Page 22 of Tutored in Love
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When I get back to the apartment, Ivy is worried out of her mind. “Where have you been? How was your test?”
I sigh and she assumes the worst.
“Maybe you can retake—”
“I got an eighty.”
“What? That’s fantastic!”
Her enthusiasm dies as I slink into the couch and close my eyes. “Why is that not fantastic?”
She’s confused, so I relate the whole Ethan fiasco to her, and as I do, I realize why I couldn’t let him kiss me. In spite of how enjoyable and entertaining it is to be around handsome, athletic, funny Ethan, he isn’t the one I would have chosen to share the good news with.
I don’t tell Ivy that, but the person I really wanted to share the good news with is a dark-haired, bespectacled, surly math guru.
Chapter 10
Mental Toughness
I’ve had three and ahalf days to figure out what brand of insanity has me thinking I would prefer to share good news with Noah over Ethan, and the only rational conclusion I can come up with is that math has made me crazy. So instead of arithmophobia, I now have arithmomania. Or maybe both. I must be mathematically bipolar, because I have no other reason to want to share this news with Noah.
We aren’t even friends.
Still, I feel remarkably mellow on my first terrible Tuesday without golf to bolster me through another tutoring session. My now-free hour between human development and tutoring is not long enough to do much, so I take advantage of the warmer-than-usual October afternoon and claim a sunny spot on the grass outside the math lab. Sitting against the trunk of a gorgeous maple, my jacket functioning as padding and insulation against the damp, I pull out my laptop and plug away at my life story—an assignment for my human-development class that I’ve been avoiding—until a shadow covers my screen.
“You’re never early.”
I resist the urge to look up at Noah’s deep voice. “No more golf. It’s a block class, and we finished up last week.”
“Well, that should really reduce your load for the second block.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty relieved.” I shut my screen, grateful for another excuse to put off the life-story baggage, and start loading Trusty. “I mean, skills tests, all those rules, and trying to remember what the numbers on all those different clubs mean? Plus, adding up your strokes and figuring out which direction to go after each hole? It’s been a struggle.”
“I’m sure,” he says, holding the door for me as we make our way into the building. “It’s classes like that that give college a bad rap.” Our eyes meet as I pass, and I swear the corner of his mouth lifts a little.
“Thanks,” I say to his show of chivalry, not sure what to make of the banter.
He reverts right back to business. “How did the midterm go?”
“Well, I missed a couple of points on the essay about infancy, but I still got an A.”
“Infancy?” His brows furrow.
“Oh,” I say with a vapid smile. “Did you mean mymathmidterm?”
There’s that tick in his scowl again. What would it take to get him to really smile—the kind that involves the entire face?
“I’ll assume you did well since you aren’t crying about it,” he says.
“You really think I’d cry over math?” His expression tells me he knows I have, but I refuse to confirm it. “I would never. But since you know so much, why don’t you tell me my score?”
His eyes narrow, unnerving me with their perceptiveness. “Based on your understanding of the material, I’d say you got a solid B, unless you panicked.” He takes my silence for the confirmation that it is and motions for me to take a seat.
“No congratulations?” I’m shamelessly fishing, but I can’t help myself.
“I knew you’d pass,” he says in the same analytical tone he always employs during my lessons. “Do well, even, as long as you stayed calm. You knew the material. Besides,” he adds, “you developed all that mental toughness in your golf class, so there was nearly zero chance of failure.”