Page 66 of The Equation of Us
Confidences
Nora
The neuroscience department’s tiny kitchen smells like burnt popcorn and old coffee—a scent so familiar I barely notice it anymore. I’m filling my travel mug with what might be this morning’s brew when Daphne appears in the doorway, looking polished as always in a camel coat and knee-high boots.
“There you are,” she says with a smile. “I’ve been looking all over campus.”
“Hey,” I say, surprise making my voice higher than normal. “What are you doing in the science building?”
“I had a department meeting next door.” She gestures vaguely toward the social sciences wing. “Want to grab lunch? My treat.”
My first instinct is to make an excuse. It’s been five days since our conversation in the student center, five days since Dean and I had dinner with his brother, since we acknowledged something deeper growing between us. Five days of texts that definitely break our “logistics only” rule, five days of stealing moments between classes and study sessions.
Five days of guilt whenever I think about Daphne.
“I’ve got lab in an hour,” I say, which is true, though not the whole reason for my hesitation.
“Perfect,” she says, already turning toward the door. “That new soup place in the student union is quick.”
I follow her, trying to quiet the anxiety churning in my stomach. This is normal. Friends have lunch. Daphne and I had lunch regularly long before Dean entered the equation.
Still, as we walk across campus in the crisp spring air, I can’t help feeling like I’m living a double life. The Nora who’s Dean’s…whatever we are now. And the Nora who’s still Daphne’s innocent friend.
“So,” Daphne says once we’ve settled at a table with our soup and half-sandwiches. “James and I are officially a thing.”
“That’s great,” I say, genuinely happy for her despite my complicated feelings. “The hospital visit drama is behind you?”
“His mom’s doing better,” she confirms. “And he’s been super sweet about the whole thing. Flowers, apologies, the works.”
“I’m glad.” I take a spoonful of soup, relieved we’re discussing James and not Dean.
“Actually,” she continues, stirring her own soup absently, “talking to him about what happened made me realize something.”
“What’s that?”
“That I never really apologized to Dean. For how things ended,” she says, her gaze dropping to her bowl. “I was pretty callous, looking back.”
My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
Daphne sighs, looking genuinely remorseful. “I made it all about him—his intensity, his control issues. But a lot of it was me. I wasn’t in a place where I could handle someone who felt things so deeply.”
I set my spoon down carefully, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I thought you said you weren’t compatible. Different needs and all that.”
“We weren’t,” she agrees. “But the way I ended it… I said some pretty harsh things. Things I knew would hurt him.”
“Like what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She meets my eyes, guilt evident in her expression. “I told him I felt suffocated. That being with him was like having a second job, always managing his expectations, his moods.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. This isn’t information I should have—not without Dean knowing, not without his permission.
“The truth is,” she continues, unaware of my discomfort, “I knew he was dealing with anniversary grief over his friend’s suicide, and I still chose that week to end things. Because I knew he’d be too emotionally raw to fight back.”
I almost choke on my water.
She broke up with him the same week that marks Jesse’s passing?
Heartless.
