“Well, we’re making progress with calculus.” He snorts before stepping back from the countertop. “I’m not touching the pie, okay? I’m leaving it right here. Do with it what you will. Just know that I’m offering to help you. No limitations, noconditions, no catch. Just volunteering my time to help a girl stay in the university she worked hard to get into.”
Is he being considerate? My instincts aren’t buzzing like little flies in my mind. Usually, I’m pretty good at detecting lies. I learned how to after my mom died and wasn’t sure if people were genuine around me or just felt pity toward me.
The answer was always pity.
Very few people make the list of showing genuine sincerity. Carson is one of them. Apparently.
I inch closer to the countertop, closer to the fresh scent that lingers on him. This is probably the part where I agree to this right? Well, there’s still one stipulation.
“What’s in it for you?” The only thought that went through my mind.
If Carson’s surprised by my question, then he doesn’t show it. Instead, he lifts a brow. “Can’t I just do something out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Nope.”
He sobers up. “Cynical much?”
“Just not naive,” I retort. “You have to want something.” Everything goes both ways. It’s not some trauma-induced cynicism. Merely just common sense, in my opinion. He offers me pie and a chance to boost my grade. I should give him something in exchange, right?
I watch Carson think about it. This is the first time I’ve ever really paid attention to his reactions. His brows scrunched up and after a while, he shrugs. “I got nothing.”
I feel my eyebrows lift. “Nothing,” I repeat.
“Nothing,” he echoes. “I’m perfectly content,Just Diana. If anything, you’d be doing me a solid by giving me something else to do other than schoolwork, going to classes, and bothering my roommates. You can only do so much.”
Why do I not believe him? I’m tempted as fuck to call Carson out on his bullshit but my sushi is starting to get warm—it’s always the best when cold—and I’m really hungry, so I just dismiss it.
“Fine,” I answer, just ready to get this over with. “I’ll take you up on it.”
He lets out a breath—of relief or something—and grabs his jacket, heading for the back door. “We start tomorrow. Meet me at the village.”
“Wait, tomorrow?” I exclaim. “That’s too early.”
He doesn’t even look back as he throws his jacket onto one shoulder. “The sooner the better, Diana,” he calls out as he leaves.
Now it’s my turn to take a deep breath and exhale. I’m going to be in for a long, long, few weeks.
6
Growing Tolerance
Carson
The sad part about this is that Diana was the first person to ask me what I wanted out of this tutoring gig.
No one—not even my twin sister nor my parents—has asked me what I wanted. In the past twenty years. Maybe I’m diving a little too deep into just one question or Diana cares about something regarding me.
For the first time—even if it was just a moment of relapse for her—I didn’t feel like an afterthought.
Again, a little sad.
I’m sitting in the middle of the village, watching people ride on bikes, a couple of people on skateboards, or waiting in line for poke bowls. Before finding a table, I picked up a snack from Trader Joe's and started munching on the bag, headphones in, and listening to the self-titled Hozier album. With bonus tracks.
Typical Saturday for me.
I’m halfway through the bag of Trader Joe's-style spicy corn chips when Diana approaches the table with her bag slung over her shoulder, dressed in an outfit that most people wouldn’t takea second glance at—just a light beige sweater and ripped blue jeans. With her? She makes it look pristine.
I pull out one headphone with my clean hand to provide my full attention.
