Greek mythology humor.
Because of the midterm, my calculus grade is inching closer and closer to a D, which is not something I’ve ever gotten beforein my educational history. The only D I’ve ever received is the one in my name.
I’m already starting to hate that letter more and more with each passing minute.
“And,” he continues. “I’m offering my services.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Services?”
“To help you get your grade back up,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket. “I thought that was obvious.”
Carson is offering his help? Did hell freeze over? Is Zeus being faithful to Hera? What the ever-living fuck is going on here?
“What makes you think you’re qualified?” Knowing him, he’s probably never had to work so hard for anything a day in his life.
“For tutoring you in calculus?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
Carson casually cracks each knuckle in his fingers. “Firstly, I’m the only one in our class who’snotstruggling to keep up with Scott’s lectures.”
This we already know, since he scored the highest in the midterm.
“Secondly,” he continues, “you wouldn’t be the first person I’ve tutored in math. So if you think I’m highly unqualified, let me be the first to say that you’re wrong.”
“So?” I shrug. “I’m not convinced.”
His jaw slightly drops. “You’d rather fail a class than accept help from me?”
“Firstly, I can figure this whole thing out myself,” I mention. “Without anyone else.”
“Diana—”
“Plus,” I cut him off. “I don’t even like you.” With tutors in the past, I barely knew them so there was nothing to go off of. Carson, however? I can barely go five minutes without the growing desire to smack him upside the head.
“At this point, you don’t even have to like me,” he says, frustration lacing those annoyingly bright blue eyes. “Just tolerate me for long enough to get your grade up.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I ask, “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“See, that’s where this comes in.” Carson gets up from the couch and reaches over to the countertop, where the box I’ve been eyeing sits. He opens it to reveal…
A pie.
More specifically, a rhubarb cherry pie. Like anyone with the last name Blanco, I am utterly weak for cherries of any and all variety. How…
“Lucia said something about you liking cherries,” he explains, answering a question I didn't even speak aloud. Are his ears turning pink, or is the lack of sleep finally getting to me? “I knew I couldn’t come empty-handed so…”
“You’re gonna persuade me with food?” I purse my lips together, trying my utter best to hold back a laugh.
It helps, a little. But the action has Carson’s eyes drifting to my lips and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“It’s a peace offering,” he says. “My sister once said food was the equivalent of a white flag. Did I mention it was cherry?”
I stare at the pie, which looks oh-so tempting. “How do I know you’re not going to throw it at my face again?”
“Holy fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Are you still pressed about it? I didn’t intend on hitting you, you know. Jake was right behind you. How many times do I have to apologize for it?”
“The limit does not exist,” I huff.
