Page 73 of The Equation of Us
Sadie kicks me under the table, her expression clearly communicating her disapproval of my continued deception. I kick her back, silently pleading for her to drop it.
“So,” Sadie says, mercifully changing the subject, “are we still on for movie night Saturday? I vote for something with explosions and minimal plot.”
The conversation shifts to safer territory—movie choices, weekend plans, complaints about end-of-semester workloads. I participate on autopilot, nodding and laughing at appropriate intervals while my mind races.
I need to tell Daphne the truth. Soon. Before she finds out from someone else, before this deception grows any larger than it already has. But the thought of her hurt expression, of potentially losing her friendship, makes my stomach clench.
“Earth to Nora,” Sadie waves a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”
“Sorry,” I blink, refocusing. “Just thinking about my lab report.”
“Always working,” Daphne says with a fond smile. “Some things never change.”
If only she knew how much has changed.
Back in my dorm room, I drop my backpack on the floor with a groan, the weight of the conversation with Daphne sitting heavy on my shoulders. I need to talk to Dean about the sweater—and about the larger issue of coming clean to Daphne. But first, a shower and a change of clothes before heading to his place.
I gather my shower caddy and towel, but as I turn to leave, I feel it—that telltale cramp, the slight heaviness that signals the arrival of my period. A quick check confirms my suspicion.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter, digging through my drawer for supplies. This isn’t necessarily an unexpected development, but it does complicate my plans for the evening with Dean. We haven’t discussed this particular aspect of biology yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready to have that conversation.
So I send him a quick text.
Me_: I need to cancel tonight. Raincheck?_
His response comes almost immediately.
Dean:Everything okay?
I hesitate, debating how much to share. Dean and I have been intimate for weeks now, but talking about my menstrual cycle feels like a different kind of vulnerability. He’s not my boyfriend. And though I’m not well versed in the rules of having a friend with benefits, I think this falls outside the range.
Me: Yeah, just not feeling great. Need a night in.
Three dots appear, then his reply.
Dean:Want company? I can bring dinner.
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head at my phone.
Me:Thanks, but I already ate, and I think I’m just going to crash early. See you tomorrow?
A longer pause this time.
Dean:Are you sure you’re okay?
I sigh. Dean’s perceptiveness, usually something I appreciate, is inconvenient right now.
Me:I’m fine, I promise. Just tired.
Dean:You’re not upset about something, are you?
The concern in his message makes my chest tighten. Part of me wants to just tell him the truth, but another part—the part that’s still adjusting to this new level of intimacy between us—holds back.
Dean:If this is about today, what happened in thelibrary…
I reply before he can finish that thought.
Me:I liked what happened in the library.
