Page 3 of The Equation of Us
“I know.”
But it wasn’t really a question either.
There’s a silence. Not awkward—just weighted. Like neither of us wants to break it first.
I check the time. “We’re done.”
Dean nods and starts packing his notebook. “Same time next week?”
I hesitate. “Yeah.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, slinging his bag over one shoulder. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something else. But he doesn’t.
He just looks at me one last time, then walks out.
And I sit there for a full thirty seconds, staring at the empty chair across from me like it might explain the pressure behind my ribs.
By the time I reach the dining hall that evening, the snow has turned slushy and unpleasant. My fingers sting from the cold as I scan my student ID, stepping into a rush of warmth and noise that smells faintly of overcooked pizza and burnt cheese.
Sadie’s already at our usual table near the back—bright pink hoodie, knees up in the chair like she owns the place. She’s talking with her hands, animatedly. Across from her is Daphne, polished and poised, sipping from a straw.
I grab a salad and a bowl of soup I probably won’t finish and slide into the empty seat next to Sadie.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up from her phone.
“Had tutoring.”
“With who?” Daphne asks, polite and casual.
I take a sip of lukewarm broth. “Dean.”
Both of them react.
Sadie raises an eyebrow. “As in… Daphne’s Dean?”
Daphne waves a manicured hand like she’s brushing this off. “I don’t even know if he’s my Dean anymore.”
I glance up. That’s new.
Daphne lets out a long, slow exhale. “He’s just been weird lately. Distant. And not in his usual broody way. I don’t know—he’s off.”
“Off how?” Sadie asks, tearing her bread into tiny pieces. “Like cold? Or like… blackout rage-y?”
Daphne snorts. “Dean doesn’t rage. He just retreats into that wall of silence and stares at you like he’s disappointed in you on a cellular level.”
I glance down at my soup and stir it for something to do.
“He’s just so intense,” Daphne says, setting her fork down.
That gets Sadie’s attention. She perks up. “Oh, god. What’s that even like?”
Daphne leans back in her seat, a slight crinkle in her brow. “Let’s just say he’s got a thing for control. Super bossy. Even in the bedroom.Especiallyin the bedroom.” She says it like it’s a flaw. Like he asked her to hand over her social security number, not her underwear.
I don’t say anything. My throat’s dry, and I reach for my water.
“I mean, the thing is,” she continues, stabbing at her pasta, “we’ve been off for a while. You know how it is.”
I don’t. I’ve never dated someone long enough for it to be an “off and on” situation.
