“Please, Carson. Just for a sec?”

I nod, and follow her back to the same obscure stacks containing books about copyright law that we spoke in a few weeks ago.

As soon as we’re away from prying eyes, she drops her bag and throws her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I was so stupid.”

By the time I slough off the stiffness in my shoulders enough to hug her back, she’s already stepping away from me.

“You okay?” I ask. That’s all that really matters to me. Everything else I can deal with.

“Humiliated, mostly. And very, very sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

She widens her eyes and nods. “Yes, I do. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t freaked out in Silas’s room.”

“You’re okay?” I ask again, hoping she knows that I’m referring to that night in particular because I don’t really have the words to voice it.

“Yeah, I am. I just heard this rumor, and—”

“The bet,” I say.

She jolts back a step. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Coach asked me about it.”

“Oh God. I swear I didn’t tell him that. I just told him that I heard a rumor. He must have gotten it from someone else on the team.”

“But that’s what you thought? That that’s what I was doing?”

“No!” Her voice is too loud, and a couple heads peek around the corner to look at us. She lowers her volume and starts again. “No. I didn’t think that. I questioned it for a few moments when I saw you being all buddy-buddy with Silas, but decided you wouldn’t do something like that. What followed wasn’t about the bet so much as it was about some other issues that I’ve been dealing with for years now. That was me trying to hit my self-destruct button, and using you to do it. And I’m sorry.”

“What other issues?” I ask, wondering what could possibly be so bad that she would have crumbled so completely.

“Issues we can talk about when there’s not someone eavesdropping the next aisle over.” She glares at someone through the gap between the top of a row of books and the shelf above it, and they scamper away.

“You moved back home?”

“Temporarily. Dad got a little worked up about everything, and I decided it was easier for everyone involved if I let him feel like he was in control for a little while.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

She looks shocked that I agree with her, like she expected me to put up a fight.

“You think so?”

“I do. I think we both took things a little faster than we should have, and we let it all spin a little out of control.”

She pauses for a few seconds, and then nods slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did.”

I step a fraction of an inch closer, and then stop myself. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dallas. I was worried.”

Then, for both of us, I turn and walk away.

Chapter 28

Dallas

They say misery loves company, and I’m fairly certain I occupy all of her time the next few days. I’m so pathetic, even she is probably sick of me. I go to class, while people whisper behind my back. I eat lunch with Stella, while people whisper behind my back. I gradually descend into madness, while people whisper behind my back.

I go to work, and I complete my homework, and I crawl home, where I spend most of my time alone . . . continuing to be miserable. Because even despite all that, things must keep moving. I have a plan, after all. Work. Save up money. Audition to transfer to a real dance program. And do what I have to do . . . no matter what Dad says. And now . . . that plan is kind of all I have left.

I take Annaiss up on her offer to talk. She asks me about the picture, and I tell her the same thing that I tell everyone who asks.

It’s not what it looks like. Carson would never hurt me.

At least not intentionally . . . not like that.

But I don’t want to talk about any of that. It’s still too raw and close to the surface. So, instead, we talk about dance. I tell her about Dad and my frustrations with his inability to see dance as a career. We talk about school and programs and summer intensives, and I concentrate on the things I can control.

Thursday morning, Dad asks if I’ll go with him to some dinner that a board member is hosting for a few faculty members and important alumni who are in town for homecoming.

I tell him no.

I am maxed out on pretending, and I just don’t have the energy or inclination to perform for a group like that.

So instead, I spend my Thursday curled up with the most depressing book I can find, one that will give me an excuse to feel sad without feeling pitiful also. I feel plenty sad when it’s over, but plenty pitiful, too.

I’m curled up on my bed, swaddled in blankets when there’s a knock on my door and Dad steps inside.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I brought Tucker’s home.”

I sit up, still strangled by blankets. “I thought you had that dinner tonight.”

He’s wearing dress pants and a tie that he struggles to loosen as he looks at me.

“I did. I went there, made my appearances, and then I came home to have dinner with my daughter.”

God, even Dad thinks I’m pathetic. I must be in terrible shape.

“Yeah. Give me a second. I’ll be right out.”

He closes my door, and I hear him walk down the hallway. I throw off the covers, and look down at the pajamas I changed into as soon as I got home. Eh. They’ll do.

I pad down the hallway, pause, go back and grab the smaller blanket off the foot of my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and then go to join Dad.

When he says he brought Tucker’s . . . he means he brought all of Tucker’s. I swear there’s enough food to feed the Weasley family for only the two of us.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I just got a few of your favorites. Figure we can warm up whatever we don’t eat later.”

“Thanks Dad.”

He nods, and starts piling various barbecued and fried meats onto his plate. I’m not all that hungry, but I do the same because I know he’s trying. He’s still Dad, though, so even with the thoughtful meal, we sit down on the couch in front of his giant television, and he turns on game film.

He’s nervous about Homecoming. We’re 3–1, and this game could set the tone for the rest of the season. It could decide whether the team bounces back from the drama with Levi (and the drama I caused with Carson), or whether it will crumble under the weight of it all. This one game could dictate the rest of Dad’s career in college football, or potentially ruin it. Rusk only signed him on a one-year contract, and even though nothing that’s happened has been his fault, they could easily refuse to renew his contract if they want to.