lucid state, was to find some land of all yearbooks online where I would be able to type in Murphy Sullivan and get a magic play-by-play of all of her high school greatest hits.

What clubs she was in.

What dances she went to.

Who she dated.

Who her friends were.

And…most importantly…what she looked like.

Of course, now the truly sober, and slightly hungover, me knows that the magic yearbook-land is a crazy figment of my imagination, and I wasted a shitload of time on Google a few hours ago. My fuzzy mind is also in this weird place—like I’m on the verge of making a connection. I remember her, and I can even sorta, kinda, almost, make out what she looked like at seventeen. But I know if I could just get my hands on a photo, see a picture, it would clear it up.

Which is why I’m joining Houston and Leah for breakfast this morning.

“Juice me,” I say, opening the back door to the sound of frying bacon and the sweet scent of Joyce Orr’s cooking.

“Do you ever knock?” Houston says, flipping over a notebook on the table next to his breakfast, only glancing up for a second before scribbling more notes. He shoves a piece of toast in his mouth and mumbles to himself.

“Are we grouchy because we forgot to study and have a test today?” I tease.

Houston looks over to his mother, confirming her back is turned, and then flips me off.

“Mrs. Orr, your son just gave me the finger,” I whine.

“Houston, your daughter’s at the breakfast table. Show some class,” she says, never once turning away from the bacon in front of her.

Houston leans back and rolls his eyes, landing them squarely on me.

“Seriously,” he breathes.

“You started it,” I say.

“Uhm…okay. Whatever,” he shakes his head and returns to his notepad. “I did stay up late studying, for one test…but not the other. I had to practice my Spanish over the phone with Paige. I’m passing that class this summer if it kills me. The other test, this one,” he lifts the pad and lets it fall back to the table, “is just programming. I’ll be ready in five more minutes.”

I nod and slide out a seat at the table just in time for Joyce to put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and hand me a fork. She pats the top of my head like I’m seven. I love it. I love coming here. This house—it’s always been more of a home than any other place on earth. My mom’s half Italian, and her parents—my grandparents—were very loud and proud people, big on hugs and family. When I was really little, maybe five or six, I remember holidays with a full house and the smell of food. But when her parents passed, all of that sort of stopped.

My dad comes from a different world. His parents were hard workers, nose-to-the-grindstone people, and he was their only kid. Their house was always in perfect order, and I hated going there; I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. I’m pretty sure my parents had a big family because kids made my mom happy. If Dad had his way, I think they would have stopped at my sister, Christina. Because there were so many of us, I still got to experience being the runt of the litter with four big, loud, embrace-your-Italian roots sisters to beat my ass at every turn. Things only got quiet when Dad came home.

Home.

Hospice.

I shake away the thoughts creeping in, and dig into my breakfast, massive forkfuls of egg all at once. My plate is clean in less than a minute, and I prop my elbows on either side and run the napkin over my mouth.