by Ginger Scott
Lane’s been dying to come see me perform though, and I made sure he had a decent seat last week. Sam sat with him, and he was excited to impress her with the new tricks he learned with his video app on his phone. And of course, she indulged him, probably encouraged him a little, too. My best friend thinks I’m ready. She has for years.
Maybe I am.
Perhaps Houston showing up tonight is a good way to test things—to see if I fall apart with someone I know watching. I go on second; I won’t have to wait long. Of course, I’ve been pacing in the back like a wolf waiting for my prey to weaken so I can go in for the attack. I should probably just go talk to him now, get it over with.
My feet betray me—in cahoots with my streaming thoughts, it seems—because I’m steps away from him when he leans forward, resting his folded hands on the table in front of him and leaning in to hear something from the waitress.
“Water’s fine,” he says.
“And your date?” The waitress gives me away, and Houston twists in his seat to make eye contact, his brow bunched in confusion.
“Oh, no…I’m not. I was just saying hi,” my words already unsure and jumbled. I’m failing this test. Yep, not ready yet.
“But…I’d love a water,” I say quickly, raising my hand before she fully turns away. She nods and heads back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my high school years…and an unsure feeling I’m really going to get that water my mouth now desperately needs.
Houston’s head tilts and his eyes squint with his smirk. I always liked him. Not in that way, but just in a he’s-a-decent-person kinda way. He’s scanning my face, digging in the depths to see if he can pull my name out of that old, dusty hat from adolescence. I don’t look very different. Maybe…older. And my hair is purple. But I’m still very much the same.
“Murphy,” I say, my mouth twisted into a pathetic half smile. I feel awkward for a few seconds until recognition hits him and his mouth curves into a full-on grin as he stands.
“No way!” he says, stepping into me. He’s going to hug me, which…oh god, I can’t avoid. I don’t hug. Ever. But, yeah…here we go. I’m hugging him in return. I pat the center of his back twice and step away—thankful he breaks his hold too.
“Wow, this is crazy. I haven’t seen you since…what? Graduation?” Houston says, returning to his seat and sliding the one out next to him. I glance down at it, and then back to the line of performers all pacing near the back. I should probably get back in line, but I don’t want to be rude, and maybe talking to him longer will make me more comfortable singing in front of him. I sit on the edge of the chair, nervously, and my eyes dart to the wall in the very back where my guitar still rests.
“Yeah, probably. How’s…” I pause, because I don’t think I ever really knew his child’s name. I just knew he had one. Everyone in our school knew his story. It was tragic. His girlfriend, Beth, got pregnant and died in a horrible car crash when their baby was an infant. Houston finished school as a single dad, and last I heard he was studying at McConnell. I don’t see many people from our high school any more, not since my parents moved to Archfield on the other side of the city. I live with them to help take care of my brother and teach music part time at the elementary school, at least until I find something more permanent.
“Leah,” Houston says, filling in the unknown for me. His expression shifts to something proud and warm. “She’s great. She’s starting kindergarten, which is…” He finishes that statement with a puff of air and high eyebrows. It makes me smile.
“I bet,” I say, glancing over his shoulder again at my guitar. Someone is standing near it, which makes me uneasy.
“So how are you? Do you still do that theater thing? Weren’t you into that stuff?” I smile through tight lips. I’m not sure why I’m hiding it, because he’s going to see me in about five minutes.
“I…did that in high school, yeah. I studied music in college, though. That’s what I was really into. Theater was just the only place it fit in our high school,” I chuckle. My gaze falls to my lap and twisting fingers.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Houston says, leaning forward again, staring at his own hands folded together on the tabletop. He pats his thumbs together, but freezes after a few seconds, and his head tilts up toward me. “So you’re…singing here tonight?”
I nod yes, and my stomach flips, rumbling inside with the threat of a volcano.
“You…play here often?” he asks, leaning in his seat, stretching out one arm over the back.
“Lately, yeah,” I say.
