In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(81)
“Half birthday?” Casey questions, bringing me out of my manic state.
I take in a full breath to reset my nerves and look into his smiling eyes.
“My real birthday is on Christmas Day, and I hated that. I used to complain a lot when I was little, so my parents instituted the half-birthday plan. We’ve been doing it this way for so long, it’s kind of become this tradition. I didn’t think we were going to this year, but then the other day, my mom asked me if there was anything I wanted, and I got kind of excited,” I admit. I pull my thumbnail to my mouth and scrunch my eyes, ready for how this is going to sound. “I really like presents.”
“Awww, baby likes presents,” Casey teases, tugging me to his lap and wrapping my legs around his waist. My emotions switch gears at the feel of him against me.
“I do,” I say, as he nuzzles his nose against mine.
“Do I get to come to this party?” he asks.
“Uh huh,” I breathe, my eyes now closed, because his hands have sunk down to my thighs and are working their way up the curve of my ass, pulling me forward even harder.
“Do you…do you want your present from me?” he teases, but I don’t laugh because now, right now, yes. I do want my present. I want this present. And I no longer care about the chocolate cake or a party or…
“I am fairly fond of your birthday suit,” he jokes as his thumbs lift up the bottom of the T-shirt I’m wearing, dragging it up my body, but stopping when my arms are above my head and my eyes are covered with cotton. His mouth covers one breast, sucking me hard while his hand falls behind my back and pulls me into him.
My phone rings, and Casey flails his hand around the sheets next to us until he finds it, then throws it to the floor. He lifts me up in one single motion to lie flat for him, my arms still tethered and my eyes still covered in his shirt, and for the next hour, I let him do anything he wants.
* * *
Casey takes me back to my car near the club, and I make it home around lunch, and I can smell chocolate baking when I enter the house. There’s no use in hiding any of this. It was either come home in the dress I wore to the club last night or walk into the house in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and T-shirt from Casey. I was going to get stares either way, so I opted for the soft comfort of wearing him home instead.
When his eyes hit me, my father pauses at the exit from the living room with a small plate and fork from whatever snack he was sneaking in his hand. I step inside the house, and I offer a tight-lipped smile as I hold up one hand for hello, my dress gathered in a pile under my other arm.
“I was…” I start, but then my father holds up his hand, clearly not symbolizing hello, but stop.
“You were nothing. And the teasing about you and Casey is no longer funny to me, so just…go get ready for your party,” he says, not able to look me in the eye.
I nod and look down to my feet, which are still in my boots, Casey’s sweats stuffed in the top. I look ridiculous. This is how those magazines get those absurd pictures of famous people doing the walk of shame.
My father moves on to the kitchen, his back to me while he rinses off a plate and dries his hands. I watch for a few seconds, but decide nothing is really going to make the awkwardness of this any better, so I eventually retreat to my room.
“You look good in Casey’s clothes,” my brother says from behind, following me inside. I grab my chest when he startles me, but chuckle when I look down at my form. Only Lane would think I look good like this, and it’s just because he thinks Casey is cool.
“Thank you,” I say, tossing my dress to the corner and turning to sit on my bed so I can yank my boots from my feet.
“Mom said you shacked up,” Lane says, stealing my breath. My face falls and I fling my boot to the floor as my mouth stumbles for some type of response. “That’s like a sleepover, right? I want to shack up with Casey sometime. Is he coming to the party? Maybe I’ll ask him.”
I shut my mouth and keep my focus on my other boot, which I take off more slowly—buying time. I’m mortified that my brother overheard this and that my mother said this, probably in a conversation with my father.
“You should,” I say, looking up at him with a smile. Something funny should come out of my humiliation. “I bet Casey would like that.”
“Cool,” Lane says, leaving me in my room alone. I close the door and let my head fall flat against the wood.
I’m embarrassed. I should be. This situation…it’s super embarrassing. But I’m also…happy. And I’m not nervous, or worried, or feeling like I’m not good enough for something—I’m just happy. Content. And I actually feel kind of beautiful.
I pick at my guitar for an hour before finally showering and drying my hair. I decide on my comfiest pair of jeans and match it up with my vintage Bangles tank top and the necklaces Sam made me with small bottles of pretend potion at the end. My phone dings just as I finish pulling my hair back in a braid, and I skip to it, excited to read that Casey is out front in the driveway.
Then, his next text comes.
Your dad is walking out of the house.
My brow furrows and I glance to the window. I take a few steps forward to glance out, and I only see Casey’s form sitting in his car, typing on his phone. I type back.
I don’t see him.