Summer's Darling

• Chapter Eleven •

Lydia answers a few minutes later, barefoot and bikini strings peeking out from the neckline of her shirt. She's got on a pair of floral shorts that look so familiar Stiles is almost positive they're from summer's ago and she doesn't speak either; her brows furrowed in confusion at the boy in front of her. Understandably so, he thinks. Her skin is freckled and it honestly makes him a bit jealous, glancing down at his own arms to see a pasty white. He figures he should speak now or never.

"I wouldn't ask unless I was completely desperate," he sighs, "which, I am."
She crosses her arms across her chest, attempting to seek some form of comfort, "Okayyyy?" She draws out the word. Now she studies him: shorts, sneakers, and a maroon t-shirt. The bags under his eyes leave questions she would've asked him before, questions of concern she doesn't particularly feel like asking now.
"I'm going to fail my math class if I don't get help." He spits out.
Almost immediately she begins to think of polite excuses to get out of the situation, "Scott can't help you?"
"He learns it, he passes the test, he forgets it." Stiles quotes his best friend.
"Can you call Isaac?" She asks.

Stiles' body almost immediately tenses and she marvels at the way his mouth opens as he thinks of a way to explain without actually explaining.
"We uh... no. No I won't call him." He struggles and she notes how he uses the word "won't" instead of "can't".
She thinks a moment. "I don't know Stiles, I'm taking three classes already, and I don't know if I'll have the time..." And she knows it's obvious at this point that she's trying everything she can not to help him but she doesn't particularly care.
"Please, I really am desperate."

And he does look it, she concludes, knowing he would have to be absolutely insane to come to her given their circumstances. But she feels for him. He's managed to graduate high school by a fraction of an inch and now he's on the verge of failing his first ever college course. His father even uprooted them from their home and planted them in the summer house permanently for this occasion. COLLEGE. The big weight on the shoulders of the poor boy in front of her. Almost never in her life has she personally experienced this feeling, but it must say something that he's here asking for help knowing full well she wants little to do with him. That she wants nothing to do with him...
She takes a deep breath before giving in. "We speak only about math."
"Absolutely."
"ONLY about math. I don't want chit chat, don't you dare text me, and I won't help you later than eight PM."
"Deal."

She tells him to wait a minute while she grabs her things and as she goes back in her house he lets out a huge breath he hadn't realized he was holding in. He was nervous, truly, and he found himself trying to remember the last time he was nervous around her. It had been a while, but he knew the butterflies in his stomach were not just a children's tummy ache. No, these butterflies wielded knives and the were tearing him apart from the inside out. He grabs his abdomen. If it weren't for the fact that he actually needed help, he would have fled by now, but unfortunately this was not a ploy to get back into Lydia's life. No, this was the big gig he couldn't fuck up and Lydia's help was insurance that he may have a chance at succeeding. Or, at least, a better chance at succeeding. When she comes out, there's an enormous backpack on her shoulder and three textbooks in her hands.
"I'm ready." She says, walking past him.
"Those books couldn't fit in your bag?" Stiles asks, trailing behind her. She's quick and determined, storming over to his house so as to get this over with as quick as possible. But her steps falter as she approaches his driveway, slowing, until eventually she comes to a full stop. There, in front of her, just like in the pictures Stiles had shown her every summer before, is the beloved blue jeep. He passes her, looking over his shoulder at her shocked expression and he bites his tongue to keep from grinning. "You coming?" He asks.

The ride into town is short and quiet, the windows down and the ocean air infiltrates their lungs. She keeps one hand on top of the stack of books in her lap, to keep the pages from fluttering, while the other hand hangs out the window, riding the invisible waves the breeze creates. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her neck and she wipes it away quickly, thinking of the days when they'd go to town in only swimsuits. And it's so hot, she thinks, she might hyperventilate. Or maybe she'll hyperventilate from the tension of their current relationship. Or...non-relationship or whatever she was deciding to define this uncomfortable space as.
Stiles clears his throat, "how's your mom?" He asks.
"You saw her at dinner, how'd you think she looked?" She bites.
He swallows hard.
She regrets her tone instantly, "sorry," she sighs and never turns to look at him as she speaks, eyes fixed out the window, "she's not getting any better. It's all stagnant; chemo isn't improving anything anymore it's just keeping everything where it is."
He nods and wants to apologize but feels this will push it. She wipes away another trickle of sweat, and the conversation ends. Occasionally, Stiles taps the dashboard to get his radio to work again, but she doesn't understand why he bothers. The radio won't go above a level ten sound and the music that does come through is older and laced with static. A sigh escapes her.