In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(52)

“Thanks,” I say, blinking rapidly in disbelief. I’d actually forgotten about the scratch on my door, and I figured he was thrilled I hadn’t brought it up. My eyes look at it now, behind him, and it seems so small.

“Sure,” he smiles. “Speaking of…I have to head over to Houston’s. I want to get his dent fixed, too.”

“Don’t leave,” I interrupt.

My eyes go wide, and I scramble because, what? Don’t leave? That was out loud!

“Yet,” I add to his confused face. “Don’t leave until you see Lane in his new jeans.”

“I saw them at the mall,” he says, brow bunched.

“I…I know, but he’ll want to show you again. In front of my parents. He’ll be proud, and you represent the cool-guy opinion. So just come in…just for a minute.” I somehow piece together a really flimsy excuse. My palms are sweating through the envelope.

Casey is staring at me, his head leaning slightly to one side and his lip curled just enough. I overlap this visual with the memory of his hand on my body and I quiver, having to take a step or two back just to mask it.

“All right,” he says, the word a little tentative, but his smile more anxious now.

“All right,” I repeat, walking backward and begging him to follow in my head.

I lead him through the door, and we stop at the hallway where my brother stands with one hand on either wall, kicking his legs out one at a time to show our mom how long his new pants are.

“They look very nice,” she says, complimenting him.

My father is making a sandwich at the counter, but stops to look over the rim of his glasses, nodding to agree.

“Yep, they’re pants,” my dad affirms. My mom shoots him a look and he raises his shoulders at her, mouthing “What?” She juts her chin forward and wrinkles her nose, gritting her teeth, and my dad rolls his eyes. “They’re great pants. Amazing pants. The best pants I’ve ever seen,” he says, turning to my mom again and mouthing “happy?”

She smiles and mouths, “Yes!”

“I like them almost as much as the khakis,” Casey says. My father stops making his sandwich, my mother freezes, and I hold my breath. We all look to Lane, who is still looking down at his own legs.

“Me, too. They’re not as comfortable. The khakis are better. But it’s nice to have something different,” he says, turning to move back to his room. “Thanks, Casey!” he shouts over his shoulder before shutting his door.

“Anytime, buddy,” Casey calls out after him.

I’m facing my dad, watching him look on at Casey with curious eyes. His hands finish building his lunch, but his gaze remains on the boy he doesn’t know much about. Casey slides closer to the counter, and my mother joins us.

“Why’d you have to bring up the khakis. Didn’t you tell him, Murph? The khakis were the problem,” she explains, a gentle worry line on her forehead.

“No,” Casey says. “The khakis weren’t the problem.”

My mom opens her mouth to respond, but shuts it quickly, taking in his words before walking away.

“You’re right,” she says as she moves down the hall to my parents’ room.

My father’s eyes have never left him; they’re still scrutinizing the details. He’s dusting crumbs from his hands over the sink, all the while looking, until I see his mouth begin to curve up in approval. My father’s head leans forward so he can peer over his glasses, and Casey meets his gaze. No words are exchanged, but my father nods once, then walks past us, patting Casey on the shoulder with a heavy hand twice.

We both hear the television click on.

“Your dad…he’s…” Casey says, looking out into the room, to the back of my father’s head. “Kind of intimidating. Like…like a professor who knows you don’t have the answer.”

I chew at my cheek, but eventually smile and look Casey in the eyes. I wait for several seconds, then I step closer and pat him in the same spot on his shoulder before turning to walk toward my room.

“That shit isn’t funny, Murphy. Not funny at all,” he chuckles.

“It’s kinda funny,” I say, my chest thumping, because he’s following me. He stayed. He saw Lane. He’s still here.

I’m stunned.





Casey


I think the only person left in this house who I’m not afraid of is Lane. But I don’t think it would take much for him to put me on edge, too. It’s because I want him to like me. I want them all to like me. The way I want Houston’s family to like me, only I’ve been family to Houston for so long that it’s easy to be around them now. Murphy’s family—they’re all new.

And I like them—the way they laugh and tease, the way they talk. I love how they look at each other, and how nobody yells or lectures. Her house always smells like cookies.

Nobody here is dying with an iron heart like they are in my family’s home.

I want Murphy to like me most.

I like Murphy.

It is most definitely, without doubt, not about just the music any more. It’s about making her happy. It’s about making her shine. And not because I want to ride her coattails, but I just want it for her.

Her room is still so young. It makes me smile as I follow her inside. I stop at the door and hold it, waiting for her to turn around.