Page 70 of The Equation of Us
I’m not sure I want to stop it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Critical Variables
Nora
“Maintaining boundaries is essential,” Professor Wexler says, tapping his pen against my data charts. “Otherwise, we get unpredictable results that can’t be replicated.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Boundaries. Unpredictable results. The scientific terminology mirrors my personal life so perfectly I almost laugh.
I’ve been nodding for the past fifteen minutes, making appropriate noises of agreement while my mind replays Gavin’s knowing chuckle, the flash of my underwear visible beneath the library table, Dean’s calm certainty that nothing has changed.
Except everything has.
“Nora?” Wexler’s bushy eyebrows draw together. “Are you with me?”
“Yes, sorry,” I straighten in my chair. “You were saying about the control variables?”
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary, concern evident in his expression. “Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow. You seem… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, even as my phone buzzes in my pocket—Dean, most likely. “Just a little tired. Finals preparation.”
“Ah, yes.” He smiles, nostalgia softening his usually stern face. “I remember those days. The human brain isn’t designed for sustained cognitive exertion without adequate rest, you know.”
“I know,” I say, restraining myself from reciting the exact neurological mechanisms behind cognitive fatigue. “I’ll get some sleep tonight.”
Another lie to add to my growing collection.
After Wexler gathers his papers and leaves with a final concerned glance, I pull out my phone.
Dean:All good?
Such a simple question. Not “Are you freaking out about almost getting caught with my cock in your mouth in a university library?” Not “Have you reconsidered our entire arrangement now that someone knows about us?” Just…All good?
My fingers hover over the screen. What do I say? That I’m mortified? Terrified? That a part of me—a part I’m not proud of—is somehow thrilled by the edge of danger, the almost-getting-caught?
Me:Meeting with Wexler done. Need time to think.
His response comes immediately.
Dean:Come to my place later? 9pm?
I stare at the message. The logical answer is no. Create distance. Reestablish boundaries. But logic seems to fail whenever Dean Carter is involved.
Me:OK.
I press send before I can overthink it, then gather my things and head for the exit. The afternoon sun is harsh after hours in the library’s fluorescent lighting, making me squint as I cross the quad.
“Nora!”
I turn to see Sadie jogging toward me, pink hair bouncing in the breeze, a knowing grin on her face.
“What’s with that look?” I ask as she falls into step beside me.
“Nothing,” she says, her tone suggesting exactly the opposite. “Just wondering why Gavin Matthews was telling everyone at the athletic center about Dean Carter’s ‘private study session’ today.”
My heart plummets. “What?”
