Puzzled, I twist the doorknob and waltz inside my house. Yeah, it’s already chilly outside and the Floridian in me has yet to adjust to the quote-on-quote perfect weather Los Angeles has to provide. There’s no way I’m staying out there.
I toss my bag onto the couch, which startles Emma slightly. “Sorry,” I apologize.
She shrugs and resumes her typing. “Don’t worry.”
I make myself more comfortable in the living room—by grabbing a cherry soda and sipping on it as I scroll through my phone. My brain needs a break from learning and it always comes in the form of mindlessly scrolling through social media like the girl that I am.
Five minutes later, someone knocks on the back door. Emma and I look up from our respective screens and glance at each other.
“Were you expecting someone?” She questions.
I shake my head. “You?”
“No, that’s why I asked.”
We stare at the back door for a minute before another trio of knocks is heard.
“Who’s gonna open it?”
Emma scoots her chair back, a bit away from the front door. There’s my answer. Emma Allen isn’t known for being extroverted. She’s one of the most timid party people I’ve everencountered. I don’t dwell on that when I stand up and open the door.
Instead, I dwell on the fact that Carson’s standing right in front of me, holding a black splint with a wry grin. “I thought I told you to wait.”
“It’s fifty degrees outside,” I retort. “No way in hell I was gonna wait any longer outside.” Not when heaters and air conditioning exist.
He chuckles softly. “You don’t tolerate a lot, do you?”
“Not true. I tolerate your bullshit.”
“What are you talking about?” He arches a brow, and the stretches of a playful grin start to appear. “I don’t speak bullshit.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “Sure you don’t.” I eye the splint he holds. “Why do you have that?”
Carson holds it out to me. “It’s for you. I figure you could use it for your wrist.”
“Why?” That’s the response that I voice out. On the inside, I can feel my chest flutter slightly and my brain is running laps in my head trying to figure out why he’s doing this.
“So it doesn’t hurt anymore.” He grabs my wrist and gently slips it on. The black brace is a little loose at first but he carefully pulls on the straps to tighten it. Not too much, but just enough. “Just slip it on when you’re home and it flares up again and take it off when it gets better. It’s pretty simple.”
I just stare at him, like he’s speaking a language I can’t understand. Why is he doing this?
More important, did he just have that thing lying around his house?
That’s really sweet of him, though. He’s helping me with something so minuscule and normal to me that it renders me speechless.
Like anyone with a set of functioning brain cells, Carson notices my lack of response. “Did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head out of the daze I put myself in—literally and metaphorically—as I lightly graze the black splint that now dons my wrist. “Not at all,” I manage to choke out.
I look back up to meet Carson’s gaze and his eyes soften in relief. “Oh, thank fuck,” he says in a low voice, which elicits a small yet quiet laugh out of me.
“Well, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” Carson steps back from the door. “I should head back. Sleep well.” He waves and trots over to his front door.
I watch for a moment longer as the front door to his house closes and it’s only then when I close the door of my own house and lean against it. Studying the splint wrapped around my arm, I allow a smile to escape for a second before Emma’s words break into my thoughts.
“Are you sure he’s just tutoring you?”
