Page 124 of The Equation of Us
“You never cease to surprise me,” I murmur against her lips.
“That works both ways,” she counters, pulling back slightly. “Now, we should probably get back before people notice we’re gone.”
As she turns to leave, I catch her arm gently. “Nora.”
She pauses, looking back at me questioningly.
“I meant what I said in that speech,” I tell her, needing her to understand the depths behind the public words. “About things that are meant to happen. About you.”
Her expression softens, the brilliant scientist temporarily giving way to the woman who’s somehow managed to breach every defense I’ve built. “I know,” she says simply. “Me too.”
We’re about to return to the banquet when a sound from further down the hallway freezes us in place—voices getting closer. Nora’s eyes widen in panic, but before we can retreat, they turn the corner.
Henry Walsh comes around the corner. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve gotta go.” He pockets his phone when he sees us.
I bob my head in his direction. “All good?”
“Sure,” he says, not sounding sure at all.
As we walk back together, Henry maintaining a small distance between us, I catch Nora’s questioning glance. I give aslight shrug in response. Whatever is happening with Henry is not my business.
Besides, tonight is about Nora, about us, about the public acknowledgment of what we’ve become to each other. About the black lace in my pocket and the promise of what comes after the banquet.
Everything else can wait.
Epilogue
Balanced Equation
Nora
“Dr. Shaw,” Dean’s voice echoes from the kitchen. “Your daughter has something to show you.”
I glance up from my laptop, where I’ve been revising grant proposals for the past three hours. My eyes are dry, my back stiff, and my brain is dangerously close to calculating the exact number of caffeine molecules required to finish this work tonight.
Spoiler: The limit does not exist.
“Coming,” I call back, saving my document before closing the laptop.
Our apartment is bigger than Dean’s old campus place—actual separate rooms, thank God—but still modest by most standards. We prioritized location over space, wanting to be within walking distance of both the university research center where I work and the adaptive sports complex where Dean coaches.
When I enter the kitchen, I find my husband—still unreasonably attractive after five years together—holding our eighteen-month-old daughter, Emma. Both of them are covered in what appears to be puréed carrots.
“What happened here?” I ask, unable to suppress my smile.
“Your daughter,” Dean says with mock seriousness, “has discovered centrifugal force.”
Emma grins at me, orange mush decorating her dark curls, her gray eyes—identical to her father’s—sparkling with mischief.
“Mydaughter?” I counter, reaching for a dishcloth. “Pretty sure she’s yours when she’s creating chaos.”
“The experiment had a clear hypothesis and methodology,” Dean argues, holding Emma out for cleaning. “That’s all you, Dr. Shaw.”
I take our daughter, wiping ineffectively at the orange disaster zone. “And what hypothesis was that?”
“If I spin the spoon fast enough, the carrots will defy gravity.” He demonstrates the motion, spattering more orange across the counter. “She was right, by the way.”
“Of course she was,” I sigh, pressing a kiss to Emma’s sticky forehead. “Carter women are always right. Isn’t that so, baby girl?”
