I don’t know what to say . . . not to either of them.

So I stalk past Dad into the coaches’ office in silence, and Dad closes the door behind us a few seconds later. The office is large, with a table in the middle, rolling chairs, a few computers, and a couch shoved into the corner. Though the comfortable couch beckons me, I take a seat at the table. It feels safer somehow. Dad sits down across from me, and the frown he fixes on me tells me I’ve got a lecture coming.

“Would you care to explain to me where you’ve been? I called. Several times.”

Yeah, and you’re not alone there.

“I-I’m sorry, Dad. Something came up, and I needed to . . .”

“Something came up?” he asks sternly. His elbows come down hard on the table, and he lays his forearms down flat, leaning toward me.

God, that sounded insensitive. Like running errands was more important than his birthday. Let’s try this again, Dallas.

“I, uh . . .” I’m surprised to feel my chin tremble, and I’m reminded of why Dad and I don’t talk much. He’s the only person who gets under my skin, the only person I can’t seem to keep my cool around. “Things haven’t been easy. Starting at a new school, starting at Rusk.”

“If this is about that New York school again, we’ve talked about this.”

It’s not about Barnard or even about dance, but for whatever reason, I can’t resist arguing whenever this subject comes up.

“Dad, I get more of a challenge out of my dance lessons with Mrs. Dunlap than I do out of these classes. Do you realize what a waste of time and money it is for me to do dance here?”

“So pick a different major.”

I jerk backward like he’s slapped me.

“Why is it that you talk to your players about goals and living up to their potential, but when it comes to me and my dreams and what I could achieve, I should just settle for something more convenient?”

Dad bristles, sliding his chair back from the table a few inches. “These young men have scholarships. They’re getting an education in addition to their role on the team. Some of them may have a chance at playing professionally, but the rest of them aren’t fooling themselves into thinking that success will be handed to them.”

“So you just think I’m not good enough, is that it?”

His cheeks go so red they’re almost purple, and just like me, I see his natural inclination is to jump to anger. “I didn’t say that, Dallas. We both know you’re very talented, but—”

“But I’m not getting the chance to prove it. That’s the difference, Dad, between your players and me. You never even let me apply to Barnard. You wouldn’t even listen to me when I talked about auditioning at any other schools. If you had, maybe I would have a scholarship, too.”

“And what would you do afterward? Hmm? Open a studio like your teacher? She’s barely keeping that place afloat, and you know it.”

My anger bubbles over because he’s right about that at least. Dunlap Dance Academy has definitely seen better days. I teach two classes a week there in exchange for free dance classes just because I know Mrs. Dunlap can’t afford to pay me, and she’s getting too old to teach the number of classes she used to cover by herself.

“Central Texas isn’t exactly a thriving dance environment, Dad. Why do you think I wanted to leave?”

His lips press into a thin line, curling down at the corners. He gives these tiny, hard shakes of his head, and I know he’s trying not to yell at me.

“I wasn’t about to let you go traipsing off to New York City by yourself. You’re too young. You’re not ready.”

In the end, it’s me who yells first. “You mean you’re not ready!”

I stand up before I say something I’ll regret. Before I say the one insult that always lurks on my tongue when these arguments get really bad. I’ve never said it, but in the very worst corner of my soul, I know it’s the one thing I could say that would put an end to these fights for good.

Dad won’t let me leave because he can’t handle a repeat of Mom.

I march toward the door and fling it open, but Dad’s not ready to let me leave. Even though Carson’s still sitting there in the film room, he demands, “You still haven’t told me where you’ve been tonight. You don’t just take off without saying anything!”

I clench my fists, and turn back to Dad because facing him is better than facing Carson. Knowing he’s here in the room, watching us, cools some of the heat in my blood. I know I’m not my most mature when I’m around my father. He treats me like a little girl, and sometimes out of habit, I find myself playing the part too well.

As calmly as I can manage, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave like that . . . not today. I had every intention of going to dinner with you.” I can’t bring myself to say it’s his birthday out loud, too worried about what Carson will think of me if I do. “I . . . found out something that upset me.” My voice cracks ever so slightly. “And I just needed to be alone. I went for a drive, and I lost track of time.”

Dad comes to his senses then. Whether he heard the pain I tried to hide in my voice or realized we had an audience or something else, I’m not sure. But he backs off.

“Don’t worry about dinner. It’s fine. Are you . . . are you okay now?”

He takes a step toward me, and lifts his hands up like he’s going to take hold of my shoulders or hug me even, but stops and crosses his arms over his chest instead. There’s a softness in his eyes that I’m not used to seeing, and it makes the guilt rattle even louder in my chest.

I bypass his question and say, “Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow night. I’ll get takeout from Tucker’s and meet you at home after practice.”

My diversionary tactics do not go unnoticed, but Dad’s not any better at talking about emotional crap than I am. So he nods. He crosses the few feet between us, and we share one of those awkward side-hugs that are the only kinds of hugs we’ve ever really had.

Before I dart out the door, I say, “See you tomorrow night.” Then I make eye contact with Carson, and by the slump of his shoulders, I know he’ll be expecting my text message canceling our walk tonight.

I was planning to cancel that long before I ever fought with Dad.