In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(69)
I tug one arm loose and then the other, rolling to my back and kicking the blanket free from my chest and then legs. I came here in the clothes I wore to the studio yesterday—stiff jeans and a vintage baseball shirt that’s too tight to sleep in without feeling the collar choke around the neck. I realize my shoes are still on, and it makes me chuckle at my pathetic self. Murphy looks to my feet and nods.
“You sort of used my lap as a pillow, so I couldn’t get to your shoes. I didn’t think you cared what you slept in, though,” she says, raising the left side of her mouth in pity. She’s pitying me. This is only getting worse.
I force myself to a sitting position and press my palms against my eyes, feeling the swelling of bad decisions all over my face.
“Your parents must think I’m a massive tool,” I say, meeting her gaze again and hoping that thought isn’t floating through her mind.
She breathes a gentle laugh and shakes her head no, which releases some of the pressure in my chest.
“Lane thinks you have pneumonia, but other than that—no. Nobody thinks anything, Case,” she says.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes on the coffee table, and both of our eyes move to it. I can see from the brief preview on my screen that it’s lit up with dozens of messages.
“Your sisters, I presume?” she asks. I move my head slowly to signal yes, then lean forward and pick up my phone, scrolling through the list of call me’s that repeat over and over. They’re taking turns now—a coordinated effort to pull me into that house.
“I was almost to my parents’ house yesterday,” I say, thumbing through the never-ending stream of messages that cut off around eleven last night and pick up again about thirty minutes ago. “Then I just got on the freeway instead and came here.”
“And Jim Beam came into the picture?” she smirks.
I wince.
“The first time I came to your door, nobody was home, so I went up to the corner, to the convenience store, for some snacks. Then my sisters started calling, asking where I was and why wasn’t I there yet? I answered and they put me on speaker, each one taking turns—yelling. They were relentless. I walked to the other end of the store, bought a bottle and drove back here to wait for you. I wasn’t going to drink it until I got home, but then I suck on all sorts of levels, and figured I’d just take a swig to chill out,” I say, leaning my head to the side and squinting one eye. “My swigs are kinda big.”
“You slept like a baby,” she says, raising her shoulders and leaning back on her palms. Her eyes linger for a few seconds, and I realize through her words and expression that she stayed with me through the night. I don’t acknowledge it, because it’s too sweet, and I don’t want to ruin it by making it something she did out of obligation or worry. Even if it’s pretend, I want to think she chose to stay with me. I suck in my top lip and nod.
“My mom made breakfast,” she says, twisting and peering over her shoulder. While she looks into the kitchen, I look at the way her loose hair tickles against her neck.
“I should probably just go,” I swallow. “I’m sure your dad wants to bury me in a hole in your backyard.”
She twists back quickly to face me, and our eyes lock for a second. I feel my heart rush with a dose of adrenaline from her grays, and I move my attention to my feet and body as I stand.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says, standing with me and reaching for my hand. Her fingers connect with a few of mine for a brief second then let go. “Besides, we don’t have any holes ready, and dad doesn’t like to make boys dig their own graves. That would just be cruel and unusual,” she grins.
I chuckle and swallow the hard lump in my dry throat. My head is pounding, and my stomach is somewhere between starving and a storm of old whiskey. My mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on newsprint, so I give in with a slight nod and follow my muse into the kitchen.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” Lane says, moving a few steps away from me. He holds his hands up, then covers his mouth with one. “No offense. I don’t want to get sick. I really like summer school, and germs can spread.”
I grin because—who likes summer school? And he really does think I have pneumonia. I nod in agreement with him and cover my own mouth, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Jeanie places a plate of what looks like French toast in front of me, and my stomach flips to being completely hungry.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the fork from the edge of the woven placemat in front of me. I slice into a piece and stuff it in my mouth, immediately going in for more. “This is amazing,” I mumble through my bite.
Jeanie’s hand comes to my back, and she pats me in a slow circle. I glance to Murphy in question—wondering how much of my messy life her mother now knows. Murphy shrugs with a tight smile. Her mom knows enough.
“Were you able to get a sub, Murph?” her mom asks from somewhere behind me. I work through four more bites, hoping the offer for seconds will come while I listen in on their conversation.
“I did. I can drop Lane off, but…I’m not sure I’ll be home in time for his bus,” she answers her mom, their conversation happening in plain spoken words that feel like a code.
“Are you recording more?” I ask, wondering if they want to try something else with her or if they ended up needing another day to get it right. I know sometimes Gomez is a perfectionist, and he changes his mind a lot on direction.