Cry? Never.
I turn the music up so loud that it actually hurts my ears. I drive and drive too fast until I’m past the university bubble, past the city limits sign, and eventually . . . past the danger of crying.
Thirty minutes outside of town, I pull over at an empty rest stop. I sit in my chair, eyes closed, and I dance in my head. I imagine what it would feel like to put movement to this anger, this frustration so deep and black that it’s like a creature tearing through my bloodstream. Part of me is tempted to get out of the car and do it for real, right there in the sprawling Texas countryside. I choreograph a dance that’s hard, maybe too hard for me to actually perform, but when I see it in my mind, I leap higher than ever and throw myself across the dance floor with no thought to whether it will hurt. There are no pretty pointed toes or soft, arched arms. There’s no build, no highs and lows. I imagine someone like Dad screaming in my ear as I dance the whole thing at full speed, as I drag myself across the floor until I just can’t anymore. There is desperation and pain and when it’s over, I’m emptier than I’ve ever been.
And I didn’t even dance it for real.
I get out of the car then, not to dance but to sit on the hood of my car and stare up at the bruised night sky. They say Texas has a big sky. But I’ve always thought out here where there are no buildings and no people and you can see for miles in every direction, it actually feels like the sky isn’t big enough. Like it’s been stretched out over the land, and just barely reaches each horizon. At any minute it might peel back or tear right open having finally been stretched just a little too far.
So Carson plays football.
So he plays football for my dad.
It’s just another truth to face, and I’ve had plenty of practice with that.
I just have to accept that whatever childish, hopeful fancies I’d been imagining about how things might play out between us . . . that’s all they are. Imaginings. He won’t want to take the chance of dating me, not when it could endanger his spot on the team. And even if he does, I’ve already been down that road. And though some things about the next four years are doomed to be repeats of high school, this doesn’t have to be one of them. I won’t let it.
Hell, maybe he already knew. Maybe he’s friends with Levi and Silas, and he just did a better job of fooling me.
I take several gasping breaths, all of a sudden in danger of crying again. I breathe and breathe and breathe and wrap my arms tight around my middle like my limbs are a corset, squeezing me in tight. I hold myself together by sheer force of will.
When I climb back into my car some time later, it’s just past eight o’clock, and it’s only then that I remember my dad. With a groan, I dig for my phone in my purse.
Thirteen missed calls.
What must Dad be thinking? I’d run out of there with no word, no excuse, nothing. It’s been hours.
I unlock my phone, and my jaw drops.
There are thirteen missed calls all right. But only three are from Dad.
The rest are from Carson.
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.