In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(83)

“What’s…this?” I ask, pointing to a slightly curved line coming out from between one of the green person’s legs.

“I know. It totally looks like I drew you a dirty picture, but…” he says, spinning the mug a little in my hand and reaching into the bag for the handle that broke off during its fall.

“Casey, that’s exactly what it looks like,” I giggle.

“But it’s not. Look, see? That’s you, right there, the green one with purple hair. And that’s a guitar, and that’s me at the sound board, and…shit,” he stops, shaking his head and holding both pieces apart in front of him. “Whatever. Fine…it’s a f*cking dirty picture.”

“It’s hideous,” I laugh harder, and he rolls his eyes, packing it back in the bag, playing hurt. “But I love it,” I say, grabbing for it.

His hands relent, and he gives the bag to me, moving his palms flat against the counter as his tight lips smile and his eyes flick to mine.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Leah has a pottery kit, but I didn’t have enough time to bake it. She helped with the…” he says, pulling it back out and pointing at the guitar that looks a lot more like a penis.

“Yeah…let’s just put this back in the bag,” I say, laughing at my ugly stick-figure-porno-mug that was painted by a five-year-old.

“Houston was so pissed when he saw it, and then I told him his daughter drew it, and he was more pissed,” he laughs. I roll the top of the bag and move it to the cabinet, closing the door.

“You don’t have to keep it,” he says when I turn around. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks…happy. He’s happy, too. And that’s a far cry from the broken boy who landed on my doorstep two weeks ago.

“I love it. But I don’t think my dad will, and since you’ve already seen the ax…”

“Yeah, cabinet’s a good spot,” he agrees, kidding along with me, only maybe not as much as I’m kidding.

Lane comes down the stairs and gravitates immediately to Casey, hugging him to the side and punching at his ribs like bros do. Casey compliments my brother’s khaki pants, and I catch the way my mother looks over them both fondly. Ax-wielding aside, Casey is all right in her book. I’ve shared how much Casey has been helping his family with both of my parents, and they’re willing and ready to help. I know he would never accept it, though.

“Can we shack up?” Lane asks suddenly, and I watch in shock as Casey is left without words. His mouth falls open then shut before he looks to me, and I try not to burst into laughter. I simply nod with wide eyes, so Casey answers “Sure. Maybe in a few weeks.”

I leave Lane and my bother at the counter to talk about their favorite movies and about my song as I help my mother to finish setting the table. She pulls my favorite part of this tradition from the oven—a steaming pan of homemade enchiladas. It’s not something that’s often done well in the Midwest or South, but Jeannie Sullivan does it right. We all follow the scent to the table, and within seconds, our plates are full and our mouths are busy.

“So this half-birthday thing,” Casey says between bites, “is this something I can get in on?”

“Is your birthday on Christmas?” my father asks from the other end of the table, eyes on his food.

“March sixteenth,” Casey answers.

“Then no,” my dad says with no reaction at all before taking a bite.

Casey pulls his napkin up and wipes his mouth, and my mother and I both pause our eating, a little nervous. My father looks up, then busts into laughter.

“Ax thing really got you, didn’t it,” he says, lifting another forkful to his mouth.

“I take axes and daughters really seriously, sir,” Casey says, and I keep my hands on the edge of my seat, kind of nervous about what stupid thing he may say next. But those words, however crazy they may sound—they aren’t stupid at all. They’re lovely.

“If ever you think I haven’t done right by her, I hope you’ll let me know,” Casey says, putting his fork down and placing his napkin next to his plate on the table. His hands fold in his lap and his eyes are directly on my father’s. I slide my leg to the right until my foot stops at the weight of Casey’s shoe, and my heart thumps wildly. My how far we have come.

My father doesn’t respond with words. With a long sip from his soda, he eyes the man who has quickly and not-so-silently stolen my heart, then lifts his brow before raising the can and tilting it in a toast to that very promise before returning to the meal in front of him. I exhale slowly, and pull my plate closer, taking smaller bites because my tummy is too filled with butterflies to eat anything for real. Eventually, Casey’s knee moves into mine under the table, and I glance at him, catching his crooked smile on me as I make a mental note that this has now become my most favorite half birthday ever, as in I’m-pretty-sure-I’ll-write-a-song-about-it good.





Casey


I woke up different today.

I’m not saying a person can mature as much as I probably need to in the course of twenty-four hours, but still…I woke up different today. Maybe it’s happened slowly, maybe it’s been happening for weeks, and I just didn’t realize. I’m sure part of it is the responsibility I now carry for my family, forcing me to look at things differently.