“This isn’t pity,” he says, meeting my eyes. “It’s just me, offering. I might be terrible at throwing a ball, but I did graduate top of my class while burning my life to the ground. I can help. Let me.”
I stare at him for a beat. He looks serious. Sincere. Maybe even a little excited.
“You really want to help me with math?” I ask skeptically.
He grins. “Do you know how long it's been since I've solved for x? I miss it. I miss being useful.”
Something tightens in my chest at that.
“Fine,” I say, pushing the book toward him. “But if you start bragging about your SAT scores, I'm kicking you out.”
“No promises,” he murmurs, already scanning the page.
We spend the next hour hunched over the table, him walking me through formulas and showing me shortcuts I hadn't seen before. He's annoyingly good at explaining things, breaking down problems I’ve never been able to solve in a way that makes me want to cry and hug him at the same time. He doesn't rush me. Doesn't make me feel stupid. Just waits and lets me get there on my own, nodding when I finally do.
Eventually, I solve a problem I've been stuck on for weeks, and he grins with pride.
“See?” he says. “You've got this.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “Okay, tutor. Don't get cocky.”
He leans back in his chair and stretches, then looks at me with something softer in his expression. “You're doing it, Tiff. All of it. On your own.”
“Thanks,” I mumble softly.
His eyes flick to the kitchen table where my books are spread out, catching on a colorful flyer partially hidden beneath my GED workbook. Before I can stop him, he reaches for it.
“Salsa dancing?” he asks, eyebrows lifting as he examines the brochure.
Heat floods my cheeks as I snatch it back, shoving it under my textbook. “It's nothing. Just something Zach left out.”
“Zach wants to take salsa lessons?” He thinks about it for a second before smiling to himself. “I suppose he could use some help with his terrible footwork, but he’s predicted to be the top draft pick, so why bother now?”
“No. It’s for me,” I admit, ashamed.
“For you?” The amusement in his voice only makes my embarrassment worse.
“He says I need to 'get out more,'“ I explain, making air quotes with my fingers. “Do things that aren't just work, studying, and taking care of Ella. Be an actual human being occasionally.”
Jamie's expression shifts, his eyes going darker and his smirk dropping. “He's not entirely wrong.”
“Not you too,” I groan, burying my face in my hands.
“When was the last time you did something just for you?” he asks gently. “Something fun?”
I peek at him through my fingers. “I don't have time for fun.”
“Everyone has time for fun,” he counters, pulling the brochure back out. “Even single moms with GED exams to study for.”
“Right,” I say dryly. “I’ll just go and dance with some stranger while my daughter sleeps at home.”
“Or,” Jamie says, his voice casual though his eyes are anything but, “I could take you.”
I blink at him, certain I've misheard. “What?”
“To salsa dancing,” he clarifies, tapping the brochure. “I could take you. I'm not terrible at it, and I hope I’m little better company than a stranger.”
The image of Jamie in dance lessons, probably scowling the entire time, makes me smile despite myself. “You? Salsa dancing?”