Page 40 of Left-Hand Larceny

My phone buzzes.

I sit up straighter, cross-legged on my bed, trying to pretend like this isn’t the highlight of my whole day.

Ólaffson:

Yes. What are you struggling with?

Do you have a specific question?

Or do you want me to walk you through something?

My stomach flips. He didn’t hesitate. No teasing. Just right into help mode.

Warmth spreads in my chest. My lips twitch, just a little.

Me:

Walk me through it? If you have time.

I’m sure you have better things to do.

Ólaffson:

I have time for you.

Okay. That’s… unfair. And this basement is unseasonably warm. My skin burns as I stare and stare and stare at the printed letters on my phone screen. I should open a window. Or text him back.

Me:

Careful. You haven’t heard how dumb my question is yet.

Ólaffson:

It’s okay Sadie. You can ask me anything.

Me:

You might want to find a hard surface. I’m sure you’ll need to bang your head against it more than once.

I expect some amused reaction to my self-deprecation. I can picture his face now—faint grin, that spark in his glacier-blue eyes when—suddenly, the numbers don’t feel so impossible.

Okay, they still feel impossible, but this time I think I might make it through to the other side.

Ólaffson:

I won’t need to.

Now tell me what has you stumped and let me help you fix it.

I type back quickly, thumb fumbling against the screen as I explain the question. It takes longer than it should. My brain can’t seem to process the numbers into anything coherent. The scatterplot in the workbook blurs when I look at it too long, and every time I go to calculate the z-score, I forget which part goes where.

His reply is patient. Clear. He even includes the equation broken down with a simple walkthrough. Emphasis on simple. I want to be embarrassed about how badly I bungled a basic concept, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not with how warm Ragnar’s response makes me feel.

Not just because he helped me figure this out, but because he didn’t make me feel stupid for needing it.

I let out a shaky breath. My chest still feels tight from earlier. From my mom’s passive-aggressive voice and my dad’s confusion and the way my throat locked up when I almost—almost—blurted out that sometimes I wonder if they regret adopting me. That I’m not enough. Never was.

I press my palms to my eyes and swallow hard, trying to ignore the burn behind my lids. I am not going to cry.

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