All Lined Up

Chapter 9 Dallas

Dad’s truck is missing and the windows are all dark when I pull up outside our house. I slap my hand against the steering wheel, now only angry with myself. There’s only one other place I know that he could be, so I head back to the university and the athletic complex.

Sure enough, his truck is there, along with half a dozen other vehicles. My stomach churns as I climb out of my car and head for the entrance.

Dad might not always be the best father, but I’m just as awful at being a daughter.

Still not familiar enough with the layout of the building to know exactly where I’m going, I head down a brightly lit, sterile white hallway, reading the plaques beside the doors. Toward the back of the building, I reach an open door and hear noises coming from the inside.

I step inside an expansive weight room, painted in Rusk University red, and then immediately wish I hadn’t.

The room is empty except for two people.

One of whom is on the short list of people I would cut off my hand not to have to talk to at the moment.

Silas stands about ten meters from me, a bar filled with an impossible number of weights laid across his shoulders. He bends his knees in a squat, his face colored red with effort, and his eyes meet mine.

“You all right, pretty girl?”

His words are surprisingly devoid of flirtation, and they smack of something almost like concern. I reach a hand up to pat at my hair, wondering if he can tell by looking at me that I just had a breakdown of Britney proportions.

“Is my dad around?”

It’s the trainer spotting him who answers. “He’s in the office, I think. Through that door and then to the right.”

I nod and head off in the direction he pointed. There’s a door propped open, but the lights are dimmed inside. My feet stutter to a stop when I see Carson seated on the couch, watching game film. He has one ankle balanced on his other knee, a notebook perched on his leg, and a pencil tapping pensively against his lip. The sight of him stirs something in my chest.

I guess I didn’t empty myself quite as well as I thought I had.

As if he feels my eyes on him, he glances away from the television briefly, his eyes darting back to stay when he registers who I am. He sits up straighter, dropping his propped-up foot to the floor, and the notebook follows with a thud. He’s showered and changed into sweats, and I can see the number twelve printed just below his hip.

Number twelve.

I suck in a breath. The thought of him out there on that field still stings, but when I think back to the way he dropped the ball, I know that he didn’t know who I was until today. I didn’t realize how much that was still bothering me until I felt the relief wash over me.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes flick to my right.

I can guess who’s standing there by the split second of fear on his face before he shutters his expression completely. I turn to see my dad leaning on the doorjamb to his office, the bright light behind him pouring into the dim room.

I don’t know what to say . . . not to either of them.

So I stalk past Dad into the coaches’ office in silence, and Dad closes the door behind us a few seconds later. The office is large, with a table in the middle, rolling chairs, a few computers, and a couch shoved into the corner. Though the comfortable couch beckons me, I take a seat at the table. It feels safer somehow. Dad sits down across from me, and the frown he fixes on me tells me I’ve got a lecture coming.

“Would you care to explain to me where you’ve been? I called. Several times.”

Yeah, and you’re not alone there.

“I-I’m sorry, Dad. Something came up, and I needed to . . .”

“Something came up?” he asks sternly. His elbows come down hard on the table, and he lays his forearms down flat, leaning toward me.

God, that sounded insensitive. Like running errands was more important than his birthday. Let’s try this again, Dallas.

“I, uh . . .” I’m surprised to feel my chin tremble, and I’m reminded of why Dad and I don’t talk much. He’s the only person who gets under my skin, the only person I can’t seem to keep my cool around. “Things haven’t been easy. Starting at a new school, starting at Rusk.”

“If this is about that New York school again, we’ve talked about this.”

It’s not about Barnard or even about dance, but for whatever reason, I can’t resist arguing whenever this subject comes up.

“Dad, I get more of a challenge out of my dance lessons with Mrs. Dunlap than I do out of these classes. Do you realize what a waste of time and money it is for me to do dance here?”

“So pick a different major.”

I jerk backward like he’s slapped me.

“Why is it that you talk to your players about goals and living up to their potential, but when it comes to me and my dreams and what I could achieve, I should just settle for something more convenient?”

Dad bristles, sliding his chair back from the table a few inches. “These young men have scholarships. They’re getting an education in addition to their role on the team. Some of them may have a chance at playing professionally, but the rest of them aren’t fooling themselves into thinking that success will be handed to them.”

“So you just think I’m not good enough, is that it?”

His cheeks go so red they’re almost purple, and just like me, I see his natural inclination is to jump to anger. “I didn’t say that, Dallas. We both know you’re very talented, but—”

“But I’m not getting the chance to prove it. That’s the difference, Dad, between your players and me. You never even let me apply to Barnard. You wouldn’t even listen to me when I talked about auditioning at any other schools. If you had, maybe I would have a scholarship, too.”

“And what would you do afterward? Hmm? Open a studio like your teacher? She’s barely keeping that place afloat, and you know it.”

My anger bubbles over because he’s right about that at least. Dunlap Dance Academy has definitely seen better days. I teach two classes a week there in exchange for free dance classes just because I know Mrs. Dunlap can’t afford to pay me, and she’s getting too old to teach the number of classes she used to cover by herself.

“Central Texas isn’t exactly a thriving dance environment, Dad. Why do you think I wanted to leave?”

His lips press into a thin line, curling down at the corners. He gives these tiny, hard shakes of his head, and I know he’s trying not to yell at me.

“I wasn’t about to let you go traipsing off to New York City by yourself. You’re too young. You’re not ready.”

In the end, it’s me who yells first. “You mean you’re not ready!”

I stand up before I say something I’ll regret. Before I say the one insult that always lurks on my tongue when these arguments get really bad. I’ve never said it, but in the very worst corner of my soul, I know it’s the one thing I could say that would put an end to these fights for good.

Dad won’t let me leave because he can’t handle a repeat of Mom.

I march toward the door and fling it open, but Dad’s not ready to let me leave. Even though Carson’s still sitting there in the film room, he demands, “You still haven’t told me where you’ve been tonight. You don’t just take off without saying anything!”

I clench my fists, and turn back to Dad because facing him is better than facing Carson. Knowing he’s here in the room, watching us, cools some of the heat in my blood. I know I’m not my most mature when I’m around my father. He treats me like a little girl, and sometimes out of habit, I find myself playing the part too well.

As calmly as I can manage, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave like that . . . not today. I had every intention of going to dinner with you.” I can’t bring myself to say it’s his birthday out loud, too worried about what Carson will think of me if I do. “I . . . found out something that upset me.” My voice cracks ever so slightly. “And I just needed to be alone. I went for a drive, and I lost track of time.”

Dad comes to his senses then. Whether he heard the pain I tried to hide in my voice or realized we had an audience or something else, I’m not sure. But he backs off.

“Don’t worry about dinner. It’s fine. Are you . . . are you okay now?”

He takes a step toward me, and lifts his hands up like he’s going to take hold of my shoulders or hug me even, but stops and crosses his arms over his chest instead. There’s a softness in his eyes that I’m not used to seeing, and it makes the guilt rattle even louder in my chest.

I bypass his question and say, “Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow night. I’ll get takeout from Tucker’s and meet you at home after practice.”

My diversionary tactics do not go unnoticed, but Dad’s not any better at talking about emotional crap than I am. So he nods. He crosses the few feet between us, and we share one of those awkward side-hugs that are the only kinds of hugs we’ve ever really had.

Before I dart out the door, I say, “See you tomorrow night.” Then I make eye contact with Carson, and by the slump of his shoulders, I know he’ll be expecting my text message canceling our walk tonight.

I was planning to cancel that long before I ever fought with Dad.