Page 83 of The Equation of Us
Something that still feels tenuous, despite the hockey laces and whispered confessions and moments of perfect synchronicity.
As I near Harwell, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Dean:Sorry about that. Henry’s an ass.
I stare at the screen, unsure how to respond. Part of me wants to ask about Daphne’s texts—how many, how often, what about. Another part recognizes that as the irrational jealousy it is.
Me:It’s fine.
I slip my phone back into my pocket as I enter the lecture hall, sliding into my usual seat just as Professor Lin begins setting up the presentation. My notebook open before me, pen poised to take notes, I try to focus on neurological pathways and cognitive processing models.
But all I can think about is the weight of hockey laces around my wrists, the intensity in Dean’s eyes as he watched me take him in my mouth, and the casual way Henry assumed Dean would be with Daphne instead of me.
All I can think about is how easily I surrendered control to Dean Carter, and how impossible it seems to regain that control now—not just of him, but of myself. Of what I want. Of what I’m willing to risk to get it.
Because the truth, the terrifying truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks now, is that this thing with Dean stopped being casual the moment it started. Maybe even before that—in that first tutoring session when he looked at me like he could see straight through every defense I’d so carefully constructed.
I’ve spent my life building walls, creating systems, establishing control. And in less than an hour, with nothing buthockey laces and whispered commands, Dean dismantled all of it.
The scariest part?
I let him.
And I’ll let him do it again.
Professor Lin is twenty minutes into her lecture on prefrontal cortex development when my phone vibrates against my thigh. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Not texts, but a call.
I discreetly slide the phone from my pocket, planning to silence it, when I see Professor Wexler’s name on the screen. He never calls during class hours—knows my schedule too well for that.
Which means it’s important.
I slip out of my seat, murmuring an apology to Professor Lin as I hurry toward the exit. The call stops just as I reach the hallway, but seconds later, it starts again.
“Professor?” I answer, heart racing at the potential implications. Did something happen with our oxytocin study? Did one of my samples get contaminated?
“Nora, excellent.” Wexler’s voice comes through, excitement evident in his typically measured tone. “I’ve just had a very interesting conversation with Dr. Prescott from the Archer Initiative committee.”
My breath catches. The Archer Initiative—the most prestigious undergraduate research fellowship in the country. Fully funded graduate studies, guaranteed lab placement, career connections that open doors most people never even get to knock on.
It’s a very big deal.
“They’ve made a significant change this year,” Wexler continues, oblivious to my racing pulse. “Instead of selecting three recipients nationally, they’re narrowing it to just one.”
“One?” I repeat, the implications immediately clear. Infinitely more prestige, infinitely smaller chances.
“Yes. One student from all the nominated candidates across the country. The funding has been consolidated to create what they’re calling a ‘transformational opportunity’ for a single exceptional researcher.” The enthusiasm in his voice is unmistakable. “And I want it to be you, Nora.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “That’s… that’s incredible, Professor.”
“It’s more than incredible—it’s career-defining. The selected fellow will have unprecedented resources, mentorship from the top minds in their field, and virtually guaranteed placement in any graduate program they choose afterward.” He pauses, his voice turning serious. “Nora, I don’t say this lightly, but your work on neural pathways and emotional decision-making is exactly what the committee is looking for this year. They specifically mentioned innovative approaches to neurological research with practical applications.”
I lean against the wall, my mind racing. One student. The best of the best. Everything I’ve worked for concentrated into a single opportunity.
It’s a little overwhelming.
“The final nomination deadline is in two weeks,” Wexler continues. “I’d like to meet tomorrow to discuss strengthening your application. I’ve already spoken with the department chair, and we’re prepared to give this our full institutional support.”
“Of course,” I manage, trying to sound professionally composed rather than completely overwhelmed. “What time tomorrow?”
