In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(51)

“I’m going to see if he needs help,” I say, not looking back.

I get to Lane’s door, which is across the store, and lean against the mirrored front, gently knocking.

“How’s it going in there?” I ask.

“I don’t like these. They’re not soft like my other pants,” he says. I can hear the frustration—trying to fit in is like that. We don’t all go in the same box.

“Do you want me to see if I can find some softer ones? They have those skate pants that bunch at the bottom,” I say.

“No, those are stupid, too,” he protests.

“I like them,” I say, my finger tracing a tic-tac-toe sticker pressed on the mirror.

“Okay, I guess,” Lane says, as I hear a pair of pants get tossed on the ground.

I grin and catch my own reflection, not liking how sad my eyes are. I look on for a few seconds, and soon, my attention moves to Casey’s reflection, to the fact that my book is open on his lap, and he’s reading with both hands on either side of the page. His head is slung forward.

He’s reading.

He’s not laughing.

I close my eyes and turn, opening up intent not to look at him again. I gather four or five other styles of pants and bring them to my brother, then take a seat on the wooden bench across from him. Every few minutes, I look over to see if he’s still reading. Every time—he is.

After nearly twenty minutes, Lane finally comes out of the room in one of the last pairs I give him to try. He looks unsure, but as he spins slowly, I ooooh and ahhhh.

“Do they look okay?” he asks, pushing his hands in the pockets and pulling out the inside lining. “There’s a lot of room in here for my wallet and my phone. I think I like these.”

Lane looks up at me and smiles, his empty pockets inside out and his white socks glowing against the dark blue denim on his legs.

“They’re no khakis, but they’re pretty swag,” Casey says behind me. I suck in air and keep my eyes on my brother.

“I think I’d like these, then, Murph,” he says.

I nod and tell him to pass them to me under the door so I can pay.

As I wait at the register, Casey taps me on my arm with the weight of my notebook. My eyes flick up to his face, but he’s looking at the notebook instead of me.

“I like this one,” he says, his face sort of serious.

I take it in my hand, relieved to have it back while also nervous at which one he’s opened it to. I swallow and say, “Okay.”

I pay and hand Lane his bag, then fall behind him and Casey as we walk through the mall back out to my car. I’m expecting to find the page opened to the sexy lyrics I was scribbling this morning—about wanting to be touched and feeling excited…about boys with stubble on their face and music at their fingertips. But that’s not the page he has opened. It’s on one of the first things I wrote.

I don’t even ask, getting into the backseat and leaving Casey with no choice but to drive us home. I haven’t looked at this song in years. I wrote it as an exercise when people were pushing me to sing. I was fifteen, and angry and depressed. He doesn’t even know what these words mean; they mean so much.

Boxes, locks, unspoken wishes

Traps, choking, candle burning dissonance

Inside, tangled, open mouthed pettiness

Coughing, breathing, whistles at a girl…he’s a boy

Shouting, screaming, no mistaking

Pounding, breaking, overtaking

Staring, holding, touching, molding

Candy-coated kisses on the strings of my guitar

This is my song

You’ll never hear it





I mouth the words until I look up and notice him watching. His eyes aren’t the same as they were during the drive here. I’m relieved that he isn’t teasing me anymore, but I also can’t tell what his eyes are saying. I think they pity me. I wonder if he knows they should.

We get to the driveway, and Casey lingers at the door of my car, his eyes down and my keys in his hand, stuffed in his pocket. Lane rushes toward the house to put on his new jeans to show our mom, and when the door slams shut behind him, we’re left in my parents’ driveway all alone. This is that scene from high school that never happened—me and that boy kicking our feet awkwardly, not sure what to say, outside my house.

“Thanks for driving,” I say, rolling my eyes, because that’s such a stupid thing to say.

Casey breathes a short laugh and nods.

“No problem. Hey, let me know…how the pants go over at school? Or…just…if he has any more problems?” Casey looks up, one eye squinting.

I shrug.

“You can’t fix his problems for him, Casey. But it’s sweet that you want to try,” I say.

He smiles, but it’s short-lived, his mouth stretching to a straight line, his gaze falling to his feet. He pulls my keys out to hand them to me, then reaches into his back pocket, pulling out an envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask, shaking my head and taking both the keys and envelope as he hands them to me.

“Last night was a good payday, and I promised I’d get your car fixed, so…” he stops short of finishing.

I turn the envelope in my fingers and peel open the flap to see several twenties.

“I had the bank give me cash because I didn’t want you to have to deal with a check or whatever, and I wasn’t sure where you wanted to take it or how much…”