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.
And then there’s no telling what would happen to us, to me. If he moved to some other university, would he make me go with him? Would he trust me enough to let me stay at Rusk? Not that I actually want to stay at Rusk, but it’s a better option than a lot of the universities he could end up at.
He needs the win. Carson needs the win.
Hell, I think I need it, too.
After dad has rewound one portion of the film three times to watch it again and again, I finally cut in and say, “It’s gonna be okay, Dad. The team is ready. Carson is ready. It will all work out.”
He finishes chewing the brisket he’d just scooped into his mouth and surveys me. “Isn’t it supposed to be my job to say everything’s gonna be okay?”
I shrug. “That’s one job with plenty of work to go around. Besides . . . you know what you’re doing. You’re wasting energy second-guessing yourself.”
“Some days I think I’d be better off sticking my head in the sand and rolling the dice. That’s how much I know what I’m doing.”
I shoot him a half smile. “Interesting visual. I’d like to see that.”
He shakes his head, shoveling another helping of brisket into his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you don’t like football. Never have.”
“Not never, Dad. There were moments when I really loved it, actually.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
“It’s not easy coming second to a sport, Dad. You’ll have to forgive me if I handled it badly sometimes.”
He sets down the remote that he was holding in his left hand so he could stop and manipulate the film as needed.
“Is that what you think? That football was more important to me than you?”
I consider his question for a moment. Yes, a big part of me thought that, but that was the side of me that tended toward dramatics.
“It’s not that I think you saw football as more important, but more that you connected better to football than you ever did to me. You understood the game, and it understood you back. And I was left on the sideline, confused and on the outside of both.”