In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(86)
“Not bad,” I nod, sliding up on the metal table and leaning back until my head rests on the corrugated steel wall.
“Fucking phenomenal,” she winks.
I could watch her in her element for days and never grow tired. Wondering why we’ve come here tonight, I begin to ask, but Murphy holds up a finger, urging me to have patience as she reaches back to her case and pulls out the tattered notebook I’d riffled through that day in the mall. She flips a few pages, clearing her throat when she lands on the one I had hoped for. Her eyes flit to mine, and her smile is brief—her nerves alive and evident all over her face. She closes her eyes and begins to work her fingers, letting the melody play out several times while she wills away her demons.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t become a crutch. I do nothing but wait, watching in wonder as her hands do something I could only dream of having mine do. Nearly a minute passes, and I forget that I was ever waiting to hear her sing at all, my soul too invested in all she’s already done, when her lips part and a f*cking miracle happens.
Murphy sings her song—the one I like best. It isn’t about me. It isn’t about guys like me. It’s about the girl she was, the one who wanted to break out, but couldn’t—the one whose own tongue betrayed her and tangled her messages and held her hostage when she should have been careless and na?ve and young and free.
That tongue is a thief, no matter how much I love it. But it’s powerless now.
I watch her lips and take in every painful wince and twitch of her eyelids until the very end, when she’s completely gone to the other side—fearless and singing in front of only me, singing words so personal they almost look as if they burn on their way out.
I’ve never been more proud of something in my entire life, and I was only the witness.
When her mouth closes and her hands stop, I sit still and don’t make a sound. She brings her guitar flat to her chest, hugging it while her mouth takes on a satisfied form.
I love you, Murphy Sullivan. You are better than me, and I don’t care. You will slay dragons.
I never say a word, and Murphy packs her guitar quietly before I hold the tips of her fingers and let her guide me back out through the pitch-black room. I don’t speak until I know her heart has finally quit racing, her adrenaline has run out, and her ears are ready to accept the truth.
“You are so special,” I say as she starts the car’s engine. She lets her head fall to the side against the seat, and I can tell by her expression she thinks I’m just complimenting her. I’m not—I’m warning her. “Do not—under any circumstances—give that song to anybody who doesn’t deserve it.”
Our eyes lock, and several seconds pass with my words the only thing on both of our minds.
“Okay,” she says, giving herself back to the road, taking us home.
Chapter 16
Murphy
“Oh my god that song is so boring!”
Leave it to a seven-year-old to put me in my place.
It’s free-play. Because I said so. Because my heart does not want to be here in this classroom today. It isn’t fair to the small group of kids left. They get to sign up by the week, and it seems only the most dedicated eight have stuck around to continue moving into Brahms and Beethoven. Well, seven dedicated students—Sasha is still here, and I am totally convinced it’s because her parents have nothing else to do with her.
“You think it’s boring, hmm?” I ask Sasha. The rest of the kids are playing on the keyboards with headphones, and she’s staring at me with her chin against her table.
“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”
I laugh out a small breath and look down at my fingers. I was plucking out a melody, but I couldn’t settle on one I liked. It seems I need to keep looking.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask my worst student ever.
“Rock!” she shouts, her voice loud enough that two or three others hear her and pull their headphones from their ears.
“Rock, yeah?” I nod. She smiles big. “Well, this class is about the classics, but maybe…if you’re lucky…I’ll surprise you with a little something tomorrow,” I wink.
Sasha perks up, unraveling her headphones and pushing them to her ears with a grin on her face that matches the size of the bubble she blows with her gum she isn’t supposed to have. I let her get away with it, because there are only a few weeks to go, and if she’s chewing, at least she isn’t talking.
When class is over, I rush to my car for my favorite part of the day. I wait for Casey to call, because I’m never quite sure what he’ll be dealing with. His father suffered a stroke the night after my half birthday, which seems incredibly unfair and cruel, but the doctors told Casey and his mother that it was actually common.
Casey was distraught. He rambled through percentages that the doctors gave him, risk factors mixed with medicines that equal likelihoods, talk of another stroke—everything he said seemed entirely uncommon. So did he. My cool, calm, nothing-phases-him boy was drowning in what to do.
I pull on my safety belt and lay the phone in my center console so it’s easy to see and grab. The buzz comes before I leave the lot, so I pull back into a space and rush to answer, pausing when I realize it’s Gomez instead of Casey. My heart rushes for an entirely different reason—I haven’t heard from John Maxwell since the day we recorded, and I haven’t heard a word about my song since Casey played it for me. He’s asked around, but didn’t get any clear answers.