Page 113 of The Equation of Us
I consider lying, then opt for honesty. “Yes. But not about the dress.”
“About?”
“Being out. Together. In public.” I turn to face him, needing to see his expression directly. “In front of professors and department heads and—”
“And Daphne?” he finishes gently.
I nod, guilt flashing through me. “It’s been three weeks since we talked. Things are… better, but still fragile.”
“We don’t have to go,” he says, his hands sliding down my arms to capture my fingers. “We could order takeout, watch a movie here. No pressure.”
The offer is tempting—the safety of privacy, of keeping our relationship in the bubble we’ve constructed. But that’s the old Nora, the one who hid and calculated and weighed every risk.
“No,” I say firmly. “I want to go. I want everyone to know.”
His smile is worth every flutter of anxiety in my stomach. “Then let’s show them.”
The University Science Museum gleams with soft lighting, transformed from its usual academic setting into something almost magical. Glass cases of artifacts and models are illuminated by strategic spotlights. White-clothed tables dot the periphery, laden with appetizers and champagne flutes. A string quartet plays softly in the corner.
But it’s the special exhibition that dominates the central hall—the prosthetic limbs that draw clusters of well-dressed faculty and donors.
Dean’s hand rests at the small of my back as we enter, a warm anchor in unfamiliar territory. “There’s Whitman,” he says, nodding toward a group near a display of robotic limbs. “We should say hello.”
I swallow my nervousness and nod. Professor Whitman has always intimidated me slightly—his reputation as a brilliant but demanding mentor preceding him—but he’s Dean’s advisor, which makes him important.
“Dean!” Whitman booms when he spots us approaching. “And Ms. Shaw, what a pleasant surprise.” His eyebrows lift slightly, taking in Dean’s hand on my back.
“Professor,” Dean greets him with a respectful nod. “The exhibition looks incredible.”
“Cutting-edge work,” Whitman agrees, turning toward the display. “Some designs not entirely dissimilar from your proposals, I might add.”
Dean’s expression brightens. “I noticed that. The sensory feedback circuit is particularly impressive.”
“Indeed.” Whitman turns to me, and I brace for awkwardness. “Ms. Shaw, I understand congratulations are in order—for both of you. The Archer committee made an exceptional choice. Or choices, rather.”
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by his acknowledgment. “I was shocked, honestly.”
“Don’t be. Your work on neural feedback loops has significant implications for our field as well.” His gaze shifts between us, something like approval in his expression. “I see why you two complement each other so well. Academically speaking, of course.”
Dean’s fingers press gently against my back—support, reassurance. “Actually, sir, we’re together outside of academics as well.”
I hold my breath, uncertain how this open acknowledgment will be received.
Whitman looks unsurprised. “Yes, I’d gathered that.” A hint of a smile touches his usually stern face. “The department gossip mill is nothing if not efficient.”
My cheeks warm. “We’ve been trying to be professional.”
“And you have been,” Whitman assures me. “Whatever happened between you has clearly not compromised the quality of your work. Quite the opposite, I suspect.” He glances over our shoulders. “Ah, there’s Dr. Martinez. Excuse me—we’re discussing next year’s funding allocation.”
As he walks away, I exhale slowly. “That was… not what I expected.”
Dean’s expression is similarly relieved. “He knew already. And apparently didn’t care.”
“One down, one entire academic community to go,” I say, only half-joking.
Dean laughs softly, guiding me toward the champagne table. “Let’s get a drink. Then I want to show you something.”
Armed with flutes of champagne, we wind through the exhibition, stopping occasionally to examine displays that catch our interest. I’m surprised by how quickly I relax, losing myself in scientific curiosity and Dean’s quiet commentary. Each time we encounter colleagues or professors, I tense slightly, waiting for judgment that never comes. Instead, there are knowing smiles, friendly introductions, and occasional congratulations on our Archer awards.
