Page 81 of The Dixon Rule

“That’s my girl.” Dad changes the subject. “Oh, about the Labor Day potluck—Larissa’s asking if you’ll make your potato and bacon salad.”

“Of course. I legit don’t know how to cook anything else.”

His laughter tickles my ear. “I still can’t believe your mother paid all that money for you to take those cooking classes a couple summers ago.”

“Major fail,” I agree.

The worst part of that was, the only reason I capitulated was because Mom implied that we’d be taking the class together. Like a sucker, I allowed myself to think she truly wanted to bond with me. Turned out she never intended for us to do it together. She signed me up because my grandmother, her mother, made a disparaging comment the previous Christmas about what a shame it was that I’m such a terrible cook, and Mom can’t look bad in front of her proper southern family. That’s unacceptable.

“I can’t wait to have you home,” Dad says gruffly.

A lump of emotion clogs my throat. “Me too.”

“All right, I gotta go, kiddo. Talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The tears threaten to spill over again. My dad has such faith in me. My whole life, he’s raved about how resilient I am. How there’s nobody else he’d rather have his back.

Going to the police about Percy would be so damn embarrassing. Dad knows everyone in law enforcement, so even if I wanted to hide that I was pressing charges, the news would eventually travel back to him. And then my mother would find out too, and knowing her, she’d say it was my fault for provoking Percy. Mom always scolds that I need to watch my temper.

At home, remembering my vow not to let Percy’s actions send me into hiding, I change out of my camp clothes and into a swimsuit. Shane and I are supposed to go over details for the competition, so I text him to meet at the pool instead of my apartment, then force myself to go outside and walk the path toward the swimming pool.

My pulse quickens the closer I get. I’ve avoided all the neighbors this week because of my face, but I assure myself it’s fine. If someone asks, I can feed them the same excuse I gave Shane and Gigi.

To my relief, the pool area is deserted when I arrive. I find a pair of loungers, get settled, and pull up the NUABC website on my phone. I need to reexamine my entire strategy. Kenji and I were going to perform the tango for our audition video, but with Shane’s height, I think we might have a better shot qualifying with a Latin dance.

I still can’t believe he agreed to be my partner. When Shane showed up the other day, I was still reeling over what happened with Percy, and suddenly someone was offering me a lifeline, a distraction. Sure, that someone was Shane Lindley, but I’d been looking forward to competing for a whole year, and now the opportunity was back in my grasp.

“Jesus Christ, Dixon,” Shane grumbles five minutes later. He’s lying on the chair beside mine, also scrolling through the website. Cursing, he lifts his head in dismay. “This is intense. What is this? The American Nine? Dixon! This says we have to do nine dances! Four ballroom and five Latin.”

“Relax. We’re not entered in that event.”

“How are we entered in anything if we haven’t even qualified?”

“Because you send in the application before the prelims. Kenji and I signed up for American Smooth Duo and American Rhythm Solo.”

He relaxes. “Oh, okay—” Then he pales. “Wait. What? That’s two events.”

“Yup.”

“We’re doing two dances?”

“Three, actually.”

He stares at me in appalled accusation.

“It’ll be okay. You’ve got this. The duo event is the tango and waltz. Solo is the cha cha.”

Shane looks sick. “Dixon.”

“What?”

“I will not, nor will I ever, perform a dance called the cha cha.”

“Okay.” I shrug. “You can call Lynsey and tell her we’re dropping out.”

“Fuck.”

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