In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(66)

“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, my mom far enough ahead that she can’t hear. My dad and I like to keep her in her bubble—the one where nothing sad happens and where her kids are happy. She has enough to worry about with Lane.

“Just…not what I was really expecting,” I explain.

“Well, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” my father reminds, and I smile with closed lips to keep my mouth shut. I know what I signed. And my father won’t like that I didn’t show it to him first. I’m locked into doing a few things, whether I want to do them or not.

I wait with my parents until Lane joins us in the parking lot, his Knights jersey on over his yellow T-shirt that hangs longer over his sweatpants on the bottom. The team made him a special jersey with his name on the back, and Lane makes sure to dress out for every game.

“Murphy, you made it!” he beams.

I pull him in for a hug, and we rock while embracing as if my brother hasn’t seen me in weeks. It’s impossible not to feel healed after moments like this with him. I grin at my parents as my chin rests on my brother’s shoulder, and I worry less about the fact that I gave away some of my creative freedom in trade for fame.

“You’re a rock star now,” Lane says, backing away and looking at me with pride. And for his sake and my mother’s, I keep the smile from before in place and simply agree.

“I won’t have the song for a while. But I promise, Lane—you’ll be the first one I let hear it,” I say, cringing inside because Lane will notice every little change from the original, and he’ll be disappointed. My brother hums the melody, though a little off, and my mom joins him as they link arms and amble around their car and climb inside.

“We can go home first and drop your car off if you want to join us for sundaes,” my dad offers. It’s become a tradition after the Knights win a game, and unfortunate for my ass, my brother’s school team is on a bit of a streak.

“I think I’m just going to head home and call it a night. I have school tomorrow, and…it’s kinda been a day,” I say, raising the corner of my lip along with my shoulder.

He squeezes my arm and leans in to kiss my cheek. “All right then,” he says, those few words more than just an acknowledgement.

My father winks and offers to bring two scoops with hot fudge home, an offer impossible to refuse. I wait for them to pull away before checking my phone. And when it’s blank, I think of how wonderful it would be if ice cream really did, in fact, solve all of life’s problems.

I don’t even bother to turn the radio on as I drive the few blocks back to our house—and when I think about it, I realize I haven’t listened to music the entire day. The silence is somehow more comforting. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll hear something that sounds like the music we were making today. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to feel like I’m not good enough, but really…really I just don’t want to know how I could be so much better—if I hadn’t compromised.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the rusted Volkswagen parked at the edge of the driveway until I pull around it, into the driveway. When I look in and see the front seat is empty, I snap my attention to the front door—to the small stoop outside, and the rough-looking man sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and what I quickly identify as a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam next to him, his thumb poked in the hole at the top.

“Casey?” I ask, stepping up to him cautiously. “You…you go and get your thumb stuck?”

I tease a little, but only because I’m not sure what to expect from him. He looks up at me from under the brim of a dark blue hat, and his eyes are confused. I move downward until I’m close enough to touch him, then I kneel and nod at the bottle he’s circling haphazardly on the concrete beneath him.

He reeks. But he doesn’t seem incoherent. I’m hopeful that he didn’t drive here this way. And I wonder if he was lit when he sent me his texts. His eyes fall to the bottle and he chuckles lightly.

“Want some?” he asks, gripping the dark brown glass with a full hand, but leaving his thumb stuck inside as he quirks an eyebrow at me.

“I try not to drink on my parents’ porch on a Monday night, but…thanks,” I smile wryly.

He smiles back, but it fades quickly. He brings the bottle into both hands and cradles it between his knees, leaning his chin forward and straining toward it for a sip. Not wanting him to make whatever this is any worse, I take it from his hand and slide down so I’m sitting in front of him with my legs folded.

“On second thought, I’d love some,” I say, taking a small taste—enough to singe the tip of my tongue and stain my lips with the flavor. I cough, because I’m a lightweight, and even this small amount is enough to choke me. It makes Casey grin, though, so I guess it was worth it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write back,” he says, and my heartbeat picks up, because he’s talking about us.

“It’s okay,” I say, moving the bottle to my side, far enough that it’s out of his reach. I look down at the label and smirk. “At least this isn’t Johnnie Walker.”

He laughs, but he doesn’t understand what’s funny about what I said. He’s just drunk.

“Was this…full when you started?” I ask, tipping it to my side and noting the liquid splashing behind the middle of the label.