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“Have you finished question three yet?” he asked about five minutes into our lunch…after he’d polished off half the chicken strips I’d gotten from the cafeteria.
I snorted. Of course I’d finished question three.
He held up a hand before I could spit back something sarcastic. “Wait, scratch that question. Of course you’re past question three already.”
Aww, he was learning me so well.
“Ergo, I revise my query to, ‘what did you get for an answer on question three?’ I keep coming up with sixty-four over zero. But that looks wro—”
“And you would be wrong.” I spoke over him, making a game show’s buzzing sound. “Now you have to admit you’re not smarter than a fifth grader.”
He sent me a scowl. “I’d like to see a fifth grader try college calculus.”
“Hmm. I bet a fifth grader would’ve answered number three as eleven over four.”
Mason threw his pen on top of his notebook full of equations. “How in the hell did you get eleven over four?”
With a grin, I leaned over and pointed out each x and limitation.
He picked his pen back up and scribbled numbers madly, working the equation the way I suggested. “Damn,” he murmured when he came up with eleven over four. “Why didn’t the professor explain it this way? This way is easy.”
I gave a long sigh. “They rarely do explain anything the easy way. Their brains just don’t function the same as a normal person’s, so it’s harder for them to translate equations in layman’s terms. My dad’s a high school math teacher, so I know.”
Mason looked surprised as he glanced at me. “Really? That’s cool. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you know your way so well around numbers. Must run in the genes.”
I shrugged, modest about my geeky side. “Hmm.” Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear when a breeze caught it and sent it fluttering in my face, I asked, “What did you inherit from your dad?”
As soon as I asked, I remembered Dawn was a single mother. Wincing, I held up a hand, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to impose. I totally forgot your mom’s—”
Mason waved a hand. “No. It’s fine. My dad died when I was four, so I don’t remember much about him. I just know he was in the army.”
I set my hand over my chest. “I’m so sorry. Was he killed in the Middle East?”
Sending me a telling look that seemed to snarl, you just had to ask that, didn’t you, Mason sighed. “No. He never went to combat. He got tanked one night and killed a family of four, plus himself, in a drunk driving accident.”
My mouth fell open. Whoops. “Oh, my God, Ma
son. That…sucks.”
“Yeah, pretty much. And in this small town of a community, everyone knows how he died, so I can’t even fabricate some hero’s death for him.”
I chewed on the end of my pen as I stared at the calculus book in front of me. “So…can I ask about Sarah’s dad?”
His narrowed eyes told me I shouldn’t have asked about that guy either, but he answered me. “Butch Arnosta. That loser ran off after we learned about Sarah’s condition. Mom met him when I was seven. They had a quickie romance, she got knocked up, they got married, and then he was gone again as quickly as the doctor said the words cerebral palsy. After that, I think Mom gave up on men completely. She never really dated again.”
I made a sympathetic sound in the back of my throat. “Well, I don’t blame her any. Sounds like she has as bad a track record with men as I do.”
Mason shot me an incredulous glance. “How can you have a bad track record? You’re only, what, eighteen?”
I sniffed. “Eighteen and a half.”
He grinned at my joke. I loved how he always knew when I was trying to make a funny, even if it was a corny, really bad funny.
“I beg your pardon, old woman.” He held out his hand as if asking me to pass something to him. “Let me see your palm, Miss Eighteen and a Half. I’ll take a look at your love line and tell you just how bad your track record really is.”
I crinkled my brow, untrusting. “You read palms?”
“No, I just want to hold your hand.” His voice was so serious, I couldn’t actually tell if he was teasing or not. Then he rolled his eyes and shook his fingers impatiently. “Gimme.”
