“Who tutors you?”
She wasn't expecting that. She shook her head and frowned. “Ah, no one. I mean, not really. Sometimes I ask my dad questions on things I don't entirely understand. But for the most part I just...” She shrugged, not wanting the next part to sound completely pompous, but there was hardly a better way to say it and still be honest. “Figure it out.”
Carl rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes hard on her face. He didn't speak for so long, Miranda began to wonder if maybe she should just move on.
“Uh, how about your major? Are you still comfortable with that choice?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Undeclared doesn't get your heart racing?”
“Well, it does. But not in an emotionally healthy way,” she said honestly.
Something flickered in his dark eyes. It was gone before she realized it was even there. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“It's just that your coursework doesn't really point to anything. Maybe if we narrowed it down to what excites you, we could lighten your load for this semester. Or at least direct it.”
“You wanna know what excites me?” he asked, a lip curling in dark humor.
“Mister Darrow,” Miranda said firmly. “Flirting with me will not help you with your grades. I'm more than willing to tutor you, but if you're not going to take me seriously — ”
“Why should I take you seriously?” he asked, leaning towards her a fraction. “Explain to me how this works.”
Miranda's eyebrows drew together. “Well, we would go over what you need to work on to bring your grade back up to — ”
“I know how tutoring works,” he cut her off with another snarl. “I'm not a complete moron. I just don't understand what any of this is for.” He waved a hand over “this” which was Miranda and the table and the cookies.
She had just about had enough of being interrupted.
“By 'this' I'm forced to assume you mean my method?”
His chin lifted slightly at the chilliness in her tone. Curiosity shone through his dark eyes and he leaned back again, losing some of his hostility. “I mean, what's a girl like you get for playing tutor to the losers?”
“Get? I don't get anything. I help people because I can.” She crossed her arms over her chest, his eyes flicked to the movement and when they returned to her, the curiosity had been joined by amusement. “And I'm not playing. I'm a tutor. And I can help you if you'd drop the hostility.”
Carl's eyebrows went up and his lips twitched. “Forgive my hostility. Maybe I just have a problem trusting the motives of spoiled rich girls trying to bribe me with store bought cookies.”
Miranda's mouth fell open even as Carl nabbed another one of those cookies and bit into it, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You don't know anything about me. How dare you make assump—”
“I know exactly who you are and what kind of people you come from.”
That was the moment Miranda lost her temper. It didn't happen a lot, and she was never proud of herself when it did. She usually had much better control of herself, so her response was unexpected.
“Stop interrupting me!” she snapped, standing up and clenching her fists at her sides.
Carl didn't move. If he was surprised, it didn't show. “Have I?” He tilted his head to the side and continued munching on a cookie.
“Three times! And if you have such a problem with my family and my cookies and me, then why are you even here?” Her body trembled with adrenaline fueled annoyance and her eyes began to burn in a way that let her know she was going to need to excuse herself to the bathroom soon.
Carl scowled at her. Those hard eyes making a sweep of her again. “How much of this is an act?”
Miranda didn't even know where to start with that. “An act...?”
“Yeah,” Carl crossed his arms over his chest. “The cookies, the helping people, the paint stained shirt — is it just to make the flunkee feel comfortable? Pretending that you know how to slum it? Because I've got news for you, princess, the big house and last name kinda gave you away.”
“Wow, you're a jerk,” she said by accident. Carl's eyes widened. She hadn't meant to let that slip, it just fell out. “And now that I think about it, I know where I recognize you from.”
Carl shifted, discomfort skittering across his features.
“I mean, at first I thought you were your own person and so that's how I treated you. But now that I've heard how you speak to women, all I can hear is Wallace Darrow. Your father I presume?”
It was low. Way lower than Miranda had ever gone and that included when she fought viciously with her brother about whose turn it was to clean out the garbage cans. She regretted it the instant it came out, but words really couldn't be taken back.
Carl shot to his feet. “I am not like my father!”
“What I can't figure out is why my family background is so bothersome to you. You grew up with more money than I did,” she pointed out, her mind racing to fill in the blanks as more facts started to surface in her memory.
“Unlike you,” Carl snarled, “I never wanted the money and the cage that came with it.”
“Cage?” Miranda scoffed. “There's no cage.”
His eyes narrowed to slits and she felt his calculating judgment crawl up her spine with icy efficiency.
“The duty. The obligation. That constant disappointment. I've never been allowed to do what I want to do. It always has to fit into the bubble of what's proper and expected of me.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Please! You really expect me to fall for the poor little rich boy act? I heard about how you single-handedly blew up the ladies' bathroom at the country club golf course. You should have gone to jail!”
Carl tried to interrupt, but Miranda kept going.
“And when you got drunk and sank your dad's boat in the harbor. What repercussions happened then? Was that one of those 'expectations'? Was that the 'proper' way of behaving at your father's employee holiday party?”
“Miranda—”
“No!” She held up a hand to stop him. “You came in here with your prejudices and your assumptions that should really apply to yourself. And then you insulted me for just wanting to help you. Yes, we have money. Yes, I use it to my advantage. I like helping people! The money makes it easier for me to do!”
