“Oh, big deal. Say you’re sorry. You guys will fight again next week, and you can be mad at him all over again. With a new computer.”
“I’m tired of pretending we’re okay only to end up at each other’s throats again. It’s not healthy.”
“You really want to have a conversation about what’s not healthy?” She leans on the high-top table next to me and mimics, “Oh, Stella, he’s so sweet and so nice. And I think I really like him. OH . . . JK HE PLAYS FOOTBALL HE’S DEAD TO ME.”
“That’s not how it happened!”
It’s kind of how it happened.
“Oh, sweetheart. The denial is squeezing all the fun out of you.”
“Nothing is squeezing me. You know I’m not the romantic type.”
“All that denial is like a pair of Spanx around your heart. You’re not romantic because you don’t let yourself be.”
“That’s a lovely visual. So what? I’m the Grinch? My heart is three sizes too small?”
“Not three sizes too small. It’s just cranky. As anyone or anything would be after being corseted up for years on end.”
Stell’s an art major. And she’s always talking about my life in terms of metaphors, most of them depressing.
I ignore her and finish logging on, so that I can print my GCE assignment. Gender, culture, and ethnicity in dance. Surprisingly, with how weak my studio classes are, it has ended up being my favorite class, in part because the professor, Esther Sanchez, is the most legit dance professor on staff. I would have loved to have a studio class with her, but after an injury a few years back, she doesn’t teach them anymore. She’s in charge of all the theory, composition, and history courses.
“At least tell me that you’re gonna try to meet someone else, then? We could go out this weekend. One of the art history majors is having a party at his place.”
I ignore Stella in favor of plugging in my USB drive.
It’s been two weeks since the catastrophe with Carson, and he’s texted me twice since then to ask me if I was going to a party. Or more correctly, He’d told me not to go. Each time I’ve asked around the next day, trying to discern if any parties got busted or had major drama, and both times I’ve come up empty.
Other than that, he hasn’t texted me, and I haven’t contacted him. Despite saying I would.
A small part of me wonders if he tells me not to come because he’s going to be there, and then I get irrationally furious over a party I really had no desire to attend anyway. Especially considering he was the one throwing around the F-word like it was actually a possibility for us.
Stella straightens up beside me and grins in a way that cannot mean anything good. Before she can unleash whatever maniacal plan she’s formulating, I say, “There’s this guy in my English class who I’m kind of interested in.”
And by interested in, I mean he doesn’t make me want to bang my head into solid objects.
“Dallas.” Her tone is almost warning, and I know she doesn’t believe me.
“What? He’s nice. His name is Louis, and his family is from Latin America somewhere. He’s quiet, but really cute. And I bet he’d be a fantastic dancer. So really, you can stop bringing up—”
“Carson!” Stella chirps. I shoot a glare at her, but she smiles sweetly back at me before directing her gaze behind me. “Nice to see you again. Congrats on the second win on Saturday. 2–0 is a big deal.”
I stare at my computer, knowing that if I look at Stella, she’ll read the absolute terror in my eyes far too easily. I look over my shoulder at Carson, not turning around enough to look at his face. I only catch sight of his broad chest and the sexy stubble along his jaw before I turn back to my computer.
“Hey, Carson.”
I say it like I would say hello to anyone else I saw in passing around campus. Then I hit print and slide off my stool to escape to the printer.
When I turn back to my computer, Carson is sitting on my stool and Stella is halfway to the door, giving me a sly wave.
Damn you, Stella.
“ ‘Gender Neutrality in Modern Dance’?” Carson asks when I stomp up to my computer.
“Yep.” I end the word with a crisp pop, and I don’t even acknowledge him as I lean in front of him to grab the mouse and close out the document. I feel him suck in a breath beside me, and his muscular chest brushes my shoulder.
Either I forget how to use technology or the stupid mouse hates me, because I can’t get the arrow to move more than an inch or two at a time toward the button to log out at the bottom. I’m practically banging it against the table by the time I get the arrow where I want it.
While the computer logs me out, I tap my papers against the table to align them and then turn to leave.
I don’t get more than a few inches before Carson grabs my elbow.
“Can we talk?”
My eyes land on Katelyn Torrey watching us from one of the study tables. Katelyn is on the Wildcat Dance Team, and she’s hinted before that she’d like to see me try out for the team next year. But there’s a rumor that she and Levi hooked up on a few away games last year. The cheer and dance teams often stay in the same hotel as the players, and even though the guys have a curfew, everyone knows they sneak girls in.
As fun as a dance team might be, that is not a world I want to live in. Those girls . . . their whole lives revolve around the team. And I’d spent enough of my life with football as my unforgiving sun. And I certainly don’t need my private life whispered about all over campus like Katelyn’s is.
“I need to grab a book before class. You can talk while I find it.”
I pull my elbow out of his grasp and don’t wait to see if he follows as I make my way back into the stacks. I don’t actually need a book for class, and if I did, I sure wouldn’t find it in the reference section, where I slow to a stop and face him.
