by Ginger Scott
My phone rings, and Casey flails his hand around the sheets next to us until he finds it, then throws it to the floor. He lifts me up in one single motion to lie flat for him, my arms still tethered and my eyes still covered in his shirt, and for the next hour, I let him do anything he wants.
* * *
Casey takes me back to my car near the club, and I make it home around lunch, and I can smell chocolate baking when I enter the house. There’s no use in hiding any of this. It was either come home in the dress I wore to the club last night or walk into the house in a pair of borrowed sweatpants and T-shirt from Casey. I was going to get stares either way, so I opted for the soft comfort of wearing him home instead.
When his eyes hit me, my father pauses at the exit from the living room with a small plate and fork from whatever snack he was sneaking in his hand. I step inside the house, and I offer a tight-lipped smile as I hold up one hand for hello, my dress gathered in a pile under my other arm.
“I was…” I start, but then my father holds up his hand, clearly not symbolizing hello, but stop.
“You were nothing. And the teasing about you and Casey is no longer funny to me, so just…go get ready for your party,” he says, not able to look me in the eye.
I nod and look down to my feet, which are still in my boots, Casey’s sweats stuffed in the top. I look ridiculous. This is how those magazines get those absurd pictures of famous people doing the walk of shame.
My father moves on to the kitchen, his back to me while he rinses off a plate and dries his hands. I watch for a few seconds, but decide nothing is really going to make the awkwardness of this any better, so I eventually retreat to my room.
“You look good in Casey’s clothes,” my brother says from behind, following me inside. I grab my chest when he startles me, but chuckle when I look down at my form. Only Lane would think I look good like this, and it’s just because he thinks Casey is cool.
“Thank you,” I say, tossing my dress to the corner and turning to sit on my bed so I can yank my boots from my feet.
“Mom said you shacked up,” Lane says, stealing my breath. My face falls and I fling my boot to the floor as my mouth stumbles for some type of response. “That’s like a sleepover, right? I want to shack up with Casey sometime. Is he coming to the party? Maybe I’ll ask him.”
I shut my mouth and keep my focus on my other boot, which I take off more slowly—buying time. I’m mortified that my brother overheard this and that my mother said this, probably in a conversation with my father.
“You should,” I say, looking up at him with a smile. Something funny should come out of my humiliation. “I bet Casey would like that.”
“Cool,” Lane says, leaving me in my room alone. I close the door and let my head fall flat against the wood.
I’m embarrassed. I should be. This situation…it’s super embarrassing. But I’m also…happy. And I’m not nervous, or worried, or feeling like I’m not good enough for something—I’m just happy. Content. And I actually feel kind of beautiful.
I pick at my guitar for an hour before finally showering and drying my hair. I decide on my comfiest pair of jeans and match it up with my vintage Bangles tank top and the necklaces Sam made me with small bottles of pretend potion at the end. My phone dings just as I finish pulling my hair back in a braid, and I skip to it, excited to read that Casey is out front in the driveway.
Then, his next text comes.
Your dad is walking out of the house.
My brow furrows and I glance to the window. I take a few steps forward to glance out, and I only see Casey’s form sitting in his car, typing on his phone. I type back.
I don’t see him.
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?
“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 fucking 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.
But I also kind of think it’s the girl.
I would do anything for this girl. And if the time came where I could no longer make her smile, I would want someone else to try. I’m not sure what that is, but I have a feeling.
Her bare feet glide across the carpet as we walk to her bedroom, our bellies sick with rich chocolate cake—the best I’ve ever had. I was greedy and took a second piece, and when I couldn’t finish it, Lane slid it from my plate to his. He said I was like family so germs didn’t count. Family.
This is some family. And Murphy is some girl.
I watch her fold up her guitar case, tucking a few loose picks inside along with her familiar notebook.
“Were you playing?” I ask.
“I started to, while I was waiting for my hair to dry,” she says. I love the way she’s looking at me with sideways glances—bashful, the memory of last night fresh in her mind.
“Something new?” I ask.
She shakes her head no, but I bet there are a lot of ideas hidden in there. She’ll show them when she’s ready.
“Can I open my card now?” she asks, pulling it from her back pocket where she had it tucked during dinner. I shrug, a little embarrassed at how silly my gesture feels now. If I’d had time, I would have done something more—given her a better gift. This was all I could think of at the moment though.
She slides open the envelope and pulls out the thick stack of notebook paper stapled at the seam. Quirking a brow, she moves so she’s sitting on her bed, holding the makeshift booklet in her
lap, and I sink to my favorite spot on her floor and begin pressing my hand into the carpet just like I did the last time I sat here.
“Senior year,” she reads, and I look up, pulling my hat from my head and resting it on the floor next to me. Our eyes meet, and I urge her silently to keep turning pages.
She laughs lightly, folding the paper down and turning it to face me so I can see the round circle with bright red lips and yellowish brown hair.
“You don’t have to show me; I drew it,” I say, smiling on one side of my mouth.
“Am I going to get more dirty pictures?” she jokes.
I give her a tight smile and our eyes meet and pause for a beat before I shake my head no.
I watch her flip each page, and I can tell from her expressions where she’s at in the book—her giggle at my sad attempt at drawing the basketball team and the hand she puts over her heart when she gets to the page I drew of my favorite picture of her. I wish I drew better, because Leah’s silver crayon could never do those eyes justice. In the margins around each picture, I wrote kind words from made-up people all saying how amazing she is, how beautiful and how they know she’s going to be a star.
When she reaches the final page, her fingers turn it slowly, and my heart races so fast that I have to lie down, my hands folded over my chest while I watch silently as her eyes scan back and forth reading. Eventually, I close my eyes and picture the words, having memorized them the moment I wrote them on the page.
Some will adore you.
They will be captivated by your voice and fall for you because of your kindness.
Others will envy you.
They’ll yearn for your talent, want your success, and covet your spotlight.
The world will know you. For all of the best and right reasons.
Time will prove me right.
But in the meantime, I will simply wish for you.
I’ll wish on stars, on pennies, on candles at half-birthday parties.
I’ll wish for you because wanting you isn’t enough and having you is too fleeting. And should we find ourselves apart, I’ll wish twice as hard, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be lucky enough to run into you in one of our dreams.
