In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(43)
“Murph? We have a request in for Ghostbusters,” my dad says, scratching at his graying beard and looking at me over the top of wire-rimmed glasses. One day, my father is going to look just like Santa. He’s giving me a signal, because we just watched that movie last Friday…and the Friday before that. It’s quickly become Lane’s favorite, and because of that, we will probably be watching it a lot. My brother takes disappointment all right, but it makes all of us so happy to make him happy; we usually cave to the easy things, because why not?
“What’s one more,” I say, raising my shoulders in sync with my eyebrows.
“What’s one more, she says,” my dad smiles, raising his finger in the air and leaning in to kiss my cheek. “You’re a good sport.”
My smile grows a minute later when I hear my dad tell my brother that his movie choice wins and that we’re watching his favorite again. What we watch doesn’t really matter to me, because if this week is any indication, I’m going to be spending the next two hours dissecting every frame of my almost kiss along with the five days of complete silence from Casey that followed.
I suppose I didn’t call him either, but I kinda feel like that ball’s in his court now. The last thing he said when he dropped me off after the most-uncomfortable-family-dinner ever was that he’d call me as soon as he got time with John Maxwell. My inner voice was screaming “or when I’m ready to talk about whatever the hell that…almost was.” My outer voice simply said, “okay.”
He didn’t even wait for me to walk all the way up to my car. My foot hit the pavement, and his right one hit the gas.
“Murphy, I get the recliner!” Lane yells.
“I call beanbag!” I scream from the inside of the fridge where my head is stuffed looking for a caffeine-free soda. My dad buys them for me, because nobody else really likes them, but somehow everyone else drinks them and I can never find one when I want it.
“Dad’s already in the beanbag!” Lane yells.
Damn, you mean I can’t even win the beanbag battle? “Some Friday night,” I chuckle to myself. I spot a gold can in the far corner and clutch it in my hand. The doorbell buzzes loudly around the corner, and as I back out, I smack the top of my head on the freezer door.
“Shit!” I hum.
“Murphy! Language,” my mother scolds, breezing by me toward the front room.
She swears worse than I do, but she says a parent always wants better for their kids, and when it comes to me, she’s focusing on the potty mouth.
I rub my head with one hand and pull the tab on my golden soda with the other. I’m bringing the can to my lips when my mom rounds the corner, her eyebrows waggling and her lips full smirk. I know instantly, thanks to that face, and am grateful for at least this small half-second warning to run my fingers through my hair one time before Casey follows her into the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says, all cool and suave. It’s a cool-guy word…hey. He’s wearing an old baseball T-shirt, black jeans, and one of those snap-front hats my father wears out on the golf course. If I saw that outfit in a clothing bin and a thrift shop, I wouldn’t even glance twice. On Casey, I’m making mental snapshots.
“Hey,” I say back, leaning my hand on the counter next to me, but missing by about half an inch. I stumble to the side and lose my balance, smacking my right temple on the Formica on my way down. I’m determined to give myself a concussion.
“Oh dang! Are you all right?” he says, rounding the kitchen island quickly and coming to my rescue. He grabs a hold of my arm and rights me. I wish I was seeing stars, anything to make what just happened seem anything other than god-awful embarrassing.
“I’m good, yeah. Thanks,” I say, tugging my over-sized I’m a Camper T-shirt straight again. Cool guy…meet loser girl.
“You’re downright clumsy,” he teases.
I smile and turn my cheeks into cherries as I shrug.
“Strange, she’s never been clumsy before,” my mom adds behind him. He doesn’t see the eyebrow waggle, but I do. And I die. Well, no…I don’t die—I squeeze my eyes closed tightly and wish that when I open them everybody is gone.
“Still here,” Casey whispers, apparently knowing this move.
I crack an eyelid open and am relieved that at least my mother has moved on. There’s no way my cheeks aren’t red, but I know there’s also no way to cover it up, so I purse my lips in a guilty half smile and breathe in slow and deep to try to stave off an anxiety attack.
A full breath clears my head, and I start to realize that Casey’s here—which means he’s either ready to deal with the WTF moment we shared, or he has news. I’m almost equally anxious for either reason.
“Did my brother invite you to film night at the Sullivans?” I ask, quirking a brow. It’s easier to be clever than honest after you bop your head on a counter in front of the cute guy who almost kissed you and whom you used to kinda loathe.
Casey’s forehead crinkles as his mouth curves into one of his dimple smiles, glancing over my shoulder to the living room where Lane is still king of the recliner.
“No, I’m sorta bummed that I didn’t get the invite,” he chuckles, scratching at his chin with one hand. It makes the best sound—like rough sandpaper.
“Well, maybe next time,” I shake my head.