In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(65)

She cuts me off.

“You’re good enough,” she says. I slump down on my bed, letting gravity pull me completely down, my eyes blinking slowly as I watch my ceiling fan whirl in slow-moving circles above me as I wonder if that’s true.

“What does Casey think?” she asks.

I don’t like the tone in her question. There’s a hint of assumption that Casey is more than he is.

“He wasn’t really involved,” I say, pushing my feet free of the cowboy boots I wore for the seven straight hours of recording I did with Gomez—not Casey.

“I thought this was sort of his bag? Like…you were his discovery or whatever,” she says.

“I guess he’s not high up enough yet or something,” I say.

“Oh,” is her only response.

I listen to my friend recant her day at the office. She was hungover, which I knew she would be. Apparently, Cam was as well, and he opted to stay home with his girlfriend instead of coming into the office. Sam met his girlfriend at the end of the night when their party limo dropped him off first and a woman my friend describes as hot enough to cheer for the NFL stood in front of a set of steps leading up to a condo with her arms crossed, pissed that she’d been left at home waiting for him. I let her vent, and I fill in the gaps with the best agreeable comments I can muster with little effort.

I’m not really here for her tonight. I’m being a bad friend. But I’m too upset over my day to buck up and put things aside. Besides, she brought a party limo to my gig last night and heckled me with whistles; so, we’re kind of even. She’s lucky she’s getting my staged responses.

Eventually, Sam makes it to her destination and says goodbye. Without her distraction, my stomach sinks, recalling my day. They made me change my song. Not...entirely. And really, I understand their thought process behind it, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence necessarily either. My skin’s way too thin for criticism from these seasoned pros.

There was no easing in. The comments came about fifteen seconds in to my first cut. Music was paused, Gomez was in my ears, and feedback flew at me fast.

“Try playing one more bar before you come in.”

“You’re too breathy in that first line. Save it.”

And the one that stings most.

“Who the f*ck is Casey Coffield? Let’s make it Johnnie Walker. Everyone knows Johnnie Walker. It will make it relatable; a better song.”

He’s right. And really—Casey was never the reason for the song. But he was the feeling. The sentiment—the symbol or trigger for the fire. And the fact that he brought me this far, and the magic that led him to me again in the first place is the first thing others want to change…I don’t like it. It makes me sick, when I should be happy.

He’s going to find out eventually. But I want to tell him first.

He was gone from the building by the time I exited the studio. They ordered in lunch, and the sun made it from one horizon to the other during the time I was inside.

I thought that he might text to check in, at least a simple how’d it go? But my phone’s been silent, minus Sam’s call minutes ago. I check again, and am just as disappointed to find it blank.

My parents are both at the high school for Lane, waiting to drive him home after a summer league basketball game. My brother manages the team, bringing towels to the players, making sure water cups are ready and chairs are lined up in front of the bleachers for every home game. The school thought it would be a nice way for him to make more friends, to be involved beyond his special education classes. It’s turned into something he loves. He does it for any team and season he can, and my parents usually go to watch him work, because seeing that is something they love.

I glance at my clock and consider going too, but leap to a sitting position the moment my phone buzzes with a note from him.

I heard you put down great stuff today.

I smile. Fucking heart so fast to betray me.

It was alright.

My fingers move to the edge of the case of my guitar that lies next to me, and I pick at the worn spots where the vinyl is peeling. It should have been amazing. It should have been ours. He writes back quickly.

You’re being modest. I bet you were f*cking phenomenal.

I laugh out loud all alone as he complements me with my own words, and suddenly I miss him. I hold a hand over my mouth and shield my grin. This is the first time I’ve smiled all day. I spent the afternoon trying to please people that I kinda think I maybe don’t like very much. None of this is how I thought it would be. But then one small word from Casey makes me think I’m better than them all, and they’re the lucky ones. I type before thinking.

I was. We should celebrate.

I send quickly and watch my phone screen with wide eyes as seconds turn to minutes with no response. Minutes turn to five minutes, and then ten, and soon I become the fool again.

Instead of moping, I decide to join my family at the high school gym, making it there in the middle of the third quarter. I eat a stale hotdog and share some questionable nachos with my father while my mother sneaks out her small plastic bag of salted snow peas for a snack. She’s a health nut, and after having to endure years of this woman feeding me at home and packing my school lunch for high school, I vow never to eat a snow pea again.

I overplay my enthusiasm when my parents ask how my day went. “It was amazing! I felt like a star!” I say. My mom hugs me to her side, gushing with pride, but my father looks on over his glasses, noting every single tick I make while lying. Our eyes meet just long enough for me to show him how un-amazing my day really was. He keeps the secret and plays the part for my mom, and as we walk out to the parking lot to wait for Lane to finish stacking chairs and putting away the scoring table, my father whispers that he’s sorry and pats my back.