5. I’ll Take The Pie
5
I’ll Take The Pie
Diana
Just as I’m getting settled into the pull-out couch in the tiny-ass living room with my laptop, a can of cherry cola Olipop, and some leftover takeout from yesterday’s Japanese late-night excursion, the fucking doorbell rings.
Who could be coming here this late? Everyone else is at a party—I didn’t care to ask for the details, knowing damn well that I wouldn’t be attending—and even the guys next door joined. My family back in Miami didn’t plan a visit so…
I’m extremely confused.
The doorbell rings again.
Can’t a girl watch Harry Potter and eat day-old sushi without interruptions? I want just one night to myself, where I can forget about all my responsibilities and the people in my life who drive me crazy. This is not the time for unwanted guests, even in my least respectable pajamas—my Hufflepuff set I bought at Universal Orlando with the logo so worn out it’s almost gone.
The doorbell rings a third time and I groan out loud. Since it’s just me, I hesitantly stand up and remove the blanket from my shoulders.
Maybe I need to be more social. I’m not shy, like my roommate Emma, but at least she chooses to go to parties and have fun. When I envision having fun, getting drunk, and grinding on sweaty frat boys is not the picture I paint in my head.
To each their own, I guess.
I don’t even look into the peephole before opening the door and finding Carson Ryder, standing on my porch with a box in one hand. The box isn’t even what catches my attention—nor is the black leather jacket that he dons, which shouldn’t have made him look more like Logan Huntzberger than he already does—but the fact that he’s even here has my gears spinning.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I decide to cut straight to the chase. “What are you doing here?” He could’ve used the back door but that’s not at the forefront of my mind at the moment.
“Wow, what a way to greet your neighbor,” he says with a hint of sarcasm, which vanishes as he takes in my pajamas. Again, not a pair I would feel comfortable wearing in front of anyone outside my family and roommates.
Carson does not fit in either category.
“What are you doing here?” I repeat, enunciating each word and drawing his attention from my slippers and back to my eyes. “There’s no one else here.”
“I know,” he responds casually. “I came to see you.”
What? He came here specifically to see me? That seems out of character for him—actually, him showing up without any of his buddies in the middle of a Friday night with a random box in hand is out of character for Carson.
I still don’t say a word when Carson just lets himself in, stepping aside from me, my shoulder brushing his chest. Woah, that’s a hard chest if I’ve ever felt one and he smells earthy, almost woodsy. Why is he making it so hard to be mad at him?
“You didn’t go to the party?”
“What’s with all the questions?” Carson sets the box on the countertop and takes a seat on the couch, next to the pile of blankets I had made for myself.
Please do not ruin it. If you were somewhat of a decent person not condemned to the Fields of Punishment, Carson whatever-your-middle-name-is Ryder, you would not ruin that perfect pile of blankets that took me longer to set up than I would like to admit.
Much to my delight, he dismisses the pile of blankets. “Well, if you’re so curious, Just Diana , then no. I didn’t go to the party.”
Good. Not that I even cared in the first place. I’m just more concerned about my blankets.
“I’m not that curious,” I argue.
“Admit it,” he pesters. “You were wondering why I, of all people, would grace you with my presence.”
I scowl. “More like why you’re choosing to bother me instead of anyone else.” That and what’s inside of the box.
“Well,” he begins. “I may or may not have overheard your little predicament from a friend of yours.”
“What predicament?” I am extremely confused. And—to no one’s surprise—annoyed. “Just cut to the chase, Ryder.”
“Lucia told me about how you’re struggling.”
My eyes widen. Seriously? She went behind my back especially when I told her not to. “That blabbermouth,” I mutter.
To preface, I’m attending university on a full scholarship—which I had worked four tirelessly long years of high school to achieve. It has always been that way as long as I could keep my grades up. That was never a problem for me until this semester when my calculus grade started falling faster than Hephaestus down Mount Olympus.
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 before in 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’s not struggling 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.
“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, no conditions, 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.