Page 52 of The Equation of Us
“Probably,” she says. “James might come too, if that’s not weird.”
“The investment banker?” I ask, recalling her date from a few weeks ago.
She nods, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “We’ve been seeing each other. It’s going well, actually.”
“That’s great,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “And of course it’s not weird. You should definitely bring him.”
“Cool.” She smiles, then returns to her textbook. “Maybe you’ll meet someone there too.”
If only you knew.
Stevens’ house is already packed by the time Sadie and I arrive, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the floorboards. Red cups litter every surface, the distinct scent of cheap beer and cheaper vodka permeating the air.
“Remind me why we’re here?” I shout over the music, following Sadie through the crowded living room.
“Because we’re young and it’s Friday,” she yells back. “And because you need to interact with humans who aren’t professors or study partners occasionally.”
She isn’t wrong.
Between classes, research, and my increasingly frequent visits to Dean’s apartment, I’ve been even more reclusive than usual. Not that Sadie knows about Dean—I’ve kept that part vague, telling her only that I’ve been “seeing someone” without specifics.
We make our way to the kitchen, where Sadie mixes us drinks with slightly more precision than the average party-goer. I scan the room as I sip mine, my heart skipping when I spot him—Dean, leaning against the far wall, beer in hand, listeningto something Gavin is saying. Despite tomorrow’s away game, it seems the team’s allowed some social time before their early morning departure.
Our eyes meet briefly across the crowded room, his expression carefully neutral. I look away first, reminding myself of our agreement. In public, we’re barely acquaintances. Tutor and student. Nothing more.
The forced distance creates a strange tension, knowing he’s just across the room but being unable to approach him, to touch him, to show any sign of what we’ve become to each other.
“Nora!” A masculine voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn to see Kyle Evans approaching, his usual confident grin in place. We’ve had several classes together over the years—he’s pre-med, smart but overly aware of it, with the kind of conventional good looks that earn him plenty of attention.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, stopping closer than necessary.
“Sadie dragged me,” I reply, gesturing to my roommate, who’s already disappeared into the crowd.
“Lucky me,” he says, his smile widening. “So how’s the most brilliant mind in neuroscience doing tonight?”
I roll my eyes at the obvious flattery. “The most brilliant mind in neuroscience is probably a sixty-year-old professor with three PhDs, not a senior undergrad.”
Kyle laughs, undeterred. “Brilliant and modest. Seriously, though, how have you been? I feel like I never see you outside of class anymore.”
“Busy,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “Research and tutoring take up most of my free time.”
“All work and no play,” he chides, stepping even closer. “That’s not healthy, you know. Studies show that social interaction is crucial for cognitive function.”
“Are you citing neuroscience research to a neuroscience major?” I ask, amused despite myself.
“I like living dangerously,” he says with a wink.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Dean watching us, his posture stiff, jaw tight. He takes a long pull from his beer, eyes never leaving us even as he nods at whatever Gavin is saying.
The conversation continues—Kyle flirting with increasing obviousness, me deflecting with varying degrees of success. It’s harmless, really. Under different circumstances, I might even enjoy the attention. Kyle is intelligent and funny, if a bit full of himself.
But all I can think about is Dean watching from across the room—how his hands felt on my skin last night, how he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve, how he admitted I scared him because I see too much.
“Hey, what’s up?” Gavin appears beside us, beer in hand, bringing Dean with him. My pulse quickens at Dean’s proximity, though his expression remains coolly neutral.
“Evans,” Dean acknowledges, his voice controlled.
