Page 95 of The Equation of Us
“You okay?” Daphne asks, glancing at me with concern.
“Fine,” I manage, wiping my mouth. “Wrong pipe.”
“Anyway,” she continues, “I hope that’s not the case, but I know Dean would have told me if he was dating someone else. He’s not the type to hide things.”
The irony is almost too much to bear. I catch Sadie’s eye, a silent plea for help, but she looks as trapped as I feel.
“Maybe he’s just busy,” Sadie suggests. “End of semester, hockey playoffs, that engineering project he’s always working on.”
“Maybe.” Daphne doesn’t sound convinced. “But I think I’m going to talk to him this weekend. Clear the air. See if there’s still something worth saving.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. “You said yourself the breakup happened for valid reasons.”
“I know.” She sighs, leaning back against the couch. “But the more I think about it, the more I realize those ‘reasons’ were mostly me being scared. Dean feels things so deeply. Being with him means really being seen, you know? And that terrified me.”
I do know. The way Dean’s eyes track every expression, every micro-reaction. How he catalogs responses, adjusts his approach. Remembers everything.
“But after seeing how he handled the pregnancy thing,” Daphne continues, “I think I might be ready for that kind of intensity now. Someone who doesn’t bail when things get hard.”
“That’s… that’s great,” I say weakly. “If that’s what you want.”
I feel sick.
“I think it is.” Daphne hugs a pillow to her chest. “I just hope he’s still available.”
“Speaking of available,” Sadie jumps in, clearly attempting to change the subject, “did either of you see Professor Linley’s new TA? The one with the British accent?”
Daphne laughs. “The one who looks like he walked off a GQ cover? Yes. Very much yes.”
The conversation shifts, meandering through campus gossip and professor anecdotes. I participate on autopilot, laughing at the right moments, contributing just enough to appear engaged. Inside, I’m in free fall.
Daphne wants Dean back. Dean, who I’m already feeling too much for; Dean, who slept in my bed two nights last week; Dean, who I’ve begun to imagine a future with, despite my best attempts at caution.
An hour later, we’ve emptied the wine bottle and moved on to Daphne’s sketchbook. She’s always been talented, capturing moments and people with quick, confident strokes.
“These are amazing,” Sadie says, flipping through the pages. “Oh my god, is this Professor Wexler? You got his eyebrows perfect.”
“He has the most expressive face,” Daphne laughs. “Look at this one—Dean at the hockey game. I was trying to capture that intensity he gets when he’s focused.”
Sadie passes the sketchbook to me. The drawing shows Dean on the ice, mid-motion, eyes locked on something in the distance. Daphne has captured him perfectly—the coiled power, the absolute concentration. The Roman numerals XCVII barely visible on his jersey.
“It’s really good,” I say, handing it back quickly. “You got the ninety-seven detail right.”
Daphne’s brow furrows. “Ninety-seven? Dean’s number is eighty-three.”
I freeze, caught between the instinct to deny and the knowledge that it’s already too late.
“Sorry, I meant eighty-three,” I say, hoping she’ll let it slide. “I must have been thinking of someone else.”
But Daphne’s expression has shifted, suspicion replacing confusion. “No, you specifically said ninety-seven. And you pointed at his leg.”
“I—”
“That’s not his jersey number,” she says slowly. “That’s his tattoo. The Roman numerals for 97.”
The room suddenly feels airless. Sadie has gone very still beside me.
“How do you know about Dean’s tattoo?” Daphne asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer. “It’s on his thigh. High up.”
