Page 60 of The Equation of Us
My breath catches. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t just the leg,” he says, his voice low. “It was everything that came with it. The pain, the limitations, the way people looked at him differently. The fact that hockey—the thing he loved most—was impossible with the prosthetic he had.”
He stands abruptly, moving to a different workbench where several framed certificates hang on the wall above. Among them is a hockey jersey in a shadowbox—black and gold with the number 97 prominently displayed.
“Is that…” I start.
“His, yeah.” Dean doesn’t turn to look at me. “I keep it here to remind me why this matters. Why it has to work.”
I remember the tattoo I glimpsed on Dean’s inner thigh—Roman numerals that I couldn’t quite decipher in the moment. XCVII “Ninety-seven. That’s your tattoo.”
He turns to me then, surprise evident in his expression. “You noticed that?”
“I did,” I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I didn’t realize what it meant.”
“It’s his number,” Dean confirms. “Got it after he died. To remember.”
The vulnerability in his admission, in showing me this personal connection to his work, creates a tightness in my chest. This is a side of Dean I’ve never seen before—not the controlled, dominant figure from our intimate encounters, not the focused student from our tutoring sessions, but something deeper, more raw.
“Why are you showing me all this?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He considers the question, his gaze steady on mine. “Because I wanted you to understand. Why this project matters so much. Why the Archer Initiative isn’t just about my career.”
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For trusting me with this.”
He nods, something like relief crossing his features. “I should get back to work. The Archer deadline’s coming up.”
“Of course.” I gather my bag, sensing the moment has passed. “I have studying to do anyway.”
Dean walks me to the lab door, stopping just before opening it. “I want to see you again. Tonight? My place?”
The invitation sends a thrill through me, despite everything I’ve just learned about his past, despite the emotional complication it adds to what was supposed to be a simple physical arrangement.
“Eight o’clock,” I say.
He opens the door, and as I step past him, his hand brushes mine—a brief, subtle touch that could be accidental but isn’t.
“Nora,” he says quietly, stopping me before I can walk away. “Thank you. For understanding about Daphne last night.”
I offer a small smile. “That’s what friends do, right?”
“Is that what we are?” he asks, his expression unreadable. “Friends?”
The question feels loaded, fraught with nuance I’m not sure either of us is ready to explore.
“Among other things,” I say finally.
He nods, accepting the ambiguity. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Walking away from the engineering building, I’m struck by how much has changed in such a short time. What began as curiosity, as a controlled experiment in letting go, has evolved into something far more complex. Something that terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
I pull out my phone, intending to text Sadie about meeting for coffee, when I notice a text from Daphne:
Can we talk? It’s important.
A cold weight settles in my stomach as I stare at the message. After everything Dean just shared, after the connection we justdeepened, the last thing I want to do is face Daphne and her unknown questions.
But I can’t avoid her forever. And if I’m being honest with myself, the guilt is starting to eat at me.
