Page 82 of The Equation of Us
Gavin’s smirk suggests he has his suspicions anyway. “In the study rooms again, huh? Must be some intense… tutoring.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks but force myself to maintain composure. Four years of competitive debate in high school taught me how to appear calm even when I’m screaming internally.
“Biomechanics doesn’t learn itself,” I say coolly, adjusting the strap of my bag.
Henry’s eyes land on me, assessing in a way that makes me uncomfortably aware of my slightly disheveled appearance. His gaze lingers a beat too long on my mouth before shifting to Dean.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asks, a hint of something playful in his tone.
Dean’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Henry, Nora. Nora, Henry.”
“Nora,” Henry repeats, offering a dazzling smile. “Dean’s tutor, right? I didn’t realize academic support was so… dedicated.”
There’s an unmistakable innuendo in his words, one that sends a fresh wave of heat to my face. I straighten my spine, meeting his gaze directly.
“The department takes student success very seriously,” I say, my voice steady despite the embarrassment churning in my stomach.
Henry laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “I bet they do.” He turns to Dean. “I thought you’d be in there with Daphne, man. Didn’t she text you again yesterday?”
The name hits like a bucket of ice water, instantly cooling the lingering warmth from our encounter. Daphne. My friend. Who apparently texted Dean yesterday—something he didn’t mention.
“No,” Dean says curtly. “That was about her sweater.”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Her ‘sweater,’ huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Her actual sweater, Walsh,” Dean says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register I’ve come to recognize. “She left it at my place months ago.”
The tension between them is sudden and palpable. I glance at Gavin, who’s watching the exchange with open curiosity, clearly filing away information for later analysis.
“We should go,” I say, desperate to escape this increasingly awkward situation. “I have class in ten minutes.”
“I’ll walk you,” Dean offers immediately.
“No need,” I counter, perhaps too quickly. “Harwell’s in the opposite direction of the athletic center. You’ll be late for your meeting.”
A flicker of something—frustration? disappointment?—crosses Dean’s face, but he nods. “I’ll text you later?”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly hyperaware of our audience. “Good luck at practice.”
I turn to leave, feeling three pairs of eyes on my back as I walk away. My legs are steadier than they have any right to be, given what just happened in that study room and the conversation that followed.
“Good to meet you, Nora!” Henry calls after me.
I raise a hand in acknowledgment without looking back, unwilling to see whatever expression might be on Dean’s face.
Once I turn the corner, I lean against the wall, releasing a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hand comes up to touch my lips, still sensitive from Dean’s kisses, from taking him in my mouth while he watched with those intense gray eyes.
And then Daphne’s name, dropped so casually into the aftermath.
Didn’t she text you again yesterday?
Again. Implying multiple texts. Ongoing communication. Something Dean evidently hadn’t thought important enough to mention.
I shake my head, pushing away from the wall and continuing toward Harwell. I’m being irrational. Daphne texted him about her sweater—something she literally told me about yesterday at lunch. There’s nothing suspicious about that.
But Henry’s assumption—that Dean would be in a study room with Daphne, not me—stings in a way I hadn’t anticipated. A reminder that in the social ecosystem of this campus, Dean and Daphne were a known entity. An established couple. Something that made sense to people.
Dean and Nora? That’s still a secret. Something happening in locked study rooms and darkened apartments. Something we haven’t defined, haven’t acknowledged publicly.
