In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(82)

And I wait for a breath, watching his head move to look out the window and then back to his lap and phone.

Really? You don’t see that man standing on your porch with an ax?

Oh…shit!

I lean completely forward and press my face to the glass of my window, but all I can see under the overhang is the tips of my father’s shoes. He’s wearing sneakers—perfect for wood-chopping. I shake my head and mumble my way out of my room, past my brother and down the stairs where my father is in fact standing with the door open and a towel in his hand, wiping away the rusted blade for the ax I am pretty sure he hasn’t used since I was twelve and we took it up north to chop down a Christmas tree.

“Daddy,” I sigh.

“Oh, hi, birthday girl,” he says, leaning his head back and tilting his chin. I step toward him and kiss him on the cheek.

“So,” I hum, nodding. “What’s with the ax?”

My father’s chest shakes lightly with his laughter, the silent kind that brews in his belly. He runs the towel over the blade a few more times and twists the heavy metal tool by the handle in his giant palm before holding it out in front of him and taking a small test swing.

“I’m just messin’ with your boyfriend,” he says with a faint laugh.

Boyfriend. I smile at the word.

“He’s not going to get out of the car while you’re holding that,” I say.

“I know, Murph. I know,” he says, still chuckling. “I’ll let him in after a few minutes. Just let me have my fun.”

I twist my mouth and lean to the side for a better view of Casey. He’s resting against his steering wheel, hat low on his brow and arms folded, and when our eyes meet, he lifts a hand and gives me a slight wave. I wave back then feel the buzz in my pocket and pull out my phone.

I’m not going in there.

I laugh to myself and put my palm on my father’s back.

“Carry on then,” I say, turning around and joining my mother at the counter where she is icing my favorite flavor of cake.

“It makes him feel better about you growing up,” she says, not raising her eyes to look at me.

“I know,” I concede.

After about five minutes, my father walks back through the house and exits through the back sliding door into the backyard. He returns ax-free, just in time for Casey to be standing at the doorway with an opened box of chocolates and a small gift bag. He doesn’t cross the threshold until my father meets him there and finally cracks out a laugh, sliding his arm around him and patting him on the back.

“I like to kid,” my father says, and Casey responds with a nervous oh mixed with his own unnatural laugh.

When Casey makes it to where I’m standing, his hand finds mine at my side quickly, and he squeezes my fingers hard. His palm is sweating, and it amuses me that the boy who isn’t really afraid of anything is scared shitless of a man in his late fifties.

My father pulls a soda from the fridge, but turns around quickly, his face bugging in front of Casey’s as he yells “Boo!”

“Oh…god,” Casey startles, taking a step back, dropping the bag he was still holding in his hand. I hear something break.

My father laughs harder this time, pulling the tab on his Coke—or should I say one of my Cokes—and takes a long sip as he passes, shaking his finger at Casey. “You’re funny,” he says. “I like it.” His chuckle grows quieter as he finally leaves the room.

“You okay there?” I ask, not able to hide my grin.

“Oh, ha ha. You thought that was funny?” He bends down and picks up the small bag, sliding it on the counter in front of me. “I’m pretty sure I just busted your gift…”

“And crapped your pants,” my mom throws in before licking away the extra frosting on her spatula and tossing it in the soapy water in her sink.

Casey’s head falls and his eyes close as he bites his lip.

“All signs of endearment, Casey,” my mom says, squeezing his shoulder once as she rounds the counter and begins to bring plates and dishes to the table.

I watch his face for a few seconds, enjoying the smile on it from our teasing. This is sort of the way in the Sullivan house, and while I think my dad was partly also not joking with the ax, I know that my parents’ behavior does mean that Casey has won them over to some extent.

“Can I?” I ask him, nodding toward the bag he handed me.

“Go on. It’s not much, but…it’s really not much now that I dropped it on the ground,” he grimaces. “And I brought chocolates, but I ate four of them in the car because, well…I thought I might be in there for a while—ax and all.”

“Four?” I ask, noticing the completely empty top layer exposed in the small box by his hand.

“Maybe six…” he smirks. “Okay, seven. Fine. Eight.”

I laugh because he’s silly. My eyes remain on him, the sweet dimple when he grins, the way he looks at me—I watch it all as I slide the bag closer and pull out the few layers of tissue on top. There’s a card, so I pull that out first and begin to open it, but Casey stops my hands.

“Save that…for later,” he says.

Tempted to disobey, I hold his gaze for a few seconds, but finally set the card aside, quirking a brow as I reach into the bright-yellow gift bag. My hand finds something hard, and I grip it, pulling it out to reveal what I think may just be the ugliest coffee mug I’ve ever seen. The glaze is still sticky, and I leave a fingerprint around the rim just from my touch. The design looks to be like green stick figures, maybe?