11. I Don’t Know This Feeling
11
I Don’t Know This Feeling
Diana
“I thought we hated him,” Roman says as we walk away from the study room I spent my entire break in.
“Well, things have changed,” I announce as I grab the first two books on top of Roman’s cart and shove them onto the shelves. I didn’t even look at the author’s name or the genre. Athena—the goddess of wisdom—would be outraged.
“It’s been two weeks—surely your mind didn’t change like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“Again,” I reiterate, turning to face my friend. “Things have changed.”
He snorts. “They sure changed real fast, especially for you. A girl set in your ways.”
Roman’s right about one thing: I am pretty set on my ways. For me, if I feel something about it, then that’s it. Not much can change my opinion and I’d do anything to defend it.
“He’s just helping me with a class, that’s all,” I tell him as I grab books and place them neatly on the shelves. “After I pass, I can go back to ignoring him most of the time.”
“Or, maybe you like spending time with the guy.”
I shake my head vehemently. “Not possible. I just want to get this over with.” Passing my math class is currently my main priority. All of my other classes this semester pertain to my classics major.
Would it be crazy to say that I don’t mind the sessions Carson and I have been doing? Carson’s a lot smarter than I had pegged him to be. I know it’s rude for me to assume anything about his intellect but the guy doesn’t participate in class.
Plus, he tutors at a pace I’m comfortable with. He ensures I understand what we’ve just reviewed before moving on to the next chapter. That says a lot in comparison to our actual professor, who makes me question how he still holds a position at this school.
So, yeah. Roman might just be right about me liking how goofy Carson can get sometimes. I’d go as far as to claim that it’s almost…adorable.
But I digress.
“If it helps,” Roman continues. “The feeling is mutual.”
I turn to face him, brushing my curtain bangs away from my face. “What?”
“Carl.”
“Carson.”
He dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Whatever his name is. Pie guy. That fucker is such a flirt.”
I chuckle. “He doesn’t flirt and not with me.”
“It’s not okay to be blind to it, Diana,” he teases. “I’d suggest getting glasses so you can see better.”
I scoff. “My vision is fine.” I shove another book in between two paperbacks and wince when I see the covers fold slightly, leading me to mend it as best as I can.
“If it helps, I also need glasses.” When I raise a brow, he responds with, “To help me notice all the red flags that I should avoid at all fucking costs.”
We bust out laughing before Lottie shushes us from her desk. That woman has superhearing or something.
Roman and I get through the final two hours of my shift before I sign myself out. He still has to work a few more hours. I don’t envy him.
Once I’m out of the breakroom, I head up the stairs and immediately spot Carson at a table nearby. The common study area of the library is—for the most part—empty and unsettlingly quiet for a Thursday night. This is actually when I find most people pulling all-nighters to finish papers.
As I approach Carson’s table, I notice one thing and one thing only: he’s asleep.
His head rests on the table, strands of hair in front of his eyes. I inch closer to the table, careful not to wake him up. As I quietly sit down on an empty chair, I quickly become aware of his soft breathing patterns. It’s almost peaceful.
He looks kind of adorable when he doesn’t notice.
Dammit, Diana! You should not be thinking about your tutor like that.
I don’t think about anyone like that. It’s not that I have anything against crushes at all—I’ve had them before and even a couple of fleeting relationships—romance was something I’ve never put my all into. I’ve come to accept that I’m just not a hopeless romantic, and there’s nothing wrong with it.
Something on his right hand catches my eye. As I inspect, I notice it’s another Claddagh ring. I’ll admit: I may or may not have looked up Claddagh rings after Carson dropped me off at my house. Only because I was curious—no other reason behind it.
The band is much thicker than his sister’s was that night I found it and the band is rimmed with silver, with the hands-holding-a-heart symbol in the center. What I learned from that impromptu Google search is what it could mean, depending on how you wear it—specifically your relationship status.
If Carson wears his the way it is now—on the ring finger of his right hand with the bottom of the heart facing outwards—then it means he’s single.
I shove that tidbit of information towards the back of my head as his eyes start to flutter open. He takes a while to come to his surroundings before his eyes settle on me and he smirks lazily. “You checking me out, Just Diana ?”
I can’t resist an eye roll. “In your dreams, Ryder.”
“Don’t worry, I know how handsome I am.”
“And you’re humble, too,” I mutter. This guy…
Checking his watch, he grabs his notebook and bag and we stand up at the same time. “You ready to go?”
I nod and follow him down the stairs. Normally, on walks home, I play music to fill the silence and avoid talking to random people but it would be rude of me if I pulled out my headphones and started listening to Frank Ocean or One Direction.
So we walk in silence, which doesn’t seem to bother me at all. It’s quite comforting until I feel my wrist tense up as we cross the street.
Ugh, why now? It happens way too often these days. Granted, I spent the entire day taking notes and shelving books with my dominant hand. It didn’t like that.
Stupid, stubborn bones that never healed properly and refuses to.
When this happens, I just carefully massage it. It may not be the right thing to do but it helps alleviate the pain.
This is the exact moment Carson glances in my direction. More specifically, my wrist. “It still hurts?”
I shrug. “From time to time.”
We arrive at the front porch of my house. The lights are on inside, which doesn’t surprise me—all of my roommates are night owls—but I don’t move to the front door.
“Thanks,” I tell him before walking up the steps to the front door.
“Wait one second,” Carson tells me before walking towards the gate that separates the front year from the back and disappears.
Okay, what?
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 ever encountered. 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?”
I head towards the kitchen, grab a napkin, ball it up, and—with my left hand—playfully throw it at Emma. It lightly touches her glossy black hair before floating to the ground. She laughs at my disappointing attempt.
“I’m just saying.” Emma holds both hands up as if in surrender. “That looked a lot like something else.”
I raise a brow at her statement. “Like what?”
Placing her hands back down to her keyboard, she continues typing away. But only replies with, “like he’s crushing on you. Hard.”