Page 42 of Left-Hand Larceny

I nod, still not looking at him.

He leans forward a little. “I worry. That’s all. You’ve always been so… good… at school. It’s hard to watch you struggle.”

Because they’re not used to it. I was supposed to be their smart, perfect miracle. The one who made their lives complete. A lucky little baby, left abandoned by her biological family, plucked from nowhere, raised in white picket safety, expected to shine and make it all worth it. When I was little, it worked. The stakes didn’t feel as high. Or as terrifying.

I’m the one who isn’t allowed to fail. And I think it might be killing me.

I nod again.

“Do you want help?” he asks gently.

I shake my head. “No.”

I don’t want him to see how broken my process is. I don’t want him to watch me bounce from one half-started task to another, forgetting steps, needing reminders, getting things wrong. I don’t want him to know how hard this is for me whenit’s so easy for him. It’s easier to make my brain work when no one is watching.

And I have Ragnar. For some reason my brain works just fine with him around.

Just fine for math. The rest I’m still a train wreck on.

“I’m okay, Dad.”

He pauses, like he wants to push again. But then he nods and stands.

Before he leaves, he turns, something churning behind the blue of his eyes.

“I just want you to be happy, honey. I love you. So does your mama. She just worries.”

My spine straightens.

She may worry, but not about me. Ragnar, my reputation, and the way it affects her. God forbid I lose my job and they lose an old friend.

He leaves, shutting my door behind him, and I’m alone.

Alone in my childhood room, paying rent to my own parents, drowning in numbers I don’t understand and shame I can’t shake.

But when I glance down at my phone, the screen lights up.

Ólaffson:

Hey, Howl wants to know if you figured out that last z-score.

I press a hand to my chest and breathe.

Me:

Tell him I got it. Barely.

There’s a pause.

Ólaffson:

We say that counts.

I smile.

Ragnar believes in me, even when I don’t believe it myself.

It’s past midnight,and the house had finally gone still. No more footsteps creaking above me, no more hushed conversations from my parents. The ones my brain insists are about my shortcomings.

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