All Lined Up

Chapter 13 Dallas

I’m heading out when Stella comes home that evening.

“You going to the cafeteria? I’m starving!”

“Uh . . . no. I already ate. Sorry.”

She nods, stripping off a paint-covered T-shirt. “Dance class or work?”

God, why couldn’t I have just left five minutes earlier?

“Neither. Studying.”

She gives an exaggerated snore. If she knows where I’m actually going, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.

“Fine. Go do your thing. But first . . . I made something for you.” She drags her large portfolio bag that she uses to carry her artwork onto the bed. She unzips the top and reaches inside. “Ta-da!”

She thrusts a small canvas painting in my direction. In the center in thick, deep red is a heart (the metaphorical, not anatomical, kind). It’s painted so that it looks three-dimensional, like I could pick it up off the page. And down the center of the heart are black, string laces, pulled tight, and squeezing the heart, exaggerating its shape.

“It’s your corset heart. Remember?”

I remembered our discussion in the library before Carson had interrupted us, the one all about how I am laced too tightly to ever let myself fall in love. When I really think about it, that oppressed heart is a pretty damn accurate depiction, but as I hold it in my hands, I feel my stomach toss. I might be sick.

“You hate it,” Stella says.

“No, it’s really pretty. I love the colors.”

“But you’re not exactly a hearts-and-flowers kinda girl. I know. It’s fine.” She moves to take it back. “I’ll just paint over it. Try something new.”

“No!” I jump back, holding the small painting away from her. I clear my throat. “No. I’d like to keep it . . . if that’s okay with you.”

Stella looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really?”

I nod.

“Yeah. It’s all yours.”

I slip it in my oversized purse, say goodbye, and walk out the door.

I’ll keep the painting because it’s pretty, because Stella made it and against all odds, I love her. I’ll also keep it as a reminder of the person I’ve let myself become.

I DIDN’T LIE to Stella, not really. I just didn’t elaborate on what studying meant. Or more specifically, with whom I’ll be studying. I ran into Carson earlier today on my way to my geology class as he was leaving. He asked what I was doing tonight, I said homework. I asked him, and he answered the same. And when he suggested we do our homework together . . . at the same time . . . in the same place . . .

I agreed.

I volunteered to meet him at his apartment again because I still am not ready for the ramifications of hanging out with him in public. It seemed like a reasonable, harmless way to spend the evening.

Wrong. Oh so very wrong. In fact, I keep hearing that word, echoing like a gong in my head. I changed probably half a dozen times before settling on a simple pair of shorts (the longest pair I owned) and a V-neck tee.

And as I pull up outside his apartment, I am a mess. A hot mess. A steaming pile of . . . mess.

I know how dangerous this is. The potential stupidity of this night is epic in nature, but I still don’t turn around and get back into my car (even though I really should).

Between our interactions so far and the unfamiliar rawness in my chest that’s been chafing at me since Stella gave me that painting, I am not at all in control.

I should walk away. That’s what I do when I find myself in an unpredictable situation with immense potential for pain.

Most of the issues in my relationship with Levi had stemmed from the fact that I was always willing to be the one who walked away. We’d get in these awful fights (not unlike Dad and me), and they only ever ended in one of two ways—Levi backed down or we broke up.

Not normal, I know. But we always got back together. It had always felt like a given, until suddenly it stopped feeling that way. He set a state record for our conference; he and my dad started talking about playing college ball, and suddenly it felt like I wasn’t the only one willing to walk away if I didn’t get what I wanted.

So rather than walking away after our last fight, I gave him what he wanted. In the back of his pickup truck, parked in the lot at the football field of all places.

He walked away anyway.

I will never be in that position again. I will never be the person who cares more, because that person is always the one who hurts more.

And yet here I am, knocking on Carson’s door, telling myself that my heart is only in my throat because I’m out of practice at making new friends.

Yeah right.

“Just a second!”

I almost run. But then I imagine how ridiculous it will look when he opens his door and I’m sprinting down the stairs and across the parking lot like the crazies on Black Friday.