He’s heard the song. There’s no way he hasn’t heard the song. Which means…
“Actually, I’m on soon, so I’m gonna…” I nod my head to the side, toward my guitar, as I stand and push my chair back under the table.
Houston stands with me, and I make an internal wish on repeat that he doesn’t hug me again—or ask me about the song. I won’t be playing it tonight. And maybe, with a little luck, he’ll just assume it’s all a coincidence and go back to wherever it is he lives and not breathe a word of this to Casey Coffield.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to see you perform. Good luck, or…break a leg? I don’t know, is that a thing with music?” he says, pushing his hands in his pockets. Thank god he’s trapping his hands. I step back more and laugh nervously, shrugging.
“I think it works here. I appreciate it. Hope you enjoy the show,” I say.
Show—there’s that word again.
Casey
Murphy Sullivan.
The club is loud, so I can’t hear the video Houston just texted me. It’s her—the mystery girl. I recognize the way she sits in that stool. I don’t, however, recognize the name. Murphy Sullivan.
I write him back a series of question marks and wait for a response, but one doesn’t come, so I give up my investigation for the next hour while I blend pop songs with seventies disco for high college kids to grind to under the neon lights.
It’s a good gig. The club is called Ramp 33, and it’s built under the Exit 33 underpass outside the airport. I played here a month ago, and was out of my mind happy when they called me again for this weekend. The pay is ridiculous, and I’m hoping they like me enough to keep me for a while so I can replace my car. I might be able to get something decent with the money I make here, so I can start saving what I get from John Maxwell. I found an old Volkswagen Rabbit on Craigslist this morning, and I may be able to swing it with tonight’s paycheck if it’s still available.
It’s almost two in the morning when I finally pack up. There isn’t anything more from Houston, so when I get everything tucked into the back of his car, I lean on the trunk and play the video again.
The song is different. It’s a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” I’ve heard this before—a lot of people cover it. She nails it, even though it isn’t original. That break in her voice, and the cool way she hits the guitar for rhythm—it’s all there.
“Murphy Sullivan,” I whisper her name. It’s literally meaningless to me.
I dial Houston as I pull out of the parking lot, and when it goes right to voicemail, I hang up and dial again. He picks up on the fifth ring.
“You’re such a prick,” he growls.
“Yeah, I know. But I needed to talk,” I say, glancing both ways at the red light and pulling through the intersection anyhow. It’s two in the morning; feels pointless to sit here for nobody.
“Case, we can talk in, like…four hours. When my alarm goes off. And I’m up for work,” he sighs.
“Dude, I won’t be up then. I’m up now,” I say.
“I hate you,” he says.
“Nah…you don’t,” I chuckle.
He doesn’t. If he hated me, he wouldn’t pick up the phone all the time. I know I’m an asshole for waking him up, but I’ve literally got nobody else. Houston—he’s my family, and my chest is all tight from spending the last six hours trying not to think about the phone call from my sister. When I think about that, I think about
how little it hurts, and that scares the shit out of me, because I think maybe I’m broken. Or, maybe I really hate the man who gave me life—or maybe I really don’t have a home or a family, because I’m supposed to love those things above all, right?
“So did she play it? The song?” I ask, blinking to clear away other thoughts.
“I sent you what she played,” he yawns.
“Oh,” I respond. “So that was it? Just the one song?”
“I sent you the whole thing. But I talked to her. Crazy it’s Murphy, right? So…what’d you do to piss her off?” he says through a half laugh and cough.
“Huh, I have no idea,” I say, not finishing the statement that I also have no idea who the hell Murphy is. Houston catches on to my silence though.
“You know we went to school with her, right?” he says, his tone rising at the end. He’s going to give me shit.
“Oh yeah, yeah. Murph. Totally—she looks…a little different…” I swallow, not knowing if she’s different at all. Houston breaks into laughter in an instant.
I guessed wrong.
“She looks exactly the same, except for her hair might be a little longer, and it’s purple. You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?” he chuckles.
