In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(7)
Her message just ends.
Like a boot to my chest.
I wait to feel it.
For the next thirty minutes, I sit in the back room while my friend finishes his shift, my phone balanced between my thumbs and forefingers in the same spot it was when I played the message. I don’t play it again. I don’t need to. It was short. There isn’t much left to be said—no questions unanswered. Nothing more I need to know.
My father is dying.
It doesn’t change a thing.
It probably should, but it just…doesn’t.
Chapter 2
Murphy
I guess it was just a matter of time before someone I recognized turned up at one of my shows.
Shows—I say that like I put on shows. I sign up—for space at open-mic nights—on legal notepads with beer rings on them. I get to show off my talent. It’s good enough though. At least for now, until I grow my confidence and I figure out how to perform somewhere where people can see me while I sing.
That’s the other reason I picked Paul’s. It’s busy here, and the people are more interested in having date nights and enjoying a few drinks after the busy week. It’s kind of cosmopolitan for the type of music I play, but they keep letting me write my name on the sheet of paper every week, so they must not completely hate what I do on the stage. As long as it’s dim in here, and I can afford to keep this up, I’ll keep taking that open slot the second they put the paper down on the bar after the weekend show.
There’s that word again—show.
I wonder if Houston still hangs out with Casey? I’m sure that’s why he’s here. I was pretty freaked out when my brother posted that video on YouTube last week. I’m not ready for that much…public, I guess? I want to get better first. One more year.
That’s what I said last year.
Lane’s been dying to come see me perform though, and I made sure he had a decent seat last week. Sam sat with him, and he was excited to impress her with the new tricks he learned with his video app on his phone. And of course, she indulged him, probably encouraged him a little, too. My best friend thinks I’m ready. She has for years.
Maybe I am.
Perhaps Houston showing up tonight is a good way to test things—to see if I fall apart with someone I know watching. I go on second; I won’t have to wait long. Of course, I’ve been pacing in the back like a wolf waiting for my prey to weaken so I can go in for the attack. I should probably just go talk to him now, get it over with.
My feet betray me—in cahoots with my streaming thoughts, it seems—because I’m steps away from him when he leans forward, resting his folded hands on the table in front of him and leaning in to hear something from the waitress.
“Water’s fine,” he says.
“And your date?” The waitress gives me away, and Houston twists in his seat to make eye contact, his brow bunched in confusion.
“Oh, no…I’m not. I was just saying hi,” my words already unsure and jumbled. I’m failing this test. Yep, not ready yet.
“But…I’d love a water,” I say quickly, raising my hand before she fully turns away. She nods and heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my high school years…and an unsure feeling I’m really going to get that water my mouth now desperately needs.
Houston’s head tilts and his eyes squint with his smirk. I always liked him. Not in that way, but just in a he’s-a-decent-person kinda way. He’s scanning my face, digging in the depths to see if he can pull my name out of that old, dusty hat from adolescence. I don’t look very different. Maybe…older. And my hair is purple. But I’m still very much the same.
“Murphy,” I say, my mouth twisted into a pathetic half smile. I feel awkward for a few seconds until recognition hits him and his mouth curves into a full-on grin as he stands.
“No way!” he says, stepping into me. He’s going to hug me, which…oh god, I can’t avoid. I don’t hug. Ever. But, yeah…here we go. I’m hugging him in return. I pat the center of his back twice and step away—thankful he breaks his hold too.
“Wow, this is crazy. I haven’t seen you since…what? Graduation?” Houston says, returning to his seat and sliding the one out next to him. I glance down at it, and then back to the line of performers all pacing near the back. I should probably get back in line, but I don’t want to be rude, and maybe talking to him longer will make me more comfortable singing in front of him. I sit on the edge of the chair, nervously, and my eyes dart to the wall in the very back where my guitar still rests.
“Yeah, probably. How’s…” I pause, because I don’t think I ever really knew his child’s name. I just knew he had one. Everyone in our school knew his story. It was tragic. His girlfriend, Beth, got pregnant and died in a horrible car crash when their baby was an infant. Houston finished school as a single dad, and last I heard he was studying at McConnell. I don’t see many people from our high school any more, not since my parents moved to Archfield on the other side of the city. I live with them to help take care of my brother and teach music part time at the elementary school, at least until I find something more permanent.
“Leah,” Houston says, filling in the unknown for me. His expression shifts to something proud and warm. “She’s great. She’s starting kindergarten, which is…” He finishes that statement with a puff of air and high eyebrows. It makes me smile.