He opens the door, and if I hadn’t already sucked in a breath, I would have had to do it again. He’s wearing university sweatpants, hung low on his hips, with a thin white cotton T-shirt. His hair is wet like he’s fresh from a shower, and in a few places his shirt is damp and see-through, stuck to his skin.

I can smell him. Over the sticky September air, over the chlorine from the pool that his apartment overlooks, over everything.

“Hey. Come on in.”

This is such a bad idea.

But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.

He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.

Walk away.

I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.

“If we’re really going to be friends, I need some ground rules first,” I say.

When I was just stopping by for a few minutes to help him with homework, it wasn’t a problem. But hanging out two nights in a row is definitely a big deal. And big deals require rules.

His head tilts to the side, but he puts down his pencil and leans back on the couch.

“Okay. Whatcha got?”

“We don’t tell anyone we’re hanging out. Not yet.” Not until I know for sure this is something I can do without getting in over my head.

After a moment, he nods. “Okay. I won’t mention it to a soul until you’re ready to come out of the closet as my friend.”

I wince. “It’s not like that. I just . . . I can’t trust it won’t get back to my dad. You know what gossip is like here. And when he finds out, it should come from me.”

“Fair enough.” I swallow, acutely aware that it sounds like I’m negotiating the terms of a relationship that’s much more scandalous than a friendship.

“No questions about my dad. This should go without saying, but no using me to spend time with him. If you want to get on his good side, do it on the field, not through me.”

His eyes soften, and I swear my heart constricts like those imaginary strings around it have been pulled tight.

“I want to get to know you, Daredevil. Not your dad.”

I nod, glad to hear it, even though I’ve heard similar over the years from guys who turned out to be lying.

“If it gets to be too much, if it goes too far . . . either one of us just has to say the word, and it’s done. We walk away, and that’s that.”

His eyebrows knit together in an almost-scowl.

“You have this kind of contract with all your friends?”

“No,” I answer simply.

He waits, and I’m sure he’s expecting an explanation, but I don’t give it.

“Fine. Then I have a few stipulations of my own.”

I nod for him to go ahead. It’s only fair.

“Stay away from the other football players. Abrams, Moore, anyone who comes up to you in class or a party or whatever. If we’re keeping our worlds separate, then they need to stay that way. Completely.”

His voice is firm, an almost growl, as he says it. I don’t let myself think about the possessive edge in his tone. That’s a rabbit hole I can’t fall into.

“That’s an easy yes.”

He nods, but the troubled expression on his face doesn’t go away with my acceptance.

“We’re honest with each other, no matter how hard or awkward it is to say whatever needs to be said. We”—he uses a hand to gesture between us—“are a safe space. You can say anything to me, and I promise I’ll hear you out. I’ll listen. No matter what it is.”

I swallow, wondering just how honest he plans on getting, but I don’t refuse.

“Okay. Is that it?”

“You don’t walk away without an explanation. An honest one.”

“If that’s what you want.” It’s likely to be a brutal truth; it always is, but if he can take it, I can say it.

“All right, then. Come sit down.”

He scoots over, repositioning some of his papers so that there’s room on the coffee table for my stuff.

Last time, I was so caught up in keeping my cool and getting out of here as quickly as possible that I didn’t really look around. But this time I take a bit more liberty. The furniture is all older and generic, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it came with the apartment. The living room is dotted with athletic items—free weights in the corner, at least three footballs in various spots around the room, a basketball, an extra pair of tennis shoes. His playbook lies open on the coffee table next to his homework.

I sit down beside him gingerly, unnerved by how cool he is with all of this. Most guys would call me a nutjob and send me packing, especially when all those hoops to jump through are just for friendship and nothing else.

“What are you studying for?” I ask.

“Spanish,” he answers in a near-groan.

I laugh. “I take it foreign languages are not your thing.”

He pulls a pillow into his lap and lays a textbook across it. With his eyes on the page, he replies, “School is not my thing.”

He keeps scanning the page, so I take that as my cue that it’s not a subject that he wants to talk about. I bend over to rummage through my backpack for the book of essays I’m supposed to finish by tomorrow. It’s a thin book, not more than a hundred pages, but it’s drier than Dad’s attempts at cooking, and I’ve yet to manage to read more than one essay at a time.

