Page 15 of The Equation of Us
I slow, then stop, watching from a distance. Dean’s expression is animated, his hands moving as he explains something, pointing to a diagram on the tablet he’s holding. Whitman nods, clearly impressed, clapping Dean on the shoulder with what looks like genuine pride.
In that moment, Dean looks completely different from the controlled, quiet figure I’ve seen in class. He looks passionate. Engaged. Alive with purpose.
It’s startling how much it affects me. This glimpse of who he is when he’s in his element, when he cares about something beyond the surface-level interactions of daily campus life.
I should keep walking. Should turn around before he sees me.
But as if sensing my presence, Dean glances up, his eyes finding mine across the distance.
For a moment, we just look at each other. Then he says something to Whitman, who follows his gaze and waves in my direction.
Great. Now I can’t pretend I wasn’t watching.
I lift a hand in acknowledgment and force myself to keep walking, as if I have somewhere specific to be. But I’ve only gone a few steps when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Nora,” Dean calls, his voice carrying in the quiet evening air.
I stop, turning to face him. “Hi.”
He approaches slowly, stopping a few feet away. “Taking the scenic route to dinner?”
“Just getting some air,” I say, trying to sound casual. “You looked in the zone back there.”
“Prosthetics project,” he says, a hint of something genuine breaking through his usual reserve. “Whitman thinks we’ve had a breakthrough with the neural feedback circuit.”
“That’s the one for your Archer Initiative application?”
Surprise flickers across his face. “How did you know about that?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with admitting I’ve been paying attention. “The academic support office has your file. All your academic goals are listed.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Right.”
“It seemed important to you,” I add, not sure why I’m still talking. “When I read your file.”
“It is.” He looks back toward the building where Whitman has disappeared inside. “It’s everything, actually.”
There’s something raw in his voice that catches me off guard. Something real beneath the careful control.
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Why prosthetics specifically?”
Dean is quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost distant.
“I had a friend in high school. Hockey teammate.” He looks past me, out at the darkening campus. “Long story.”
I wait, not pushing.
“He lost his leg,” Dean says finally. “Car accident. Couldn’t play anymore. Everything changed for him.”
I hear what he’s not saying. Something happened to this friend. Something bad.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
Dean refocuses on me, his expression closing off again. “Ancient history.”
But it’s not. I can see it in the tightness around his eyes, hear it in the controlled flatness of his voice. This matters to him in a way that goes beyond academic ambition or career goals.
It makes him more real to me somehow. More human than the controlled figure I’ve been circling for days.
