Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Foster stared at the math problem like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics, his pencil gripped so tightly I was amazed it hadn’t snapped.
Math wasn’t always the easiest subject for some people, but his struggles weren’t from a lack of intelligence. He was sharp in conversation, quick-witted, and had a great memory when it came to real-world examples. But the moment numbers came into play, it was like his brain short-circuited.
His jaw clenched, and then he set the pencil down and dropped his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the table. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” he said again louder, defeat suffusing every ounce of his voice and body.
We’d been stuck in the same frustrating loop for two sessions now, and neither of us knew how to break it.
I was honestly astounded by how much he was struggling and how he’d even made it to the college level without understanding some of the basics.
“How have you gotten past math before?” I asked him.
He grabbed the back of his neck, and I tried to ignore the way his biceps bulged.
“Honestly, I’ve kind of avoided it as much as possible. As far as college level classes, I pushed them off as long as I could. In high school, I had…friends who helped me out.”
The way he hesitated on friends made me think maybe they were more.
“Girls,” I clarified.
He smiled sheepishly, but there was still a hint of shame in his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah. Not that I’m proud of that. They would offer and I would accept their help.”
His smile fell. “My dad…he’s kind of a prominent figure in our community where I grew up in Bozeman.”
“Hold up. You grew up in Bozeman and you didn’t go to MSU?” I was shocked. There was a lot of pride in our state schools. Since Montana State University was in Bozeman, it surprised me that he’d come to Clark Fork University instead.
He chuckled. “Everyone in my family has gone to CFU. So that’s why I came here. Plus, a friend of mine was part of the group that restarted the hockey team here, and I really wanted to be a part of that—help it grow and get established.”
He had done just that. I might have tried to avoid him as much as possible because of what happened freshman year, but it was impossible to deny the impact he’d had on the sports community here at CFU.
He leaned forward, and I pretended like my breath didn’t catch at the close proximity and the way his subtle cologne wafted into the air. “Why don’t you like me?” he asked.
“I like you just fine,” I said, brushing off his question as much as I could and focusing back on the task at hand.
But his hand covered the sheet we’d been working on, and when I looked up, his blue eyes caught my gaze. Once again, my breath caught and it was infuriating that my body still responded to him, despite the humiliation he’d once made me feel.
Maybe I should go to campus health and see if I was developing asthma or something.
“Abby, did I do or say something that offended you?”
Now I was struggling to breathe for a whole different reason. I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth. It was embarrassing enough that I had to remember it, but to say it out loud… absolutely not.
“No, of course not.”
“When I walked in here you were talking to that other tutor girl and you had this big, gorgeous smile on your face. How come you don’t smile like that with me?”
I knew we were at a higher elevation here in the mountains, but it felt like the air thinned instantly at his question. Did he just call my smile gorgeous?
“Maybe I don’t smile like that because we’re not friends. I’m working. Just because I don’t fall all over myself around you—”
He held up his hands. “Woah, I didn’t mean I expected that. Maybe I’m not as articulate as I thought I was. All I’m saying is I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m not sure why, but I’d really like to correct it. And maybe we can become friends.”
“I think right now we should focus on this math,” I said, tapping my pencil against the sheet between us. “Talk me through your thought process on this one.”
Foster let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He was distracting when he did that. Distracting in general, really. But now was not the time to let my brain wander.
He talked me through where he was getting stuck and just continued to confirm what I already suspected based on research I’d done.
Because I was a thorough tutor—not because I cared about him.
“Okay, let’s try something different.”
I grabbed a blank sheet of paper and slid it toward him. “Rewrite the problem, but say it out loud as you do.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, wary. “Rewrite it?”
“Yeah. Just copy it exactly. And say each number and symbol as you write it.”
He sighed again but picked up his pencil and complied. “Okay…um. Three point five, divided by…wait, no, times—” He stopped, frowning at what he’d just written.
I gently nudged the textbook toward him. “Check it against the original.”
His frown deepened as he compared the two. “Shit,” he muttered. “I flipped the division sign and multiplication sign.”
I nodded again. “Do you mix up symbols a lot?”
“I…I guess?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, numbers always look jumbled to me. Sometimes I think I read them right, but then when I go back, I realize I swapped them around.”
“Foster,” I said carefully. “Have you ever heard of dyscalculia?”
His brows pulled together. “Is that like dyslexia?”
“Sort of. But with numbers. It’s a learning difference that affects how people process numerical information.
A lot of people who have it struggle with recognizing patterns in numbers, mixing up digits, or having trouble holding numbers in their short-term memory for calculations. Does any of that sound familiar?”
He blinked at me, silent for a long moment. I watched as something flickered across his face—reluctance, maybe. Or maybe something deeper.
He exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Are you suggesting that’s the reason I’ve always struggled with math?”
I nodded.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion and vulnerability shining in his eyes.
The urge to reassure him kept me talking. “Your brain just processes numbers differently. We can work around it—with smaller steps, visual tools, things like that. And if you want, you could even get tested for accommodations.”
He stared at me, his expression shifting again to something between relief and something else. The usually confident, easygoing facade was gone, and my chest tightened at the sight of this version of Foster Kane.
“You’re saying…this isn’t just me being stupid?” he asked quietly.
I reached across the table and couldn’t stop myself from covering his hand with mine. “You’re not stupid, Foster. Far from it. I promise.”
He held my stare, and the weight of understanding that passed between us had me holding my breath, afraid to break the moment.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s try again.”
And for the first time since we started tutoring, I saw something new in his eyes.
Hope.