I look over at Carson as I sit back, and catch him staring at the strip of skin on my back where my shirt has ridden up.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a little slow on the uptake when it comes to this friendship thing, huh?”

He grins. “Practice makes perfect.”

I roll my eyes and pull my legs up onto the couch, balancing the book on my knees and flipping open to the dog-eared page where I left off.

We work in silence like that for a while, and when I sneak the occasional look at him, he’s concentrating hard on the page in front of him, mouthing words silently. Verb conjugations, I’m guessing.

After I’ve read three essays, my brain feels like mush. Really boring mush. When I let out what is probably my fifth or sixth annoyed huff since I started reading, Carson’s eyes lift to mine.

“You want something to drink? Or eat?” he asks. “We could order in if you’re hungry.”

I wave a hand at him and stand up to stretch. Carson doesn’t try to hide the way his eyes follow my movement. “I’m fine. Go back to your Spanish. I just need to stretch a bit. I had a dance class this afternoon, and I stayed after to work on a piece of my own. Then I had another class tonight at my old dance studio.” Not to mention waking up bright and early for my shift at the Learning Lab. “I might have gone a bit overboard.”

He laughs and rolls one of his shoulders back. “I know the feeling.”

After laying his book on the coffee table, he stands and comes toward me.

“I think we’ve probably earned a break. What do you think?”

I watch him warily. “What kind of break?”

He moves close to me, and suddenly my muscles are tense for an entirely different reason. He reaches out, and I think he’s going to touch me, but instead he reaches past me and opens a cabinet next to his television that houses a few DVDs.

He doesn’t have to search long for the one he wants, plucking it right off the top shelf. He holds it out to me, and I laugh. “Aladdin? Really?”

“We could always watch Die Hard.”

“So we can listen to people shouting out your last name? No thanks, Bruce Willis.”

He shrugs. “I like Aladdin. It reminds me of the good old days.”

“When we were kids and our idea of homework was multiplication tables?”

“Nah. I meant the good old days when you were jumping off balconies and into my arms instead of down my throat.”

He’s teasing, and I’m glad for it because it loosens some of the remaining pressure in my chest.

I hold up my hands and give him an offended look. “Oh, excuse me! Next time I jump off a balcony, I’ll make sure I do more damage when I land on you.”

“Yeah, yeah, Daredevil. I know you’re capable of inflicting all kinds of damage. Now sit down and let’s relive our childhood.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m so sick of reading those damn essays, I would take just about any kind of distraction. He turns the TV on and gets the DVD ready while I grab a blanket off the back of a muddy brown recliner beside the couch. I toe my shoes off, then snuggle into the arm of the couch. I stretch my legs out just a little, leaving a comfortable space between myself and where Carson will sit. He stays standing as he clicks past the previews and to the menu. He starts the movie, and while the familiar Disney castle is forming on the screen, he switches off the light and returns to the couch.

In the dark, the space I left between us doesn’t seem like nearly enough. The opening music starts, casting the room in a soft red light, and his hand rests on the couch next to him, inches away from my feet.

My heart beats faster. Over feet. How stupid is that?

I chastise myself for being an idiot, but don’t feel quite so stupid when Carson takes hold of my feet and tugs them into his lap, making me slide off the armrest and plop down on the regular cushions.

“What the crap, Carson?”

He smiles, leaving my legs draped across his lap and spreading out the bottom of the blanket.

“It’s the only blanket I have, Cole. Friends share things.”

I grumble, “I am not a football player. Please don’t call me by my last name.”

He smiles and makes that universal sound that means Too bad. “Just treating you like any other friend, Cole.”

I scoff and jam my elbow under my head in an attempt to get comfortable, refusing to let myself glance at Carson even though I swear I feel him watching me. I’m also seriously undone by the feel of his muscled legs beneath my shins. Just when I’ve got myself propped up the way I like it, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.

I reach forward to grab it.

It’s from Carson.

You’ve got some janked-up feet, Cole.