Page 97 of The Equation of Us
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” I repeat helplessly.
“Well, now you don’t have to.” She starts to close the door, then pauses. “For what it’s worth, I hope he makes you happy. But I don’t think I can be around to watch it happen.”
The door closes with a soft, final click.
Sadie and I stand in the hallway, the silence heavy between us.
“Fuck,” she says finally.
It’s the most appropriate response I can imagine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Dean, checking in. Wondering how girls’ night is going. Completely unaware that our carefully constructed secret has just imploded.
“Let’s go home,” Sadie says, slipping her arm through mine. “We’ll figure this out.”
But as we walk back to our dorm in the cool spring night, I’m not sure there’s anything to figure out. Some bridges, once burned, can’t be rebuilt.
And some choices, once made, can’t be unmade.
This equation just got a lot more complicated.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Broken Equations
Nora
I last exactly seven minutes in our dorm room before I can’t stand it anymore.
“I need to call him,” I tell Sadie, who’s been watching me pace the small space between our beds like she’s afraid I might shatter.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea right now?” she asks gently. “Maybe give Daphne some time to cool off. Give yourself some time to process.”
“I need to tell him before she does.”
Understanding crosses Sadie’s face. “Right. Okay. Do you want me to…?” She gestures toward the door.
“No, stay. Please.” The thought of being alone right now is somehow worse than my embarrassment at having her witness this conversation.
She nods, settling back on her bed. “I’ll just put in my headphones.”
I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, finding Dean’s name in my contacts. It rings twice before he answers.
“Hey,” his voice comes through, warm and familiar. “How’s girls’ night going?”
For a moment, I can’t speak. The normalcy of his question, the casual affection in his tone—it feels like it’s from another lifetime.
“Nora?” Concern enters his voice. “Are you there?”
“She knows,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “Daphne knows about us.”
A beat of silence. Then, “What happened?”
“I slipped up. Said something about your tattoo. The Roman numerals.” My voice breaks. “She figured it out immediately.”
“Okay,” he says, his tone shifting to something steadier, calmer. “Take a deep breath. Tell me what happened.”
I sink onto my bed, legs no longer able to support me. “It was horrible, Dean. She was talking about getting back together with you, and then she showed us this sketch she’d drawn of you playing hockey, and I mentioned the ninety-seven on your jersey, except your number is eighty-three, and—”
