In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(33)

I toss the rest of the photos and papers back into the box and leave it by the closet as Houston asked, then head down the stairs and give a short goodbye to Joyce as I grab my hat from the hook and leave, the yearbook tucked inside my robe. I don’t reveal it until I’m in the safety of my car, and I laugh at myself, because I’m behaving absurdly. Joyce would tell me to just take it, and Houston hasn’t looked at it in years. There aren’t even many signatures in it, other than mine.

Before I pull out from the driveway, I flip the book open against my steering wheel and land on that picture wishing I could black out everything but her. I read the caption—which says the play was Helen Keller starring Murphy Sullivan—and smile. Of course, she starred in the play where the lead never speaks. I linger on her eyes for another minute before forcing myself to slide the book to the passenger seat to drive home. I leave it open, though, because I want to look at it a few more times.

I want to remember her more.

I want to go back in time and get to know this girl. Of course, then maybe she’d never write an anthem about me, and then she’d never have this shot that she has right now—this shot to make it, to have a hit that people play on the radio and download on iTunes. And she’s got one. I couldn’t trade her dream for my own gain. And that’s a first for me.

That’s an only.





Murphy


It didn’t take much.

Lane asked if he could see Casey again sometime, and suddenly I found myself in the car on the highway headed south toward his apartment with Lane in tow—at least, toward what I hope is his apartment. I Googled him and this is what came up.

I probably should have called and asked if he was home, or at least called to confirm his address. That would have been smart. But then he would have had the opportunity to tell me he was fine, and I wouldn’t have known for sure, because I feel like a person kind of needs to see someone to really get a read on how fine they are.

“Do you think Casey will let me play music on his stuff? Does he have stuff like that at home…like at the studio? Like you described? Can I record a song, too?”

Lane has been super curious about how the whole recording thing works ever since I got home last night. Frankly, it was nice having his questions there to distract me. It kept me excited and thinking about the song and what might happen to it. It kept my thoughts on how it sounded when Casey put the headset on my ears. It reminded me of the smile on his face when I listened.

I didn’t dive into the other visual—the one of him falling to pieces—until Lane went to bed. And then, I thought about nothing else. When sleep came, I dreamt his pain.

The irony that this one guy I wanted to never—not ever—notice me, is now not only consuming my thoughts and dreams, but he’s spurred me to action. I filled up the tank and drove the forty-five miles or so to the other side of the city suburbs just to make sure he’s okay. All under the pretense that my brother wanted to see if they could hang out.

I laugh once out loud as I wait at the light before the last right turn that leads to his apartment, a light rain beginning to fall and dust my windshield. I’m being ridiculous. I have no plan beyond knocking on the door. He’s going to think I’m nuts.

“You should turn on the wipers,” Lane says, swaying his fingers back and forth in front of his face.

I smile and thank him, pushing the button to clear the window. I leave them on low, and by the time we park in the only free space along the road near Casey’s apartment, the rain is pouring down. I should leave. This is a really stupid idea.

“You ready? We should run,” Lane says.

I’m letting him call the shots. Coming was his idea. I keep lying to myself.

“Right,” I smile, pulling my purse from the floor in the back and clutching it to my front as I pull the keys from the ignition. “On the count of three, okay?”

“Okay,” Lane agrees.

“One,” I begin, pausing for several seconds as my eyes watch the rain blur everything on the other side of the window. I shouldn’t say two. I should leave, go home and wait—wait for him to call about the song and forget everything else. Quit worrying about things that don’t concern me.

“Two,” Lane finally says, clearly ready to run, his hand poised on the door handle.

My breath hitches with fear, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. He doesn’t catch subtleties, and he’s locked in on this visit. He wants to see his new friend. I nod and bat my lashes slowly. These next five minutes—they’re going to hurt.

“Three!” I shout, and we both fling our doors open, slamming them in our wakes as we spring up the slick walkway toward the door marked one twenty-nine.

There’s a small eave above the door, and it shields most of us from the rain, but with every gust of wind, our backs are pelted with freezing cold water. Summer storms in Oklahoma are not to be reckoned with.

“Casey! It’s us!” My brother is yelling and pounding a fist on the door, and my eyes are lit up like stadium lights. Oh my god!

“Dude, Casey’s…” starts a man wearing an outfit that looks like it came right off of Mr. Rogers. He twists his head to one side as his eyes bounce between me and my brother. “He’s not home…yet?”

He says it like a question. Am I supposed to know where Casey is?