In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(39)

“I brought a sweater. It’s in the car, in case your parents don’t like tattoos…” she begins.

“Don’t worry about your sweater,” I cut in.

I tilt my head and do my best to hum the melody in my head.

“It’s the first few bars of ‘The Scientist.’ You know, by Coldplay?”

I look again, humming along, and I smirk when the recognition hits.

“Why that song?” I say, my eyes moving away from the small line of notes to the rest of her, her arm, the faint pink on her fingernails, her neck, her collarbone, the way the thin gold bracelet clings to her forearm…I feel dizzy and have to look away again.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” she asks.

I want to, merely at her question. How could I possibly laugh at her?

I swallow while my head is turned away, then squint as I turn back to look at her, as if this is something I need to think about. I tilt my head to the side and cross my chest with my finger. “Swear,” I say.

She sucks in her bottom lip briefly, then lets go of it. The entire scene plays out in slow motion—the way it slides loose from her teeth and quivers with a tiny breath. It’s like one of those National Geographic videos I watched when I was a kid—where the flower blooms in an instant with stop-motion photography. Her lips—a flower.

“It’s my power song.” The words stumble out of her mouth, and her hands fly up to cover the lip I’m staring at. Her cheeks are a shade or two pinker than they were a moment before. I smile, but I don’t laugh. I wouldn’t at what she said, only at how absolutely captivating every single gesture she makes is.

“Most people go with something like Metallica, or AC/DC or…”

“Van Halen,” she says, winking and remembering the small little phrase I picked out on the guitar for her the other day.

“Yeah,” I smile. “Van Halen.”

She takes in a deep breath, and glances at my car behind me, her mouth poised to speak for a beat before words finally come.

“I guess I just felt like that’s what love is supposed to feel like, and it seemed…I don’t know…kind of beautiful. Poetic maybe?” Her eyes trail back to mine, and her lips quirk up on one side in an embarrassed smile. “It sounds stupid out loud, but I don’t care. It’s worth waiting for is all.”

“What is?” I ask, my heart beating a little more than I’m used to. I step to the side so she’ll follow and begin walking toward my car.

“Anything,” she says, pausing right in front of me and looking up—the gray, honest eyes I’ve become obsessed with catching me in every lie I’ve ever told. “Everything. If it’s worth it, it’s worth waiting for.”

I suck in my top lip and hold her stare as long as I can.

“Can’t laugh at that,” I say quietly. Her eyes stay on mine, and my heart squeezes a little. “I like your dress, Murphy. I like it a lot.”

She blushes. I breathe.

“Thanks, Casey,” she says, looking down as she takes careful steps up the curb to the passenger door. “That means a lot.”

Yes, Murphy. I do believe it does.



* * *



My parents house isn’t far, but far enough that I’m late—again. My sisters don’t lecture me, but I think that’s only because I walked in with Murphy. She’s changed her hair a little—her purple more of a grayish tone now. It looks like silver in winter. I noticed my youngest sister, Annalissa—still older than me—seemed to be quite taken with it. She was the only one, though. The others gave it the same unprofessional stamp of disapproval.

My mom barely looked at us when we walked in. Even her hug felt stilted and unsure. I’m beginning to think that despite my sisters begging me to be here, perhaps I should have stuck to the plan of ignoring everyone. I’m the match in the house filled with kerosene.

“It’s pancreatic cancer,” Christina says to me, pulling me by the arm to a corner in the kitchen so she can whisper/not whisper. My other sisters are helping set the table, dressing it in the full linens and candles while my mom runs manically around the table, setting out pots of beans and potatoes, bowls of salad and a platter with sliced beef.

“Is he…in his room?” I ask, my eyes darting from every moving person in front of me. The only other person standing still is Murphy, a foot away from me. It’s like that game I played when I was a kid—freeze tag—and Murphy and I have been frozen while mania swishes around us.

“He is,” Christina says. “He doesn’t look bad, but he’s already losing weight. I can tell.”

“Are they doing…” I swallow and lean into her so my mom doesn’t hear me speak. “Is he doing chemo or…radiation or something?”

My sister’s eyes meet mine quickly, and she shakes her head in a small motion before looking to our mom to make sure she’s still in her blissful state of denial.

“Why?” I mouth.

“There’s too much,” she whispers. “It’s too far along.”

I look away from her, back to the quiet chaos and the sounds of cabinets opening and closing.

“You should go up and see him…before he comes down. Go up alone, and talk with him. It would be…I think it’d be good,” she says. I think about her suggestion. My sister has always pushed for some sort of reconciliation between us. They all have. But none of them were here to hear the words spoken the first time he disowned me. He called me an embarrassment. No. He called me an abnormality.