Page 51 of The Equation of Us
I wake to the insistent blare of my alarm, fumbling blindly to silence it while my brain struggles toward consciousness. Six-thirty. Early, but necessary if I want to shower and review my notes before neurochemistry at eight.
My body feels different this morning—a pleasant soreness in unexpected places, a lingering sensitivity that reminds me of everything that happened with Dean last night. Images flash through my sleep-addled mind—his hands on my breasts, his mouth between my thighs, the unexpected vulnerability in his eyes when he told me I see too much.
That I see him differently than everyone else.
I’d left his apartment shortly after midnight, despite his suggestion that I stay. The ten minutes of rest had turned into an hour, both of us drifting in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin. When I finally forced myself to leave, he’d walked me to the door, kissed me with surprising gentleness, and said, “Text me when you get back safely.”
I did, another rule broken without discussion or debate.
“You’re up early,” Sadie mumbles from the top bunk, her voice thick with sleep. “Lab prep?”
“Neurochemistry review,” I say, sitting up and stretching. “Go back to sleep.”
She makes an unintelligible sound and rolls over, pink hair disappearing beneath her blanket.
I gather my towel and shower caddy, trying to move quietly in our cramped dorm room.
The library is unusually crowded for midmorning, every table occupied, the quiet hum of whispered conversations filling the air. I circle the main floor twice before resigning myself to studying in the noisy café area instead.
“Nora!”
I turn to see Daphne waving from a corner table, her marketing textbooks spread out beside her laptop. She gestures to the empty chair across from her.
“I have a spot for you,” she calls, earning a few irritated glances from nearby students.
I hesitate, guilt flickering through me at the thought of sitting with Dean’s ex while my body still carries the memory of his touch. But refusing would be suspicious, and the café is my only other option.
“Thanks,” I say, sliding into the chair. “It’s a zoo in here today.”
“Midterms,” she says with a grimace. “Everyone’s panicking.”
I arrange my notebooks and laptop, hyperaware of Daphne across the table. Does she notice anything different about me? Can she somehow tell what I’ve been doing—who I’ve been doing it with?
“How’s that biopsych project going?” she asks, highlighting a passage in her textbook. “The one with Dean?”
My stomach tightens at his name. “Fine. Good, actually. We work well together.”
She nods, not looking up. “He’s smart. Really smart. I never understood half of what he talked about with his engineering stuff.”
There’s no bitterness in her tone, just a matter-of-fact observation. I’m not sure how to respond, so I just make a noncommittal sound and open my laptop.
We work in companionable silence for a while, the awkwardness gradually fading as we both focus on our studies. It’s almost noon when Daphne suddenly says, “Oh! I almost forgot.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a slim book, sliding it across the table to me.
“I found this at that used bookstore on Maple,” she says. “The one with the grumpy cat in the window? Anyway, I remembered you mentioned wanting to read it for your cognitive neuroscience paper.”
I look down at the book—“All About the Brain: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science”—and blink in surprise. I had mentioned it once, weeks ago, during a group dinner. I didn’t think anyone was really listening.
“I was going to text you,” Daphne continues, “but I figured I’d run into you eventually. It was only five dollars, and I thought it might help with your research.”
“This is—” I’m genuinely touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “Thank you. This will be really helpful.”
She waves it off with a smile. “No big deal. Consider it payment for all the times you’ve proofread my marketing proposals.”
As I flip through the book, noting the highlighted passages and margin notes from the previous owner, I’m struck by a wave of guilt. Here’s Daphne, being genuinely kind and considerate, while I’m hooking up with her ex-boyfriend behind her back.
“Hey,” I say impulsively. “Are you going to Stevens’ party tonight?”
