In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(4)

I keep talking, because I’ve learned if I don’t give him a chance to say no right away, then my odds are drastically higher for him saying yes to whatever I need. I’ve been using this technique on Houston since we were kids. It worked on ice cream pops at the Little League field when they were down to only one flavor of each; it worked on girls in junior high when we both liked the same one, and it works with rides when my shitty-ass car breaks down. I talk until he’s overwhelmed, and eventually he just agrees to get me to stop.

I hear the sigh. It’s coming.

“I’m working now, so you’re going to need to sit tight for about twenty minutes until I can take a break. And you’re going to need to hang out with me at the store until I’m off so you can take me home. And I want the car back tomorrow morning,” he says with that parental tone.

I’m older than he is—by a month, but older still. He’s really a parent, though, so I guess that gives him the right to be the more responsible adult between the two of us. Houston had a kid in high school, and now he’s a single dad. I’m not sure how he does it. On top of everything, he’s still a solid friend. My best, really. He’s probably the most family-like person I have in my life.

“Deal. I’ll be kickin’ it on the curb,” I say, tossing my change on the counter for my drink and tucking my phone in my back pocket.

I wait while the cashier digs through the drawer to give me back my seven cents. She makes a face when she drops the coins into my palm like I’m a douchebag for actually waiting for my change. Whatever, I’m not in the business of rounding up my mini-mart purchases to the nearest dollar just so whatever corporation owns this joint can have a fatter bottom line. I want my seven cents.

When I get to my car, I reach in through the broken window and drop my change in the center console. I squat down until I’m sitting on the curb, my feet facing the road so I can see Houston pull up. My phone dings as soon I get comfortable, so I lean to the side and pull it out again, hoping it’s not a text from Houston about how he can’t leave, or how I can’t use his car. I hate that I have to depend on him so much. It isn’t fair to him; I know it isn’t. But I call him every time I’m in trouble anyway.

Best friend code.

I slide my phone on and open my messages to find one from my roommate, Eli. I’d ask him to pick me up, but he rides a bike everywhere he goes—a bike with a banana seat. Hipster with a Schwinn.

ELI: Dude, check this link out.

He follows up his text with another, and it’s only a link. It’s a short link; I bet it’s spam.

ME: Do you get money if I click this? Or like…points in some app where you’re building a world?

ELI: Am I really that lame to you?

I pause for a breath and mentally run through the things I know about Eli.

ME: You might be. Yes.

ELI: Click it, f*ckhole.

After shaking my head, I give in, because I have time to kill, and maybe this will be a good source of entertainment. A video pops up, but it’s dark and grainy. It looks like someone filmed this from a bar or something. I can see tables with drinks on them, and the viewpoint keeps moving around. The motion is making me a little sick, but eventually, I can make out just enough of a form to tell there’s someone sitting on a stool on a backlit stage.

“This one’s called ‘In Your Dreams, Casey Coffield,’” a chick’s voice says suddenly over the uneven background noise.

What the f*cking hell?

I hit the pause button out of panic and pull my feet in closer to my body while my fingers push into the volume tab on the side, turning it up as high as it goes. I look around, and nobody’s near me, so I slide the video back to the beginning and hit PLAY again.

The same background sounds of laughter, talking, and clanking glass; then, there she is again. “This one’s called ‘In Your Dreams, Casey Coffield,’” she says again. I don’t know why I thought it would be different. Though, I do have vivid fantasies. But still…

A few people applaud, and the lights go even dimmer. I can’t see her face, only a vague form. I think she’s in a dress, but I’m not even sure of that much. She could be just about anyone, but I swear I don’t know this girl.

The strumming of the guitar starts soft, and then her voice comes in.

“Shadow of a girl, lurking in other people’s shadows…let her go by, let her dance all alone…”

I hit pause, and play that first part back a few times, trying to get a hint of familiarity in her tone—some clue with the lyrics, anything. The info under the link just says: WEDNESDAY SINGER SONGWRITER NIGHT AT PAUL’S. Where the f*ck is Paul’s? I need to be on a computer, because now I’m opening more windows—Google searching for “Paul’s” and sifting through a list of seventy-some-odd options of places in Oklahoma, one a feed store, so I eliminate that right away. Shit…this might not even be in Oklahoma.

I go back to the video and play from where I stopped.

“Wonder what she sounds like, wonder if anyone’s ever seen her...would they watch her in a spotlight, or bother casting stone.”

Goddamn she can sing. It’s like that quirky kind of style—her voice a little soft and jazzy, but with these raspy breaks that sound like crying, even though she’s not. She isn’t crying, but damn does this song feel sad. And it shares my name.