Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

“Busy, I know. Trust me , I know.”

Dad looks almost hurt. For a second.

“I was going to say that I was trying to respect your space. I thought if you’d wanted me to know, you would have told me.”

“Well, you got that part right.”

“Damn it, Dallas. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m trying here.”

“Too little, too late, Dad. It’s been years, and honestly, it’s not a conversation you really want to have. Just . . . don’t accuse me of doing drugs with him or wherever this conversation was heading. I’m not giving you another reason to call me irresponsible or to tell me I’m not ready to be an adult. Because whether you like it or not, I am one.” I think of just how drastically Levi has changed since the moment I first met him. He was sweet and shy and so good to me. “I’ve realized something . . . We don’t get to know what’s going to happen to us. And anything can come along and ruin our plans, change our world, change us. I’ve given in to you on so many things because I just keep telling myself that I have time. But I can’t keep planning for a future that might never come. That’s not living.”

For the first time in my entire life, Dad doesn’t have an immediate counterargument. He just asks, “So what are you going to do?”

I make this weird noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob because, ironically enough . . . I don’t know.

We don’t even have a real practice, and yet by the time I head out to the parking lot, I feel more exhausted than I have in weeks.

They’re worried about other team members being on drugs, both recreational and performance enhancing. So we all took a standard drug test, and it looks like they’ll be bringing someone in to do blood tests for HGH, too.

I should probably stay and work out considering I’ve done nothing since this morning, but I just can’t find the energy. Barring some other crazy happening, I’ll most likely be starting on Saturday in Levi’s place. That should be motivation enough to get my ass in gear, but it’s just . . . not.

I wanted that starting spot, had worked hard for it. But a part of me had accepted that I would never get it, and I think that I was relieved.

I certainly never thought to get it like this.

When I get to my truck, Dallas is there waiting for me, sitting on the hood. I look around. She’s not exactly being covert. Most of the team left before I did, but there are still people heading to their cars and leaving for the night.

“Hey. You didn’t have to wait for me. We could have met at my place. Or I would have come to you.”

She shrugs. She’s wearing that leather jacket again, her hands stuffed in her pockets. Her long legs are crossed at the ankles, her feet dangling off the hood of my truck.

“I didn’t really feel like going anywhere.”

I step closer, running my hand from her ankle to her knee before holding it out to her. One hand appears from her jacket pocket, and she laces her fingers with mine.

“I’m not complaining. I just thought you didn’t want to advertise this.”

She sighs. “I don’t. I was angry and feeling a bit reckless.”

“You and your dad?”

She nods. “He just makes me so angry sometimes.”

“Come on.” I help her slide down off the hood, my hands lingering on her hips for just a second. “Let’s go to my place, and you can tell me about it.”

I help her into my pickup, mostly as an excuse to touch her, and then I drive over to where her car is parked at the edge of the lot, then we head to my place separately.

Once we’re both inside, she sheds her jacket and shoes, and my body kicks back into normal gear, alerting me to just how hungry I am. I had barely anything at lunch, choosing Dallas over food. I’m tempted to do it again with her sitting on my couch, relaxed and perfectly at home, but one loud growl of my stomach tells me that she’s not going anywhere. Food first.

I order pizza and eat a sandwich while we wait. I offer to make one for Dallas too, but she laughs. “I think I’ll be fine with just the pizza, thanks.”

I sit down on the couch, sandwich in hand, and say, “Okay then. Tell me what happened with your dad.”

“Ugh. He’s just clueless.” She scoots closer and lays her head on my thigh. “He thought Levi and me were still friends or something, and wanted to know if I knew about the drugs or was involved. I don’t even know. Most days, I swear it’s like he doesn’t even know me. You’d think he would have at least picked up on a few things since I was in diapers, but nope.”

I let my sandwich-free hand drift through her hair, wrapping the deep red strands around my fingers.

“Do I still get to ask personal questions?”

She leans into my hand and says dramatically, “I suppose.”

I pause for a few seconds, brushing my thumb across her temple, wondering if I really want to go there. In the end, my need to know everything I can about her wins out. “Where’s your mom?”

She purses her lips, and her feet point, then flex, and point again before she answers. “I don’t know. She left before I could walk. They met in college. Dad played football. She was a cheerleader. She had me their first year out. Dad’s first year coaching. They weren’t married. They were going to after I was born, but then she had really bad postpartum depression, so they just kept putting it off, and then one day . . . she left. She never came back. Dad never looked for her. That’s all I know.”

“Do you think he misses her?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know. He doesn’t act like it. It’s always just been about football. He’d pick us up and move us to wherever. He gets this high from fixing programs, turning them around. You’d think after he was done we could just stay and enjoy it. Enjoy the things he built, but no. It’s always off to the next place.”

“You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose?”

“What? Like he’s looking for her?”

I shake my head. “Like he’s fixing everything else so he doesn’t have to fix himself or fix your relationship.”

She stays silent for a few moments, her eyes directed at the ceiling, while she chews on her lower lip.

“Do you ever think that maybe that’s all people do? Fix some things and break others? And we all just live in this giant cycle where we screw things up and hurt people we love, and then we turn around and try to atone for that by fixing others things. And maybe we’re all just waiting on our turn for a broken heart and the person who will fix it.”

“Are we still talking about your dad?”

She sits up, and her hair falls around her slumped shoulders. She stays silent for so long that I’m pretty sure she’s done answering my questions for the night. Just when I’m about to pull her to me again, she says, “I think I break more than I fix.”

Her voice is low and hollow, and it kind of echoes in my ears, until I feel sick with pain for her.

“You know what you need to do?”

“Grow up?”

I brush all her hair to one side of her neck and lean down to kiss her shoulder.

“You need to dance.”

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “This again?”

“I’m serious. It’s what fixes you. I can tell by the way you talk about it.”

Her answering smile is sad. “How is it that you can see that when you’ve known me for so little time, and he can’t?”

I know she’s talking about her dad.

“Sometimes it’s hard to see past our own broken pieces.”

I want to say that they’re really not all that different. They’ve just found different ways to heal themselves, but I’m not sure it’s the time for her to hear that. I think she might need to figure that out herself.