In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(36)

He stops mid-sentence and purses his lips, taking in a long deep breath as he drags his fingertips along the counter, rounding it as he walks a path toward the couch. I follow him, sitting on a chair opposite him. His eyes lock on mine, and it feels sort of like he’s waiting for me to give him the answer to some riddle.

“My grandparents were serious people, and my dad’s never really said anything, but I know his dad was always pretty strict—like a drill sergeant. This part I only know because my mom told me once. My dad wanted to be an artist,” he says, his eyes moving from the floor to my face, his mouth open and aghast as if he’s hearing this himself for the first time. “Fucker was apparently this brilliant painter. When he met my mom, he painted her portrait and gave it to her as a gift. I’ve seen the painting. It’s wrapped up in sheets in their attic. I’m pretty sure he has no clue my mom still has it.”

“Why would he hide it? I don’t understand,” I say.

“Because it makes him weak,” he laughs, stopping quickly, his face falling into a serious expression. “He got into this really great art school in Rhode Island, and he was going to go there, study, and maybe try painting in Paris or London for a semester. And then he told his father the plan.”

“He didn’t approve?” I ask.

His eyes find mine again, and they grow dark.

“He beat the shit out of my dad. Hit him so hard he lost sight in one of his eyes. He ruined him. My dad tells everyone that he was born that way—even us kids. But my mom knows the truth,” he says.

“And she told you…” I fill in.

“She told me,” he repeats. “She was trying to explain why he is the way he is, why he’s so set on me becoming an engineer, why he basically kicked me out of his life when I wouldn’t bend to his rules.”

“Why would he do all that? Wouldn’t he be just the opposite? Wouldn’t he want you to follow your dream since he wasn’t allowed to?” I ask.

Casey breathes a short laugh and leans forward, folding his hands in front of him with his elbows on his knees.

“I guess there are a lot of ways broken people heal. For my dad, he twisted everything around in his head—probably focused on some of the shit my grandfather had said when he was hitting him. You know what he said when I told him I was going into deejaying and sound mixing?” Casey pauses, his eyes sweeping toward me slowly.

“What?” I whisper.

“He said ‘dreams are excuses for not doing what needs to be done in life,’” he says, chewing at his bottom lip as his eyes trail away from me again.

I don’t have an answer for him. I wish I did, but that kind of dynamic, that style of parenting—my family is as opposite as it could possibly be from the Coffield house. Dreams in the Sullivan house are fluid—growing, and changing, and always reachable. Limits are hurdles you just jump over. Unless, of course, you’re me and your fears loom larger than life. But even my fears are things my parents have always believed could be overcome. I guess I am overcoming them. I guess they were right.

“You want to see something?” Casey asks, bringing my attention back to him. He’s leaning forward and looking at me from the side, his head tilted and his smile crooked. There’s a light in his eyes, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it.

“Yes,” I smile.

He nods and sucks in his bottom lip, looking back down at his folded hands, his thumbs tapping together nervously, almost as if he’s working up nerve.

“Okay. Come with me,” he says, directing me back to his room.

Lane looks at us when we walk in, the music playing loudly in his headphones. He gives us both a thumbs up, and Casey reaches his knuckles forward for Lane to tap with his own fist. My brother does and laughs loudly, louder than normal, thanks to the volume in his ears. He turns his attention back to the computer and begins moving more sounds into the timeline to play. I glance over his shoulder and realize he’s moved about fifty of them in there, and my eyes grow wide. Casey places a hand on my shoulder and looks over with me, stunning me and quickly turning my attention to the feel of his breath so close to my neck.

“Wow, he’s really into farm sounds, huh?” he laughs.

“Ha ha, yeah…I guess,” I say, the words coming out robotic.

Casey’s hand drops from my shoulder quickly, and slowly I unfreeze and become human again. I spin and see him reaching into his closet for a small box on the top shelf. He pulls it down and sets it on his bed, nodding for me to come sit next to him. On his bed. Which is poorly made and has sheets that look so very masculine along with this fuzzy blanket with tiger print and…yeah…just as I figured, the bed is soft.

“You okay?” he asks.

I shake off my teenage jitters and clear my throat before scooting back and folding my dress under my leg so I can tuck one under the other. “Uhm, yeah…just getting comfortable,” I lie.

Casey leaves his gaze on me for a second, his eyebrows dipped just enough that I can tell he’s not completely believing my bullshit.

“What’s in the box?” I ask, changing the subject.

It works. He raises the lid, setting it to the side, and pulls out a few brochures and design schematics along with a stack of business cards that read LEAP RECORDS. I hold one up and turn it to face him.