“Dude, I don’t know. I knew a lot of people back in high school. I can’t remember everybody,” I say, pulling up slowly to another pointless stoplight. I give both sides a quick glance and then move on to the freeway ramp.
“Whatever, man. Our school graduated like…a hundred people. You just didn’t pay attention to girls unless they were interested in you,” he says.
“Uhm, that’s not true. I paid attention to Beth, and Logan Sheffield,” I say, throwing out the only chicks from our high school that I honestly really remember. Beth was Houston’s girl, and Logan had enormous tits and put out like crazy, so yeah…I remember her.
“No wonder Murphy wrote a song about you being an asshole,” he says, punctuating his words with a laugh. It’s a joke, but it kinda hurts.
“Fuck off,” I say. “It’s not that kind of song. Or…whatever, even if. Point is, she’s good. Did you get her number?”
“Shit,” he says. “No, I was too caught up in the fact that I knew her. We only talked for a few minutes. I bet her parents still live in that house though…”
“And that house would be…” I fill in, waiting for more direction.
“Well if you remembered her, then I guess you’d know,” he teases.
“Houston, come on. Where does she live?” I ask.
“I’ll show you tomorrow,” he chuckles. “You crashing here so I can have my car in the morning?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ll try not to wake you,” I say.
“Gee, thanks,” Houston says, laughing once more before hanging up.
Murphy Sullivan.
I hit PLAY on my phone in my lap and listen to her voice a few more times during my drive to Houston’s. It isn’t familiar. Nothing about her is familiar. But hell if she isn’t gifted. And fuck if I’m not obsessed.
Chapter 3
Casey
Houston’s alarm sounds at five on the nose. It’s loud, and it plays country—old-fashioned, unhappy, dog-died country. He hates country, so I have no clue why he would torture himself at the crack of dawn with that noise, but what I really care about right now is why he would make that thing so loud that it wakes me up too.
“Mornin’,” he says with a smirk, coffee in one hand and newspaper spread open in the other. Who the fuck still reads a newspaper?
I slide in my socks the rest of the way down the stairs and flip him off, which only makes him chuckle. I spent the night in his spare room on that bed made of rocks. Houston and his daughter live with his mom, so the house is quiet. It’s also kept at eighty degrees, and every time I spend the night here, I sweat my balls off. The last person who slept in this room was Houston’s new girlfriend, Paige. She went home to California for the summer, but I swear she left a gallon of her strong-ass perfume behind on this bed. Add being hot—and smelling like lilacs—to the fact that my friend woke my ass up before the sun, and I’m pretty much a ticking bomb right now.
“Why?” I ask, rubbing my face and climbing into the chair on the opposite side of the table from him. I pull the hoodie I’m wearing up over my head, trying to shade myself from the glaring lights of his kitchen.
“Why what, Case?” he answers, not really looking at me. Goddamn smile is hovering over his coffee cup, though.
“Since when are you a country fan?” I ask, letting my forehead fall to a complete rest on the table.
“Oh, I’m not,” he says. I roll my head to the side and quirk a brow as he bends the newspaper down to do the same and meet my gaze. “But I know you’re not, and that made a rough wake-up call worth it.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, and I let my eyes fall to slits.
“You’re a real dick,” I say, rolling my head back toward the table, hiding my eyes again.
“Sure I am, Casey. You keep telling yourself that,” he laughs.
“I need your car again,” I say.
“No,” he answers quickly.
“I’ll drop you off at work and have it back to you in time for you to be done with your shift. I’m buying one on Craigslist today,” I say, talking over him and ignoring his first response.
“I’m pretty sure I said no,” he says.
“Yeah, but you always do. Anyhow,” I say while he sighs at the other end of the table. “Where does this Murphy live? Show me on the way to the store.”
“Case, it’s…” he twists in his chair to look at the clock over his shoulder, “…not even five thirty in the morning. You can’t go to her parents’ house right now.”
