Page 109 of The Equation of Us
“It’s complicated,” I say, feeling the inadequacy of the words. “But it was my fault. I got scared and I ran.”
“And now you want to un-run?”
“Yes.” The single word contains more certainty than I’ve felt in weeks. “If he’ll let me.”
Logan sighs, a sound so reminiscent of Dean that it makes my heart ache. “What did you have in mind?”
Twenty-four hours later, I’m pacing the empty bleachers of the campus ice rink, wondering if this whole plan was a colossal mistake.
The facility is technically closed—end-of-season maintenance, according to the signs posted on the doors. But Logan had connections through Dean, who had connections through Gavin, whose father apparently donated enough money to the athletic department to warrant an after-hours access code.
Lucky me.
The overhead lights are dimmed to their maintenance setting, casting long shadows across the empty ice. It’s eerily quiet without the usual crowd noise, just the low hum of the refrigeration system keeping the surface frozen despite the warm spring weather outside.
I check my watch again. 7:28. Dean should be here any minute, assuming Logan was successful in getting him here.
The text I’d received an hour ago was encouraging.
Logan:Operation Ice Capades is a go. He thinks he’s meeting me to help with college decisions. ETA 7:30.
Despite Logan’s confidence, doubt gnaws at my stomach. What if Dean takes one look at me and walks out? What if he’s moved on already? What if—
The sound of a door opening echoes through the empty arena. My heart lodges in my throat as a familiar figure appears at the entrance to the ice level.
Dean stops short when he sees me, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.
“Nora?”
He looks both better and worse than I expected. The same height and broad shoulders, the same intense gray eyes, but shadows beneath them suggesting he hasn’t been sleeping well. His hair is slightly longer than when I last saw him, curling just above his collar.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly forgetting every word of the speech I’ve rehearsed.
“Where’s Logan?” He glances around as if his brother might be hiding somewhere in the empty rink.
“Not coming.” I take a deep breath. “This was… my idea.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You called my brother.”
Nodding, I take a step closer.
“I did.” No point in denying it. “I needed to see you, and I didn’t think you’d agree if I just asked.”
“So you enlisted my teenage brother in an ambush.” His tone is neutral, impossible to read.
“I prefer to think of it as a strategic surprise.” I attempt a smile that feels wobbly. “But yes, essentially.”
Dean doesn’t move from his position by the entrance, maintaining the distance between us. His eyes never leave mine, studying me with that focus that always makes me feel like I’m the only person in his universe.
“Why?” he asks finally.
A simple question with a complicated answer. I move down the bleachers, stopping at the lowest level, close enough to see his face clearly but still separated by the barrier between the stands and the ice area.
“Because I made a mistake,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Because I miss you. Because these have been the worst two weeks of my life, and I think—I hope—you might feel the same way.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his posture—a nearly imperceptible tension releasing.
“Two weeks and three days,” he corrects, and my heart skips at the echo of our old pattern. He’s been counting too.
