Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

“Dad. What’s going on?”

He wraps the fingers of his left hand around the fist of his right and squeezes until I hear a few pops.

He swallows and his voice is scratchy and uneven when he speaks. “I realize that I have not always been there when you needed me, and I’m sorry. I won’t make excuses because none of them are good enough. But I can do better.”

I keep waiting for his yell to break loose, for this to turn into a fight. We’re in uncharted waters, and I’m in danger of drowning.

“I never wanted you to feel like you couldn’t talk to me. But I let my unwillingness to talk about how I was feeling dictate how our relationship worked, and I’m sorry.”

I feel tears prick my eyes, and I’m shocked that I even have liquid left in my body after last night.

“So I’m telling you now that you can talk to me. Whatever is going on in your life . . . I’ll listen. And I will always, always take your side.”

“Dad,” I start softly. “No offense, but you’re kind of scaring me.”

He chokes on something that might be a laugh, and drops his head down, pushing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “At least we’re on the same page there.”

When he finally looks back up at me, I raise my eyebrows and shake my head because I have no idea what’s happening here.

He sighs. “You’re really going to make me be the one to say it?”

“Considering I have no idea what it is . . . yeah. It’s gonna have to be you.”

He unlocks his phone and after a few taps and swipes, he hands it to me.

It takes a moment for my eyes to focus and process what I’m looking at. It’s blurry around the edges, but there in the center is me against a wall, looking up at Carson. The purple dress I wore last night is bunched up around my thighs, and he has his arm around my neck in a way that looks painful because of the expression I’m wearing, but I know for a fact that his touch was as soft as could be. His jaw is a hard line, and if I hadn’t been there myself, I would swear it looks like he’s hurting me. And with my dress all skewed, it looks even worse than that.

“Oh God. Oh my God. How did you get this?”

“Since the thing with Levi, I have a grad assistant keeping an eye on the players, their online accounts and stuff. I want to know what they’re getting into before it’s too late. He called me this morning to tell me he saw this popping up all over Facebook.”

I need to sit down, but my bed is too far away, so I just plop down on the floor at Dad’s feet.

“This is my fault,” Dad says. “I should have kept you away from athletes. They can be volatile and unpredictable, and now because of me you’ve been hurt by two of them.”

“Dad, no.” I pull myself up on my knees so that I’m nearly at eye level with him. “This is not what it looks like. Carson didn’t hurt me.”

His mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour.

“I know you don’t want to talk with me about these things, but I can’t ignore something like this.”

“I swear to you. I know this looks bad, but Carson is a good guy.”

He grabs the phone out of my hand and holds it up. “However you may feel about him, this is not a good guy.”

I can’t breathe. I might actually hyperventilate because this . . . this is worse than any outcome I could ever have imagined.

I grab Dad’s hands in mine. They’re big and warm and callused, and they’re shaking . “I swear to you, Dad. Carson was trying to help me. I’m not making that face because of anything he was doing to me, but because I was upset. He was trying to talk to me, to get me to calm down.”

“Your—” He hesitates, like he can’t even manage to say the word. “Your dress.”

I blanche. There’s no good way to explain that, and I’m too much in shock to think of something clever, so I settle for the truth.

“Carson and I have been seeing each other. I was planning to tell you this week, today even. I met up with him at a party last night after the game, but before I could see him, someone told me something, a rumor, that upset me. I thought . . .” Oh God, how could I say this? “I was stupid, and I thought that sleeping with Carson would make me feel better.” Dad’s hands jerk in mine, and I grip them tight enough to hurt. “He stopped me. He told me no. He knew I was upset, and I wouldn’t tell him why, and that picture is me trying to run away before he could make me explain. He’s the good guy in this. I promise. I promise .”

“There are rumors. People are saying—”

“I don’t care what people are saying! People are stupid. You said you would believe me and be on my side. Believe me about this.”

He turns his head away from me and clenches his eyes shut.

“The boy has only been here since August. You can’t have been dating that long because he hasn’t been here that long.”

I let go of his hands, sensing the shift in his anger.

“You’re right. We’ve been friends, I guess, since the first week of school. We’ve only been dating since right before the Levi thing.”

We’ve not actually said the word dating , but considering neither of us wants to spend time with anyone else, I figure we qualify.

He stands up abruptly, and I scuttle back out of his way. “A couple weeks, Dallas? Christ, you were going to sleep with that boy after two weeks?”

The look of disappointment he levels on me makes me feel so small, like I’m shriveling right there on the spot.

“It was stupid. I know that.”

“Damn right, it was. I raised you better than that.”

My first inclination is to get mad, to sling back insults and tell him that in fact, he did very little to raise me at all. But I swallow those words down. Push them so deep that I hope they’ll never see the light of day because I know he’s only yelling because he doesn’t know what else to do.

I know that because that’s what I do, and he must have raised me, because I ended up exactly like him. Terrified of the things I can’t control. Desperate to subdue all the things I can. Frightened of my own feelings. Frightened of everyone else’s, too. For all the teams he’s built, and games he’s played, and championships he’s won—deep down, we’re both just afraid to lose.

And if I fight now, neither of us win.

“You’re right,” I say. “You did raise me better than that. I’m sorry, Dad. So, so sorry.”

He purses his lips and swallows, paces back and forth a couple times, and then repeats it all over again. After he’s done that a few times, he takes a deep breath and says, “I want you to move back home with me.”

“What?”

“Don’t argue with me right now, Dallas. I’ve made mistakes. We both have. And I’ve still got time to fix them, and that starts with you moving back home until you can prove to me that you’re responsible enough to handle this.” He gestures around me at the dorm, but I know he means all of it. School. Dance. Work. Carson.

And even though it kills me, rips me into pieces, I nod and say, “Okay, Dad.”

I wait as long as I can bear, and when I show up at Dallas’s dorm on Sunday evening, it’s to find out that she’s gone, moved back home, and apparently the whole university thinks I’m abusive, possibly worse.

I get sick in the bathroom down the hall from Dallas’s room, literally sick over what she must think of me, what everyone (my coach included) thinks of me. Stella tries to convince me that Dallas isn’t mad, that she’s just placating her father, but I don’t hear her.

She went home with him. She hasn’t called or texted. It’s pretty clear what she thinks, so first thing Monday morning, instead of getting dressed for my usual workout, I walk into Coach’s office with my head held high and tell him, “I’ll quit the team.”