“Now you see me for the loser that I am,” Carl barked.
Nothing he had said so far had made Miranda as mad at that last statement did.
“You are not a loser!” she shouted. “I never called you a loser. I would never call anyone a loser! I actually believe that people are amazing! Even you, you big jerk!”
Carl's fists clenched repeatedly at his sides, the veins in his neck throbbing with barely restrained rage. “Liar,” he finally growled quietly.
Miranda frowned and her head jerked back. Something about the way he'd said that...
“No, I'm not lying.” She shook her head with obvious vexation. “I looked through your work and you're incredibly bright. You have a mind that's not being applied correctly, but, again, I could help you with that.” Though she was currently second-guessing that idea. Mostly because she wanted to strangle him with the Kitchen-Aid mixer cord.
Carl's breathing grew rapid and heavy. His dark eyes flashed with a dozen emotions she couldn't identify that quickly.
“I need a smoke,” he stated abruptly, turning and heading for the front door, swinging his leather jacket off of his chair and onto his back in one movement.
Miranda stood still, fighting the urge to follow him. Her most basic instincts were to care for and protect those around her. But Carl was dangerous. Not physically. Even when he'd been shouting at her, she hadn't felt like her life or body was in any real peril. But he was emotionally dangerous. His tumultuous transition from boy to man was mostly unguided. She could see that now. He had a lot going on inside and no healthy outlet. She could explain it to him, maybe help him through it. Give him some
pointers.
Still, she didn't follow him.
Young men like him needed to be able to escape volatile situations. He'd already expressed his fear of being trapped. Her following him would only verify that. He had to be in control of himself during these intense moments so that he didn't lose control in a different way.
After a few minutes she heard his truck start up and drive away.
So that was that.
She would talk to Professor Rice on Monday and see if Carl could get a different tutor assigned to him. Maybe someone he wouldn't be so ready to distrust.
Someone who wouldn't yell at him.
Miranda sighed and slumped back into her chair. All the intensity had left with Carl and now she just felt defeated. She wished she could have helped him. But he clearly did not like her.
Not even a little.
***
When Carl turned onto the private road that led up to the O'Neil's driveway the next day, he wondered if maybe he had a brain virus. Something that was making him be stupid. It was the first real coherent thought he'd had since he'd stormed out the day before.
Because he'd really blown it.
It was like he couldn't help himself.
He had all of this pent up frustration inside and Miranda was being so nice and those cookies were addictive, and Carl just couldn't handle it. He'd acted like a dick and now the only person who might actually be able to help him, probably hated his guts now.
Good.
That's the way it should be.
He'd been wrong about Miranda O'Neil.
He hated being wrong.
Parking the truck, he didn't even pause to look up at the house like he did the day before. It would either rebuild his prejudice or disintegrate his backbone. He didn't trust himself to think about it. He strode quickly to the door and pressed the bell, hoping she'd be home.
The door opened and Miranda stood there, her pretty mouth gaping. Carl barely gave her a nod before stepping inside and heading straight for the nook.
He stopped in his tracks when he got there.
The kitchen was a disaster.
“What the hell happened in here?” he asked, dropping his backpack off of his shoulder and setting it down on the table.
“I was — wait, why are you here?” Miranda asked from behind him.
He turned around and let his eyes sweep over her. He did wonder how she would be dressed if she didn't know that he was coming. Not much different.
The feet were still bare with those red toenails on display. Seriously faded jeans with tears in the knees that weren't designer, a cream sweater that hung off of one exposed shoulder, her dark hair piled up on top of her head. No makeup.
Something about her naked face made him linger there. Her eyes were bigger, her lips were pinker. Her cheeks were flushed with agitation and her eyebrows were pulled down in confusion.
She was the most beautiful girl Carl had ever laid eyes on.
“I'm here to study,” he said, proud of himself for keeping his voice even despite the thundering in his ears.
She put both hands on her hips, frowning at him, then his bag. He allowed his eyes to drift to the placement of her hands, wondering if she would call him on his bullshit and tell him to take a hike. Her hands dropped back to her sides, then back to her hips, like she couldn't decide how she wanted to respond.
The table that had been covered the day before with books and papers had been taken over by racks and racks of cookies.
“What's with the cookies?” he asked, scowling at the mess that surrounded them. Flour, sugar, bowls upon bowls and pan upon pans littered the counters.
“Someone accused my cookies of being store bought and I overreacted,” she said.
Carl's eyes collided with hers. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to say he was so fucking sorry for what he did yesterday, how he'd behaved, how he'd talked to her. She had been right, he had spoken to her the same way his dad talked to his mom. It was ugly. And it wasn't okay.
But the words wouldn't come.
She sighed loudly, pushing her bangs off her forehead and leaving a trail of flour on her skin. “Um, okay. Clear a spot on the table and get your things ready. I'll clean this up later.”
Carl was already moving to the table, happy to have something to do with his hands. “You can keep doing what you need to do. I'll ask questions when I have them.”
“O-Okay.”
