In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(92)

“Respect,” he says, finally. I sense that it’s probably provisional.

“Any chance you’re in town for the dedication?” I hold my breath and close my eyes.

They just added about twenty million in skyboxes and luxury shit to the stadium, and I know Noah’s dad is part of that circle who ponied up the cash. My father’s alumni—I check his mail. The flyer could have easily been tossed away in the trash were it not for the fact that my mother saw it and saved it to show my dad, who hates football and will only think it’s a tremendous waste of money. But the date flashed in front of my goddamned photographic eyes—it’s Monday.

“I am,” Noah says.

“I have someone in mind that I think you need to see…and I’ve got nothing to gain,” I say. When he tells me to go on, I breathe deeply and give Murphy my best sell, and I promise to forward him the demo—the really hot one Gomez made that technically isn’t my property, because f*ck him and f*ck John Maxwell.

And when we’re done, there’s about a fifty-fifty shot I’m going to see Noah somewhere at Paul’s tonight, until that stat falls quickly to zero with my phone call from my sister Christina.

“Dad’s in a coma,” she says. “He’s been having several small strokes for weeks, it seems. They think this is probably it. He has a DNR, Case. Mom’s…you need to be here.”

I need to be there.

I can do this.

I can’t…do…this.





Chapter 17





Murphy


I should have called Sam. She would have come. But I haven’t told her about my day yet, how everything fell apart in the matter of eleven minutes. She was so proud of me; I’m just not ready to watch her have to backtrack on all of that and pretend that everything is right and for the best. None of this is for the best. Today—walking out on John Maxwell, signing away so much power to him—that was all for the worst.

The motherf*cking worst.

Casey was going to be here. But he’s not. And I’ve thought about leaving at least a dozen times. Everyone here tonight is so good. They’re always good, and I’m starting to think maybe I’m a delusional hack. John Maxwell could roll out my friend Steph, who’s playing now, and wind up with the exact same record he played for me. Of course, it would still suck, because that Shaw guy is shit awful.

“You about ready, Murph?” Eddie asks, tapping his fingers against my upper shoulder as if I’m a piano. I jump in surprise but deflate quickly.

“Yeah, I’m ready whenever, Eddie,” I say.

He pauses in front of my dangling legs along the back table while he pushes his tie closer to his neck and straightens his lapel.

“Half of anything we do in this world is show, Murph. I’m not sure what’s chewing at your insides right now, but how about for the next ten minutes, you get up there and show ’em your best smile, huh?” He bends his head down to catch my eyes.

I chuckle and take a deep breath, pushing off from the table and tugging my guitar strap over my body.

“That’s good advice, sir. You got a deal,” I wink and force my cheeks to dimple.

“Ah that’s my girl,” he smiles back, taking a few steps toward the stage to help Steph off and announce me next. “And it’s better advice than you think.”

There are a lot of things that are better advice than I think. There are a lot of things that are worse advice, too. The trouble is telling them apart. Smiles are harmless, though, so I keep it plastered on my face, and when Eddie calls my name, I give my familiar crowd at Paul’s a very friendly wave. These are my people. Baskets of food, retired couples dancing, a few stray college kids who prefer light crowds to sweaty clubs—all my beautiful, wonderfully introverted people.

“Good evening,” I say, adjusting the level of my mic so I can stand rather than sit on the stool I usually hide on. Maybe I’m still angry, or maybe I just want a little change—perhaps I’m finally so comfortable playing at Paul’s that I no longer need the four-legged barstool crutch. Whatever it is, I carry it to the side and Eddie runs up to take it from me.

“Sorry, I just…I kind of felt like standin’ tonight,” I say through light laughter. Nobody’s really listening yet, minus the older couples at the tables near the front.

“I’ve got a few new things I’d like to try for you, if that’s okay,” I say, tuning and adjusting to my sound on the stage. “It’s called ‘Boxes.’”

My fingers find their newly familiar place, and I close my eyes and imagine I’m in my dad’s hangar, with Casey cheering me on. I only play the intro through once before I’m ready—the way it’s meant to go—and I sing with the force of everything that’s still lit up in my chest and belly. I open my eyes and look people in theirs. I make people feel, and I pull them in and take them with me, until they begin to clap with my rhythm and I can’t help but pick up speed and play harder.

It’s not exactly how the song is supposed to go, or maybe it is. Maybe this is what was missing—connection. I play the final verse through one extra time, improvising, because I’m having such a good time and I don’t want the feeling to end. I roll my vibe right into another new song, then two or three covers, going a good ten minutes over the time I’m given. Nobody stops me.