Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

Still sitting on the couch, I perch my elbows on my knees and tell her, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“It’s my own fault. I lied and told Stella that I was leaving that party to go back to our dorm. When she got home and I wasn’t there, she panicked.”

“What did your dad say?”

“He’s freaking out, of course. He didn’t want me to live in the dorms in the first place, so this will be another addition to his list of reasons I’m not mature enough to handle going to school in New York.”

New York? I’m guessing that’s a dance thing, and I don’t like the way that thought leaves me feeling. I don’t like feeling like she’s about to fall through my fingers at any moment.

“Why don’t you stay? If Stella’s calling back your dad, there’s no reason for you to rush back in the middle of the night.”

She frowns, coming closer and pushing her fingers through my hair. “I can’t. Knowing Dad, he’s probably already had my RA and even the dean on the phone. I need to be there in the morning in case anyone decides to check up on our story.”

“Can’t you just tell the truth?”

“Carson.” The look she gives me is sharp.

“I don’t mean about me. Just say you were at a friend’s place and fell asleep watching a movie. It happens. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“As nice as it is to hear someone else make that argument, it won’t work. I don’t really have any friends besides Stella. And you.”

I stand and fold her into my arms. “Okay. But text me when you get there. And in the morning, after you talk to your dad.”

“I will.”

She pulls back to leave, grabbing her purse, but she doesn’t make it to the door before I stop her again. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, slipping past her lips for one last sweet taste.

“I know it was on a couch and only a few hours, but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

After she leaves, I don’t bother going back to my bed. I fall back down on the couch where it still smells a little like her, and stay awake just long enough to get her text that she made it safely back to the dorm.

I DON’T SEE Dallas for the rest of the weekend or on Monday or Tuesday. On Wednesday, I take it out on the weight room and everything in it, including Ryan.

“You have really got to get that friend-zone shit under control, man. You’re distracted, and I’m not too keen on being the dude you drop hundreds of pounds on when you’re not paying attention.”

I shake my head and stare at the floor, then do as he says, picking up the bar and throwing it above my head in a dead lift with all the strength I’ve got. Then I drop it back to the mats several feet away from where Ryan is leaning against a weight machine with his ankles crossed.

“Friend zone isn’t really the problem anymore.”

“Oh, do tell.”

I roll my eyes while he grabs a nearby chair and straddles it like he’s settling in for story time.

“I can’t really talk about it.”

He nods and makes a sound of affirmation. “Gotcha. She’s in the CIA, right?”

“Oh yeah. CIA agents really have a thing for college students.”

“Do not mess up my fantasy, man.”

“You’re such a geek. Of all the fantasies in the world, that’s the one you choose?”

“Hey, we’re talking about you here, not me. So, if she’s not CIA . . . let me see. She got a boyfriend?”

I shake my head, going for another dead lift. I grit my teeth and growl as I struggle to lift the weight all the way up. The moment that I drop it is almost as bad as the lift itself—that lightning-fast transition between holding all that weight and releasing it, makes my joints twinge.

“No boyfriend. Hmm . . . former lesbian too ashamed to admit you dragged her back into the closet?”

I bark a laugh, not even bothering to tell him no.

“I got it. You’re banging Coach Cole’s daughter.”

He laughs, and I drop the bar I’m holding before I ever get it past my waist, surprised.

Ryan has to jump out of the way to avoid a few crushed toes and his laugh trails off into dead silence. His face morphs into an expression that makes me want to drop that damn bar on my own head.

“Fuck, man. You are . . . Fuck! Are you crazy?”

“Yes,” I answer, because really, that’s all there is to it.

“You just . . . you’re . . . Oh my God, man. You better be wearing a rubber. I’m picturing your mangled body if you ever knock her up and the big dude finds out.”

“Shut up.” I cut my hand across my throat in a warning gesture. There’s no one near us at the moment, but I’m paranoid. Dallas’s rule strictly forbids me from telling anyone. I’ve already botched that up and don’t need someone else accidentally stumbling on to the knowledge. “We’re not . . . I’m not banging her, as you put it. We’re just seeing how things go.”

At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what we’re doing. We texted back and forth over the weekend, and she didn’t seem like she’d changed her mind, but she said she had church with her dad on Sunday and some dance thing on Monday and work on Tuesday. A small part of me is worried that she’s blowing me off. Okay, a big part.

“Seeing how it goes with the coach’s daughter . . . ”

“You’re going to take a dumbbell to your balls if you say that out loud one more time.”

He knocks on the back of the metal chair he’s straddling like it’s armor, and I’m moving forward to rip him off the chair when he holds his hands up.

“Relax, man. I won’t say a word. But you know”—he coughs instead of saying Coach’s name—“won’t be the only person you have to worry about. There’s Abrams, too. The guy’s an asshole, but no one talks about an ex as much as he does unless part of him still wants her.”

“I don’t give a fuck what Abrams wants. He’s not getting anywhere near her, whether we work out or not.”

Ryan nods, and after I do my last dead lift, growling a little more than is probably necessary to get me through it, he mercifully changes the subject.

“Speaking of Abrams. Dude is finally figuring out how not to shit the bed every other play.”

I stretch my neck from side to side, and then roll out my shoulders. “I know. I don’t know what it is, but he’s kicked it into another gear.”

“Maybe he felt you breathing down the back of his neck.”

“Maybe.”

Ryan checks his watch. “I gotta get to class, but let’s get lunch before you come back here this afternoon. What’s the closest cafeteria to your class?”

“Schaefer,” I say, and my stomach flips. That’s Dallas’s dorm.

“All right. I’ll meet you there. Try not to injure any pedestrians in your frustrated state.”

The only person I’m really in the mood to hurt is myself. If I didn’t have to get to Spanish, I’d stay and punish myself for another couple hours. I have a feeling I’m going to have to do more than my usual run to clear my head this afternoon.

It quickly becomes clear that I should have just stayed in bed today when my Spanish professor lays my failing test on my desk just before the end of class. I shove it in my bag and make a beeline for the door.

It stays there, taunting me through my next two classes. Those taunts merge with all my thoughts about Dallas, and Ryan might actually be right about me posing a risk to strangers.

I don’t say a single word when we meet up outside Schaefer for lunch, and he must sense my mood because he doesn’t say anything either. I don’t let myself think about Dallas’s dorm somewhere in the floors up above me as I stalk down the stairs to the cafeteria in the basement.