In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(50)
“We’re going to the mall,” I say, changing the subject, my brain remembering everything in the book. There are words in there that he will turn into something—he’ll make them about him.
Maybe they are.
I scratch at my ear and plaster a smile on my face and ignore the drums in my chest.
“That’s what Lane says,” he smirks, his eyes wide and moving from me to the book, looking for confirmation. I give away nothing.
“I’m gonna kind of need my seat though. So…” I say, my body motioning for him to vacate the car—and hand over my book.
He drops the paper in his lap, and my eyes follow, noting the way his thumb flirts with opening a page. A songbook is so much like a diary. Things are written in code, but my code—it probably isn’t very hard to decipher. In fact, it’s probably blatant and obvious. Oh god!
I reach in desperately, hoping this one shot will catch him off guard, but it doesn’t, and his grip comes fast around my wrist, his laughter deep and brewing inside his chest just for me. He knows there’s something good in there.
“Get in the back. I’ll drive. Lane and me are having fun up front,” he says, getting immediate approval from my brother. I feel betrayed, and kind of pissed that he’s using Lane as a ploy to get his way, but more pissed that it’s working.
“You don’t need to spend your day shopping for pants,” I say, my voice completely not bluffing at all. I am a shitty liar!
Casey laughs louder and picks up my book, tucking it under his leg—damn it! He pulls the seatbelt over his body and points with his thumb to the back seat.
“Get in, woman,” he says through a snicker.
I let out a fast and heavy sigh in defeat, but reach in to grab the beanie from his head before backing away fast and climbing into the back seat. His hair is still damp and floppy, probably from the shower he took this morning, and I realize all I’ve done is give myself something to want to touch for the entire ride to the mall. I haven’t phased him at all. He runs his fingers through the tousled mess once and glances at me in the mirror just to let me know that he’s in control. Those words—all of them—I’m feeling them again.
After about the fifth time, I quit looking up to catch his eyes in the mirror. They’re always on me, always smiling, often laughing. I’m a caught mouse, and I don’t like feeling trapped. When we pull into the parking spot at the mall, I get out first; when Casey steps out of the car, my notebook clutched to his side, I smack him in the arm with his own beanie.
“Give me my notebook,” I plead.
He smirks and shakes his head no, mouthing the word slowly just to taunt me. I fold my arms over my chest, his hat clutched in my fist, and start walking toward the entrance. He laughs at my fit.
“So, what are we shopping for today, Lane?” I hear him ask behind me. I look over my shoulder to see his arm around my brother.
“I need jeans. Khakis are for losers,” my brother says, and my mouth grows rigid while I want to spit. I hate those boys.
“Who told you that?” Casey chuckles.
“The guys at school,” my brother answers quickly. He doesn’t have the same kind of walls the rest of us do—the ones that make people hold feelings inside and pretend they’re okay when they’re really not. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less, though.
It’s quiet behind me for a few seconds, until we get to the door and I hold it open watching my brother and that boy walk inside, still connected.
“Those guys are dumb-asses,” Casey says, his eyes meeting mine for a flash, showing me he’s just as angry about it as I am. “I wear khakis sometimes. They’re comfortable, and they look very professional.”
I fall in step behind them and smile, knowing full well that Casey wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of khakis. He’s a better liar than he thinks, though.
We both help Lane pick out about a dozen different types of jeans to try out in the first store we come to. Casey helps my brother carry them into a fitting room, then tells him we’ll be waiting nearby if he wants to show us any of them. I pull my legs up, glad to be wearing jeans myself, so I can sit on the giant ottoman in the corner of the store; a second later, Casey joins me. My eyes glare at my book, but he tucks it under his thigh on the opposite side, leaving his hand on it for protection.
“Is Lane being bullied?” he asks, looking over at the dressing room where we can see my brother’s socked feet shuffling and struggling to work on jeans under the door.
“I think it was just this once. People usually leave him alone, and he has a lot of friends at his school. It’s just hard for him to fit in, because he’s older, but then he’s also…not,” I say, meeting Casey’s gaze between breaths. I turn back to Lane’s feet. “They were just being stupid boys,” I sigh.
“That doesn’t make it okay,” Casey responds, and I laugh lightly, my nostrils flexing at how amusing his statement is.
“No…” I say, shaking my head. “No, it doesn’t.”
It’s quiet for a few minutes as we both keep our eyes forward, my mind trying to match up the immature asshat I avoided in high school with this older, oddly-sensitive guy sitting next to me, and eventually, I notice that he’s brought my notebook into his lap. My chest squeezes, and I close my eyes, considering having what I know would be a childish tug of war over it. Instead, I stand and move to the dressing room door.