In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(42)

I nod and bow my head, my eyes drifting to Murphy’s as she looks up at me with pity. I don’t want her to feel sorry. I’m not. And I’m not angry, either. I don’t feel anything anymore. I’m letting go of it—right here, right now. Because there was never any convincing that could be done. This wasn’t an argument to win. It was a diverging of paths—the place in the family tree where a branch simply falls to the ground.

I’m the black sheep. When I walk into the McConnell museum, I see stories in the strokes and colors hung on the walls. And when I plug into my music and manipulate voices and words and rhythm to make it tell a story, I feel alive.

Two months.

Sixty-seven years.

What’s the difference?

“We have to go,” I say, my response surprising everyone but my father. Murphy stands quickly next to me, her hand curling around my arm. I lead her around the table, and we stop in front of my mother. I bend down so she doesn’t have to stand, my hand cupping her face as I kiss her opposite cheek. “Thank you for having us. I’m okay, and I love you,” I say in her ear. She nods, a short jerky motion.

I embrace each of my sisters as well, but I don’t give them the explanation. That’s for a later time, and I can tell there’s an understanding among us by the way they don’t berate me. My sisters have never been quick to take my side, and they may not now. But they are okay with my quiet and respectful exit.

For once, I’m being a little less Casey.

I stop finally at my father, his hands now in his pockets. I take him in, knowing that this will probably be my last memory. I reach out my hand and hold my breath, not sure if he’ll reciprocate or not. After a few seconds, he brings his right hand to mine, and I grasp it, covering the other side and embracing him with two hands. We stopped hugging years ago, he and I.

There are a dozen things I could say now, all thoughts that I’ve whispered in the car during rides home from their house, things I’ve muttered to myself after phone calls from him or after long talks at this very table about my future. None of it means anything, though. And none of it will magically snap him back to the man he was at eighteen. Enlightenment to the things that really matter when facing death is all relative, and to Luke Coffield, those things are the same as they always were. No grand speech from his son wearing a borrowed suit is going to change that.

So I say nothing.

I look into his eyes and do my best to make him let go too. I won’t bend. He won’t bend. And it’s fine. This parting is of no fault of our own. It’s cancer’s fault. It’s my long-dead grandfather’s fault. It’s brain chemistry and abuse swept under a rug.

I suck in a full breath, and my father does the same.

Okay.

“Ready?” I ask, releasing my hold of his hand and turning to Murphy, whose eyes are glossy and red. She nods lightly, and I hold out my hand for her to take.

I pass through the kitchen and front room to the main door, knowing nobody will follow. I close the heavy door behind us and walk with Murphy to my car parked in front of the neighbor’s house, and then I unlock her door and pull it open. She steps in front of me to get inside, her eyes meeting mine by chance, the gray like lightning, like a sign that for once, I did something right, and my heart surges.

My hands act fast, catching her face in my palms as her body turns and I step in so I’m flush against her. My hands slide quickly into her hair, her lip quivers as I stare at it, and my gaze flits to her eyes and back to her waiting mouth. The soft pink like fruit. I hunger to taste it, and my tongue passes over my lips as my eyes roam over her delicate features, so fragile in my hands. My eyelids grow heavy, and my chest seizes—breathing becoming harder by the millisecond, and finally I close my eyes and rest my forehead on hers, our lips almost touching, but not quite.

Not like this.

I feel the gentle tickle of her lashes against my cheek as I roll my head to the side and search for my will not to ruin this, too.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I…”

I release her and back away a full step, no longer able to look at her, but unable not to hear the rapid breath escaping her lips.

“I’ll take you to your car,” I say, turning away and forcing one foot in front of the other.

She falls into her seat and closes her own door, and we drive home in silence. When she leaves, I finish the whiskey and beg Eli to pick up more. Like a good friend, he does.





Chapter 9





Murphy


I’m not a prude. I’ve been kissed before. I’ve had sex. I’ve had boyfriends. What I’ve never been is almost kissed. I think maybe I like the almost kiss even better. Or maybe I hate the almost kiss. It’s ruined my week, because I can’t stop thinking about it. I even pulled out my notebook at one point and started to write a song about it. I haven’t written anything new in months, and suddenly I’m inspired.

I’d call the song I hate you, Casey Coffield.

But I don’t hate him.

I don’t hate him at all.

It’s Friday night, and my parents just called out for the pizza. This marks the sixteenth straight Friday night I’ve spent at home with my parents and Lane. I enjoy spending time with my family. But I’m also twenty-two, and this is supposed to be the time of my life. Instead, I’ve seen every classic hit from the eighties that my father can find on Netflix.