Page 63 of The Equation of Us
Just as we’re about to settle on the couch with our plates, a sharp knock at the door interrupts the moment. Dean frowns, setting his plate down.
“Not expecting anyone?” I ask.
He shakes his head, moving to the door. When he opens it, I hear a familiar voice—similar to Dean’s but lighter, with a hint of something like desperation.
“Logan?” Dean’s tone shifts immediately to concern. “What’s wrong? What are you doing here?”
A younger version of Dean steps into view—similar height and build, but less defined, with shorter hair and softer features. His eyes are red-rimmed, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and distress.
“Hey, D,” he says, then notices me standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
Dean glances back at me, then at his brother. “It’s fine. This is Nora. Nora, this is my brother, Logan.”
I offer a small wave, suddenly very aware of the intimate evening that’s clearly not going to unfold as planned. “Hi.”
Logan attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry to crash your night.”
“What happened?” Dean asks, guiding his brother inside with a hand on his shoulder.
Logan runs a hand through his hair—a gesture so similar to Dean’s that it makes my chest tighten. “Dad called. He’s getting remarried.”
Dean’s expression hardens. “When?”
“Next month. He wants us there.” Logan laughs, a hollow sound. “Like we’re one big happy family or something.”
The tension in Dean’s jaw, the protective hand still on his brother’s shoulder—it reveals a side of him I’ve only glimpsed before. Not the controlled, dominant Dean I’ve come to know, but someone more vulnerable, more human.
“Have you eaten?” Dean asks.
Logan shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“Bullshit. We’ve got plenty of food.” Dean gestures toward the kitchen. “Sit. Eat.”
It’s not a suggestion. Logan seems to recognize this, moving toward the counter without further protest. I stand there awkwardly, not sure if I should stay or go.
Dean catches my eye. “You don’t have to leave,” he says quietly.
“Are you sure? This seems… family.”
“It is.” He holds my gaze. “Stay. Please.”
The request surprises me. Dean, who’s always so careful about compartmentalizing, wants me to stay for this clearly personal moment. It feels significant in a way I can’t quite articulate.
“Okay,” I agree.
We end up at Dean’s small dining table, the three of us sharing Chinese food from containers that get passed around with surprising ease. Logan’s initial discomfort at my presence fades as the meal progresses, especially when Dean mentions I’m his academic advisor.
“So you’re the one keeping this guy from flunking out,” Logan says, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good luck with that.”
“He doesn’t need much help,” I say, catching Dean’s eye. “He’s pretty capable.”
“Always has been,” Logan agrees, reaching for more sweet and sour chicken. “Mom used to say he came out of the womb with a five-year plan.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s affection beneath the exasperation. “Mom exaggerates.”
“Not about that,” he counters. “Remember when you were eight and made that chart tracking your hockey progress? With the graphs and everything?”
A hint of color appears on Dean’s cheeks. “I liked data.”