He picks a book on copyright off the shelf. “Planning to patent that angry look you’re giving me?”
I deepen my glare even as a flicker of worry at the back of my mind wonders how unattractive my expression is.
“Talk, Carson.”
“You don’t need a book?” he asks.
“I don’t need people gossiping about seeing us together, and neither do you.” First it would get back to Levi, and I could only imagine how obnoxious he would be. Then Dad would hear, and I didn’t have the energy to fight wars on two fronts with him.
He scoffs. “You severely overestimate my importance on the team and at this school. No one gives a crap who I am.”
“I do.”
When he looks at me with darkened eyes, I realize my response could mean two things, and I rush to correct. “I care that you’re on the team. I told you I don’t date football players.”
“And I told you, I’m not asking for a date. And technically, I am a football practicer. I’ve yet to step a foot on the field during a game. Shouldn’t that get me a little slack?”
He grins cheekily at me, and I hate that even with all the anger I can muster, it’s not enough to keep one corner of my mouth from pulling up in a half smile. When his eyes drop to my lips, I slam my walls up as fast as I can.
“Doesn’t matter. Say what you want to say, because I need to go.”
I’ve got class, and then I’m starting a new job at the campus Learning Lab. Basically, I’m a tutor, writing and Spanish mostly (since those are the two things I tested out of and am good enough at to provide help), though from what I hear, more often than not I’ll end up helping people figure out how to work the lab computers.
Whoop-de-doo.
It’s a start, though. If I want to save money to get away from Rusk and go somewhere with a decent dance program, I’ve got to begin somewhere.
Carson runs a hand through his hair and sighs, drawing my attention back to him. My eyes scan the way his body tapers out from his waist to his strong shoulders. God, his arms are my weakness. I remember how one of them slipped up the back of my shirt, surrounding me and pinning our bodies t
ogether.
Too much. Abort. Abort.
He says, “I just want you to know that I get it. I get why you want nothing to do with me or football. I’ve seen enough from guys like Abrams and Moore to get your hesitance.” I lift my chin to show their names don’t bother me. “So anyway, I just wanted to let you off the hook. I understand, and . . . it’s cool.”
He pauses for a few moments, then nods his head and walks away. It’s not until he’s completely out of my sight that I let myself acknowledge the disappointment weighing heavy on my chest. A part of me had wanted him to push again, to poke and prod my reasoning until I had a decent excuse to give in.
When Katelyn’s eyes meet mine as I cross the library toward the exit, I straighten my shoulders because, disappointment or not . . . this is for the best.
I SPENT AN hour whining to Stella about how boring my first day at the Learning Lab was, only to find myself wishing for more boring when Carson McClain walks in on my second day. It’s late, with only an hour left before we close for the night, and there are only three tutors working. I’m the only one not already with another student. He’s wearing university sweats and a Rusk T-shirt. His hair is wet, and I’m willing to bet he just came straight from the practice. I don’t think he sees me. He just checks in at the front, stalks through the room, takes a seat at the station in the far corner of the lab, and starts pulling out his books and things.
I hesitate . . . just for a moment. Then I suck it up and go do my job.
“Can I help you?”
He doesn’t look up as he opens an English textbook and flips through a spiral covered in chicken-scratch writing. He smells fresh and clean and masculine, and I tell myself I should take a step back. I don’t.
“Yeah, I have to do an outline for my . . .”
He looks up and trails off.
He doesn’t say anything, but his expression tightens and his light blue eyes don’t dance the way they usually do.
“Hi,” I say, since he doesn’t seem too keen to begin the conversation.
“Never mind,” he says. “I think I’ve got it on my own.”
He looks down, and those words are like a punch to the chest. So much for him being “cool” with it. I look down at the page he’s turned to in his textbook.
“Working on an outline?” That’s right up my alley. If he’d been doing math, I’d have a good reason to walk away. “What kind of paper is it? Persuasive? Informative?” He doesn’t answer. “Did the professor say if the outline required complete sentences or just subjects?”
He stops writing whatever illegible thing he’s been scratching out in his notebook. “Dallas. I’ve got this. I don’t need your help.”
Stupid stubborn boy.
“Yeah. Riiiight. That’s why you came to the Learning Lab instead of just going to the library. Listen, we’re only open for another”—I checked my watch—“fifty minutes. And both Elizabeths are busy helping other students. You can wait, but there’s no guarantee either will be done in time to help you.”
“Both Elizabeths?”
I point to the other tutor closest to us, a pretty Latina girl with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my life. “Elizabeth A.” Then I gesture to the petite blonde on the other side of the room. “Elizabeth B.”
“How did you decide which one is A and which one is B? That seems a little unfair.”
I raise an eyebrow and point at the girls again. “Elizabeth Alvarez. Elizabeth Banner.” Then I cross my arms over my chest and give him my best smirk.
The corners of his lips tug up toward a smile for half a second before his mouth goes flat again.
He closes his spiral and his textbook and says, “I’ll just head home.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m pretty tired from practice.” He emphasizes the word, and I know he’s trying to get me to back off.
