In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(58)
I’m next, so I haven’t been back to their table for the last ten minutes. I shouldn’t have ever visited them at all, but I wanted to see Sam, and I knew she wanted me to meet Cam—who is still a horrible idea. At least he’s nice. They were all nice, in that very drunk kind of way. They were really excited about hearing me sing, and they promised shouts and cheering, which I begged against. They didn’t hear my begging, so I’ve been spending the last ten minutes contemplating faking the flu so I can get out of going on and being stared at and cheered for by the drunk table of five.
“Everyone take two to get another drink and then get settled for our girl Murphy Sullivan. She’s sort of a crowd favorite here at Paul’s, so if this is your first time, you’re in for a treat,” says Eddie, the Paul’s announcer. He’s the manager, and I think he might be in his seventies. He wears a three-piece suit every Saturday, because he says anything less would be an insult to “these fine paying patrons.”
I love Eddie. He’s a little gruff at first. He doesn’t like to mince words, and he’s always right to the point. But he’s also fiercely loyal, and because he likes me, I know I’ll always have one man in my corner.
“You’re the big finale tonight, sugar,” he says, stepping off the stage and resting a palm on my shoulder with a small squeeze. I smile and nod, but internally I feel every trigger that happens when I faint. If only I could actually pass out. That might get me out of this.
Eddie passes and I stand, swapping places with my guitar case, pulling the strap around my body and adjusting while I hold the pick between my teeth. And because I haven’t been tested enough in life, my nightmare gets exponentially worse the second I turn around.
“Don’t swallow that,” Casey says.
He’s wearing the same thing he was in when he walked out of my house this afternoon. Even the damn beanie that I tried to steal away is in its place, on his head. His smile is stupid and lopsided, and I want to spit the pick out of my mouth at his face, but I know I can’t spit hard enough. With my luck, it would probably just get stuck on my lower lip.
“You didn’t have to come watch me tonight,” I say, turning my attention to the stage. It’s so empty and inviting—nothing but a stool and a mic under dim lighting. This is why I like it here.
“You didn’t write back, and I need to talk to you,” he says, before both of us are distracted by the countdown happening a few tables away. And my fan base has just upped their blood alcohol content again.
“Hey, I know her, right?” My eyes dart to his, and the stupid smirk on his mouth.
“Oh sure, her you remember,” I say with a roll of the eyes.
Sam was like a bridge in high school—she was a cheerleader because she loved gymnastics, but she also loved theater, so we hung out a lot. She and I always clicked, and when we found out we were going to the same college, we signed up to room together. We’ve never talked about Casey, because there was never anything to talk about. Even now, she just knows him as that guy from high school who it turns out works for a record label now and might hook me up. I don’t tell her about the butterflies. I don’t tell her, because they aren’t supposed to be there, and clearly Casey would prefer them to go away, too.
I can feel him looking at me as I straighten my flowing blouse and tank top over my jeans, pulling the wrinkles free from my guitar strap. I pledge to keep my eyes focused on the stool, on my next mission—the next fifteen minutes that will be over soon. But then the son of a bitch talks and gets in my head again.
“I just meant from that picture. That’s the girl in the picture with you, from Helen Keller,” he says.
I give in and look at him, and his eyes are squinted and his mouth slightly askew. That’s his pondering face—he’s pondering if I’m jealous.
Well, I am. Good for you, Casey Coffield—I’m a mess of a jealous girl with a crippling disorder that I literally have to punch in the face every time I want to touch my dream. Thanks for the distraction, though.
“I’m on,” I say, shaking my head and stepping up the side stairs opposite Eddie.
My senior citizen friend points a finger at me with raised brows, asking if I’m ready. No, I’m not—but I give him a thumbs-up anyhow, because nothing is going to get magically better in the next few seconds.
Eddie announces me as the last open-mic performer for the night, and I walk to my tiny island of a stool while my drunken best friend and her fraternity chant my name and pound their fists on the table. The scene is comical. It must be, because other people are laughing.
I search the front row tables for familiar faces, but there aren’t any. Only laughing faces. And my ears quiet with the hum of stress that’s now taking over my nerve endings.
“H…H…Hi,” I say, feeling the pull.
I stall by pretending I need to adjust the mic, siting on the stool with my legs crossed and pulling the slender stand close to my body. I twist the coupling in the middle and lower it too far on purpose so I have to adjust it back to where it was. It’s a ruse, and I’m pretty sure everyone knows it.
My hearing clears, but only long enough to hear one of Sam’s friends whistle and call out my name. I chuckle, but it’s pretend.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft in the mic.
Why did I pick a new song to do? I should stick with my tried-and-true set. My guitar is tuned for something entirely different though. I spend long seconds staring at the strings, debating changing, and searching for something clever to say—a story to tell—to amuse the small crowd here while I fix my guitar for a different song.