All Lined Up (Rusk University 1)

Chapter 11

Dallas

Why don’t you just tell your dad?” Stella asks.

I sigh and haul myself up onto one of the uncomfortable stools in front of a library computer. “Because we had another argument, and I’d have to apologize to get him to buy me a new computer, and I’m not there yet.”

“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.