Page 21 of The Equation of Us
“That’s why you changed your major,” she says. It’s not a question.
I nod. “I was pre-med originally. I thought I’d be a sports medicine doctor. But after Jesse… I realized engineering might let me actually build solutions, not just treat problems after they happen.”
“What happened to him?” she asks softly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I look down at my hands. I don’t talk about this. Ever. Not even with Gavin, not fully. But something about the quiet safety of this room, the soft light, the genuine interest in her eyes, makes me want to.
“He killed himself,” I say, the words dropping like stones. “Two years after the accident. He said he couldn’t be half the person he used to be.”
Nora’s breath catches. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” The pain in her eyes is more than I expected. She looks like she could cry.
I swallow and take a deep breath. “He was my best friend. Since we were kids.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I was supposed to be with him that night—the night of the accident. But I had a date, so I bailed. He drove alone, took a curve too fast on an icy road. The car flipped.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says immediately.
I smile tightly. “Logically, I know that. Emotionally… I’m still working on it.”
There’s a long silence. Not uncomfortable, just heavy with things unsaid. I expect her to offer some platitude, to change the subject back to safer territory.
Instead, she says, “My dad left when I was twelve. No warning, no explanation. Just… gone.”
I look up, surprised. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “My mom fell apart. Couldn’t function. I basically ran the household for years—bills, groceries, making sure she ate, took her meds. She’d have these episodes where she’d just… disappear mentally. Check out.”
“That’s a lot for a kid to handle,” I say quietly.
“It was what it was.” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the effort it takes. “I got really good at being self-sufficient. At not needing anyone. At planning for every contingency.”
Something clicks into place for me—her meticulous organization, her intense focus, her reluctance to let go of control. She’s been holding everything together for so long; it’s become who she is.
“Is that why you’re studying neuropsychology?” I ask. “To understand what happened to her?”
Nora looks surprised, then thoughtful. “Maybe. Partly. I think I just wanted to understand why people do what they do. Why they leave. Why they stay. Why they break.”
Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the air between us. A recognition. We’re both carrying ghosts. Both shaped by losses we couldn’t control. Both finding purpose in what broke us.
“I guess we all have our damage,” she says softly.
“I guess we do.”
She looks down at her laptop, but I can tell she’s not really seeing it. Her fingers trace absent patterns on the keyboard.
“Thank you,” I say. “For telling me that.”
She glances up. “Thank you for telling me about Jesse.”
There’s another silence, but this one feels different. Lighter, somehow. Like we’ve both set down something heavy we’ve been carrying.
I should refocus on the project. That’s why I’m here. But I can’t stop looking at her—the curve of her mouth, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. The curve of her tits against the sweater.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I say automatically. Then, because something about this moment feels too honest for deflection: “I just like looking at you.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Oh.”
“Does that bother you?” I ask, my voice lower than I intended.
