Page 16 of The Equation of Us
I’d always wondered why he took the courses he did. Most hockey players were enrolled in general ed classes—the kind with open book exams and lenient professors.
“I should get going,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable with how much I want to know more. “I have reading to finish.”
Dean nods. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
I walk away, feeling his eyes on me again, but this time it’s different. This time, I’ve seen a crack in his armor, a glimpse of the person beneath the performance.
And it makes everything more complicated. Because now he’s not just the guy Daphne complained about, the one who’s too intense, too controlling, too much.
Now he’s someone with wounds and purpose and depth. Someone I might actually like, if I let myself.
And that’s far more dangerous than simple curiosity.
It’s after midnight by the time I crawl into bed.
The campus is quiet—just the sound of light wind rustling through the branches outside and the hum of the old heater trying to keep up.
My room is small but efficient: twin bed against the wall, books stacked in clean rows on the desk, a cheap lamp casting a soft gold halo over my textbook pile. My roommate, Sadie, is already asleep in the bunk above mine, headphones in, one arm flung over the edge. Her string lights pulse in soft color, cycling between lavender and peach and cool blue.
I slide into bed, hoodie still on, and pull the covers up. My laptop’s shut. My planner’s closed. My highlighters are lined up like colorful little soldiers. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. Everything I can control.
But my brain won’t shut up.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, watching the light shift as cars pass outside. My mind keeps replaying the day—bits of conversation, Dean’s voice, the way he watched me in the lab.
And then, worse, it circles back to Daphne. To what she said over dinner like it was no big deal.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
And now every time I look at Dean Carter, I wonder.
I wonder what he sounds like when he saystake that off.
I wonder what it feels like to be touched like that—slow and sure andcertain.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at a girl and knows exactly what she needs before she’s brave enough to say it out loud.
And I hate that I wonder.
I’ve trained myself not to want anything I can’t control. Not to need anyone who could leave. My body is mine. My mind is mine. I’ve built a whole life out of keeping the sharp edges dull and the hunger manageable.
I turn on my side and hug a pillow to my chest, mind still wandering.
Sophomore year, I dated a guy named Kai. A senior psych major I really looked up to. He liked that I was smart. Said he admired my focus. Called me intense like it was a compliment.
Until it wasn’t.
He started small—suggesting I “soften” my tone in study groups, smile more in class, not interrupt even when I was right. Then it was the way I asked questions during sex. The fact that I had questions at all.
He never raised his voice. Never made it obvious. But I stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like a project. Something he was slowly editing down.
By the time he broke up with me, I didn’t recognize myself. I was smaller. Quieter. Less. And still, it wasn’t enough to make him stay.
Last year was worse.
There was a guy—Tariq. Soccer team. Big smile, soft voice, said all the right things. He flirted with me like I mattered. Touched me like he meant it. I let myself believe him.