But . . . well . . . I do stubborn like Lady Gaga does weird, and the fact that he wants me to leave him alone makes me even less inclined to do it.
“Don’t be stupid, Carson.”
His jaw tightens, and he begins stuffing his things back into his bag.
Okay . . . so maybe calling him stupid when he came for tutoring help wasn’t the best word choice, but I’m not exactly known for being sensitive and polite.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Just . . . stay.”
“It’s fine, Dallas. I’ll see you around.”
Then he’s gone.
And I want to punch myself in the jugular.
Chapter 12
Carson
I’m fine with my decision to walk out, right up until the moment I sit down on my couch and attempt to resume working on my outline by myself.
The professor has us doing outlines for an informative paper on a current event of our choice. I picked a random headline off CNN.com, and after I type up all the notes I’d scribbled down by hand, I’m left with a bare-bones outline that I may or may not have done correctly. I still have no idea what to put for all the A and B and C lines, let alone the i’s below those.
And it’s due tomorrow.
That’s a big giant fuck if there ever was one.
I pick up my phone and dial Ryan. He’s taken to showing up during most of my extra workouts, and we talk during those. I’m not sure I would really qualify us as friends yet. But he’s my only choice, really.
It rings and rings, and I’m left with his voice mail.
Damn.
“Hey, man, it’s Carson,” I say into the speaker. “If you get this tonight, give me a call back. Nothing big, I just have a question. If you don’t get it tonight, don’t worry about it.”
I hang up and slump back into my couch, exhausted.
Levi’s pulled off two wins in a row. They haven’t been pretty. Too many errors, but he’s had just enough impressive plays to make my chances of taking his spot even slimmer. And if I’m honest . . . I’m not sure how long I can keep this up.
I’ve almost dozed off when my phone beeps and I jerk upright. My eyelids are heavy as I grope for my phone to read the incoming text.
It’s not from Ryan, but Dallas.
So I’ve been thinking about this whole friendship thing . . .
I blink a few times to make sure I’m really awake.
And?
And I think I can handle it.
If you can.
I can’t tell if her second text is just an additional thought or a challenge. Not that it matters. My response is the same. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of her. I’d told her I wasn’t a good student, but giving her a front row seat for it was different. But tonight, I didn’t have much of a choice.
Are friends allowed to help other
stubborn friends with essay outlines?
Sure. I’m working tomorrow morning from
8 to 11 if you want to swing by.
I can’t. It’s due tomorrow, and I
have classes then.
And I’m the idiot who procrastinated. I start typing out a message asking if I can call her when she replies.
What’s your address? I’m already out. I’ll just swing by.
Oh shit. Shit taking a shit on a shit.
I jump off the couch and take a look around my messy living room. There are free weights strewn around the open space on the far side of the room. Sweats and towels and balled-up socks are strewn all over. And yesterday’s dinner still sits on the coffee table in front of me.
I throw the old food out quickly before answering her text. Then I’m in a mad dash to make the place at least somewhat presentable. With sweatpants thrown over my shoulders, my arms full of miscellaneous things, I kick a stray pair of shoes back toward my bedroom and hide it all there. My phone buzzes with another text, but I don’t look at it. There’s too much to do in too little time. I throw the weights in the corner, gathering a few more pieces of dirty laundry to stash in my room. I don’t get time to address the bathroom or the kitchen before a knock sounds at
my door.
Damn it.
“Just a second!”
I pull the shower curtain closed and flip off the lights in both the bathroom and the kitchen. I’m left with only the lamp beside my couch on, and I think maybe the low light will help hide whatever I didn’t manage to straighten.
I take a few seconds to calm my breath before I open the door.
It doesn’t help. Not when I see her. Her hair shines in the light cast by the porch light outside my door. Her long legs are crossed at the ankle, and she’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt in a way that makes me smile.
I school my expression so I don’t look too eager and say, “Hey. Come on in.”
She steps inside, but she stays near the door. She looks around, and her eyes fall on the lone lamp, and I can tell she thinks I’m using the low light for something other than hiding my lack of cleanliness.
“I can’t stay long,” she says. “But I was on my way back to campus after a quick run to the store, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to swing by. Especially after I ran you off earlier.”
I shrug, still gripping the open door.
“It’s my fault. I don’t like asking for help.”
She laughs. “Join the club.”
Her shoulders relax, and I take that as my cue that it’s safe to close the door.
I move toward the couch, straightening the cushions before I take a seat in front of my English homework piled on the coffee table.
“Thanks for doing this. Next time I won’t wait until the night before to try and get help.”
“It happens. Procrastination is my natural state of being.” She sits down on the couch with nearly a full cushion between us. “So tell me what you’re working on.”
I slide my computer over so she can see what I have so far, and hand her the CNN article I printed out. I fill her in on what I’ve already outlined and explain that I’m having trouble filling out more of the outline.
She looks it all over in silence for a minute or so, then pulls my computer off the coffee table and onto her knees.