Page 41 of Left-Hand Larceny
One text. One helpful, no-pressure text from Ragnar, and I’m falling apart. What does that say about me?
My phone buzzes again.
He sends back a thumbs up and then a picture of Howl, sitting on a wide leather sofa. He looks like he’s giving the camera a major side-eye.
I grin.
Me:
I feel like he’s judging me.
Ólaffson:
He probably is, but it isn’t personal. He does that to everyone.
A soft laugh escapes before I can stop it.
I want to tell him everything. That I’m drowning in numbers and family pressure and this horrible, sinking fear that I’ll never be enough. That I’ll fail this class and lose the only job that made me feel useful. I’ll lose the friends I’ve made there. That I’ll keep disappointing everyone, over and over, forever.
I clutch my phone to my chest for a second, like I’m fourteen and in the middle of my first crush. Which, frankly, is embarrassing. I’ve been kissed. I’ve had sex. I’ve lived through heartbreak.
And yet… I’m practically melting over a man who sent me a dog picture and helped me with my homework.Am I twelve?
Pathetic, but I don’t stop smiling.
I go back to the problem set, a little steadier now, and knock out three more questions before my focus splinters again. My eyes flick to the laundry basket in the corner.
I could fold those clothes. It’s been over a week.
And I have some new books that need a home on my bookshelf. Which means I need to reorganize my mini library.
I stand, stretch, and wander over to straighten a stack of papers that absolutely did not need straightening. The mental itch for a different task is impossible to ignore. Anything other than the next equation. Anything but returning to the stupid chart with the skewed distribution that I don’t understand.
Fifteen minutes later I’ve reorganized my pens by color, filled up my water bottle twice, and spent ten minutes rereading a sticky note Ragnar once left on my clipboard during rehab.
Thank you for the coffee. -R
I saved it. Of course I did. Even before he gave me butterflies. Before the curve of his jaw sent lava to the pit of my stomach. It’s like I saw this coming. These squishy, warm feelings.
A knock sounds at the basement door, and I startle. My dad steps in, looking awkward and unsure, like he used to when I was a kid and crying after a bad dream.
“I knocked,” he says, almost sheepish.
“I know,” I say, but I don’t look up. I save the photo of Howl. Now I have two. I kept that one of him with my scarf, too.
Dad sits on the edge of the bed and I keep pretending my attention is fully engaged elsewhere.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I thought I was helping. I—math always made sense to me. I thought maybe…”
“That I was just being lazy?” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
He flinches. “No.”
But it feels like he meant to say, ‘yes.’
I don’t want to be mad at my dad. I know he means well. He and Mom always do. They love me. I know. But sometimes… sometimes meaning well isn’t enough. Sometimes it just makes it worse.
“I know you’re a smart kid,” he adds after a second, “and I know you’re trying. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you weren’t.”
