Page 15 of Red Zone
“I don’t want a back door.”
“Then get used to waiting.”
My hands curl into fists beneath the table. I can already hear the spiral forming—fast and hard and ruthless.
You’re falling behind. You’re not doing enough. You’re not enough.
“You act like I didn’t work for this,” I say, quieter now. “Like I didn’t earn this internship. Like I didn’t build my portfolio without ever once dropping your name.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
He exhales through his nose and stands, moving toward the window. The silence stretches.
Finally, he says, “I didn’t mean to undermine you. I know you’re capable.”
I don’t look up. “You just don’t trust me to succeed without your help.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Dinner is as awful as expected.
Nicole greets me at the door like I’m a guest, even though I grew up in this house. Emmy waves from the kitchen, and I give my best fake smile. Dad’s grilling outside, and someone put on an indie playlist that’s trying way too hard to sound casual.
If it was a normal evening with my dad and me, we’d be grilling burgers, popping a beer, and watching Sports Center. My entire life, I’ve lived, slept, and breathed sports. Some daughters may not have enjoyed their dad being a college coach, but any time he was out on the field, I was right beside him. Piggy tails sitting under my hat, extra freckles scattered across my cheeks from all the extra days in the sun.
Now, I perch on a barstool and pretend to scroll through emails to avoid the awkwardness that still lingers, even though they’ve lived here with my dad for a little over a year now.
Emmy chats about her AP Chem class and how she’s “thinking about going into sports medicine,” and Dad nods like it’s revolutionary. Nicole asks how my internship is going, but her eyes are already back on the salmon she’s flipping.
I answer with one-word responses. Smile when appropriate. Keep my posture perfect and my tone polite.
I am the definition of controlled.
But under the surface?
Chaos.
I use the thumb of my right hand to press into the center of my left, hard. Trying to find something to ground me when I can feel my eye starting to twitch on its own accord.
Everything’s in the wrong place. The wrong order. Too loud, too fake, too much.
Emmy says something about getting her senior portraits done next week, and Dad offers to “make a few calls” to see if the football stadium could be used as a backdrop.
I look up sharply. “You’re letting her use the field?”
“She asked. It’s not a big deal.”
“Pretty sure it is to the compliance team,” I mutter, or at least, that’s the line he told me when I had asked to do the same five years ago.
Dad’s eyes cut to mine. “It’s not a problem, Lyla.”
Of course not.
Nothing’s ever a problem for them.
I excuse myself halfway through dinner, saying I have an early shoot that I need to prep for.