“Uhm, believe me. I’m well aware of how butt-crack early it is right now. I’ll go later. Just show me where it is so I can,” I lie. I’m going to that house the second I drop his ass off at work. I won’t wake anyone up, but I’m sure as shit sitting in the driveway until I see some sign of life inside.
“Fine, but just…I don’t know…be a gentleman? Murphy’s always been sorta shy, so maybe just try not to be so…so…you,” he says. I turn my head to look up at him again, keeping my eyes on his until he breaks away, shaking his head.
Less me. Less selfish. Less…unable to feel. My mind flashes back on the voicemail I haven’t played again, but can’t seem to delete.
“Fine. I’ll be less…me,” I say, rolling my eyes, playing the part of Casey, the asshole. Being this guy is easier. I give in to the broken parts. I push away from the table and grab a mug from Houston’s cupboard, emptying the rest of the coffee pot, and dropping in two ice cubes so I can drink it fast. I hate coffee. I just like what it does.
Houston finishes his cup and clears off the table, shutting out the lights and locking the back door behind us as we head to his car. It’s a warm summer morning, but my shaggy hair looks like I spent the night in an alley, so I keep my hoodie pulled tight around my body.
We hit the main turnpike and drive about six or seven miles out of our way, taking the exit for Cloud Road. I’ve lived in this town since birth, and I don’t think I’ve driven down this street once. We pass seven or eight houses when we get to one on a corner. It’s small, but nice, and there’s one of those wagon wheels buried halfway in the front yard for decoration.
“That’s it?” I ask, taking in the sight. The house is plain, and the only car in the driveway is some hybrid electric car that probably gets a hundred miles to the gallon.
“I think so,” Houston says, taking in a deep breath and spinning around at the small intersection where the neighborhood streets meet.
He glances at the house one more time as we pass a second time on our way to his store. I crane my neck to memorize everything about the way it looks, the numbers, the streets, the exit. I’ll backtrack this entire trip the second he gets out of the car.
“So, if I don’t know this Murphy chick, how
do you know her so well?” I ask, unzipping my hoodie and turning the air vents toward me to cool off.
“Why are you wearing a sweatshirt?” Houston asks, jerking to the side as I pull and tug at my sleeves, trying to get the damn heat blanket off.
“My hair’s all whacked. I didn’t shower,” I say, finally freeing myself and throwing the sweatshirt in the back. I twist in the seat and search the floor of his car, grateful to find one of his hats there. I push it on my head, stretching the tight fit a little. It will have to do.
“I hate it when you do that,” he says, eying me from the side.
“I know,” I say. No real excuse, and it ruins his hats. But I’m a mess, and I haven’t seen him in this one in months. I’ll get him a new one if he throws a major fit.
“Murphy’s mom was going to watch Leah. She ran an in-home daycare,” he says, his attention now focused intently on the road. He doesn’t talk about the past often. I get it. He had just married Beth, and an accident took her away from him. His dad died in that crash too.
“Oh,” I say, not adding an apology or anything more. Houston’s had years of apologies. He always told me they get old. I wonder if people will apologize to me about my dad?
“My dad’s sick,” I confess, the out-loud admission stunning me a little. It felt good to say, though. Maybe it just feels good to say it to Houston, because he’s my real family. Maybe that’s how grieving works—perhaps this step, sharing, is important. “Real sick,” I add, and for the first time since my sister called, my tongue sours, and my mouth feels the burn of acid. My breath hitches, but I hide it by letting my forehead fall to his passenger window.
Maybe not completely broken.
Houston doesn’t respond for almost a minute, and when he does, it’s with the same understanding that comes with being lifelong best friends.
“Oh,” he says.
I watch his expression for a second or two as he swallows and his eyes dart about the roadway. We pull into the lot on the side of his store, and he pushes the car into park, stepping out while I walk around the front to take the driver’s side. He takes out his backpack from the back seat for his summer class in the afternoon.