He stacked the cookies up on one of the plates on the table and cleared a space for himself. Miranda headed deeper into the kitchen and began stirring in her sizable mess. Carl withheld a smile.
“I narrowed down what it is I want to major in,” he announced as he worked. “I'll drop the classes on Monday that I don't need.” He chuckled to himself. “Most of them were just to piss off my dad anyway. So stupid.”
“Don't say that,” Miranda's quiet voice called to him and he glanced up. She'd taken a step towards him, towel caught in her hands. He waited for her to elaborate.
She licked her lips and pressed on. “If you want me to work with you — and I'm assuming that's why you're here — then you can't call yourself stupid. Even if it's a joke. I don't allow negative self-talk.”
Heaviness gripped Carl's insides, drawing his lungs to a standstill. She held his eyes, waiting for yesterday's mockery. She was bracing for it.
But she wasn't afraid of it.
Yesterday Carl had experienced a profound demonstration of what it was like to have his shit thrown back at him. Except she'd done it better and without experience. It's why he'd had to leave. He had been torn between charging across the room and kissing her silent or... Actually, there was no or. He'd been so incredibly attracted to her in that moment he knew he had to get away.
But this was new.
For the first time in his life, Carl wanted something else besides sticking it to his dad. He wanted Miranda O'Neil to be proud of him.
It was idiotic and totally juvenile.
But he wanted it anyway.
“Okay,” he agreed roughly.
Her lips parted, the surprise evident on her face. She flashed him a soft smile and he looked down at his books again to break his stare.
The glass patio door slid open, attracting Carl's attention again. A curly-haired teenager lumbered through.
“Hey, Ran, are those cookies done?” He spotted the table with the piles. “Oh, yes.”
“You already had some, Harrison. I need these ones for tomorrow.”
“C'mon, I'm starving. That first batch was ages ago. Do you want me to die of hunger and a broken heart?”
“Fine,” she gave in on a sigh. “You can have one. The rest are for the church potluck tomorrow.”
She made cookies for the church. Of course she did.
Carl watched the young man ignore him entirely and come over to the cookie extravaganza. He perused the assorted choices and then shoved a couple in his pockets and two in his mouth. He was gathering a pile that looked like he was planning on taking with him when Carl smacked the top of the kid's hand and the cookies dropped to the table.
“Hey!” He rubbed his hand and frowned at Carl. “Miranda, this guy hit me.”
“She said one, dummy,” Carl stated rolling his eyes.
“Harrison!” Miranda came around the counter and saw the broken cookies on the table. “I said one.”
“You always say one,” Harrison grumbled, glowering at Carl in distrust.
“Take your one cookie and go,” Carl said, his meaning clear. Harrison pouted momentarily, but he took his one cookie and shuffled back to the door. He was lucky Carl didn't make him empty his pockets.
“Geez, Ran. Am I gonna have to face down your bodyguard now every time I want to eat something?”
Harrison's eyes flicked to Carl who crossed his arms over his chest as if to answer the question. He actually didn't mind the idea of being Miranda's bodyguard. That sounded like a fair trade for tutoring.
“Yeah, maybe,” Miranda s
aid noncommittally, wiping off one of the counters.
“Whatever,” Harrison grumbled and went back outside.
“Little brother?” Carl guessed, sitting down at the table.
“Yeah. It's like he has radar. He knows when my hands are full and then he cleans me out.” She sighed in annoyance, but there was something missing. Actual annoyance? She loved her brother, that much was obvious. “It's worse when they're having band practice.”
“Was that what I heard happening in the garage yesterday?” Carl asked.
She chuckled. “Yep. They're gonna be famous rock stars someday, you know.”
Carl was caught by her dreamy expression as she rinsed out her wash cloth. “You say it like it's a joke, but you actually believe them, don't you?”
The back of her neck started to turn red and her eyes went round. She shrugged the shoulder that was exposed. “I can't help it. If a person is brave enough to have a dream, who's to say it can't happen?”
Carl was sitting perfectly still, but his heart was beating so intensely that he felt like he was visibly shaking. He wondered if she could hear it, his heart. It was the first time he could remember ever actually acknowledging its presence in a way that wasn't simply biological.
It wanted to break out and be free of him and join her, in her world. Where life had hope, and suffering had meaning. Where hurt propelled change, and wounds motivated kindness.
“I have a feeling you're about to change my entire life,” he said, knowing he should be keeping his mouth shut.
Her lips curved up and she came closer to him. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I don't know yet,” he confessed.
It would probably depend on whether or not he'd already fallen in love with her.
Part 2
“Actual Dates”
Miranda would like to say the next three and half months were filled with diligent studying and companionable discussions. But it would be a bald faced lie.
Miranda and Carl fought.
All. Of. The. Time.
Sometimes it would get as vicious and visceral as their first confrontation. But mostly it was just arguing about the theme of the day. It ranged from what he was working on, to what she was cooking, to politics, religion, science, philosophy. Sometimes it would get so bad that Carl would get up and storm off, “needing a smoke break.”
Into the Night We Shine Page 9