Page 99 of The Equation of Us
“Not now, Nora.” His voice softens slightly. “I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I wanted to give you time to prepare.The department chair and a representative from the Office of Academic Integrity will be present tomorrow.”
The Office of Academic Integrity. This isn’t just Wexler being concerned. This is official. Formal.
“I understand,” I manage, though I don’t. Not really.
“Eight o’clock,” he repeats. “Don’t be late.”
The call ends, leaving me staring at my phone in shock.
“Nora?” Sadie’s voice seems to come from very far away. “What happened?”
I look up at her, my vision blurring with tears. “Daphne reported me to the department. For having an inappropriate relationship with Dean while tutoring him.”
“She didwhat?” Sadie’s eyes widen. “That quickly? How did she even—”
“I don’t know.” I stand on shaky legs, instinct driving me to move, to run. “I need to go. I need to think.”
“Where are you going?” Sadie rises, concern etched on her face. “Nora, don’t do anything rash.”
My phone buzzes again—Dean, calling back. I ignore it.
“I just need air,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
I’m out the door before she can stop me, half-running down the hallway, down the stairs, out into the cool spring night. My phone continues to vibrate in my pocket, but I ignore it.
The campus is quiet at this hour, most windows dark. I walk without direction, arms wrapped around myself, mind racing.
A complaint to the department. My conduct as a tutor. The Office of Academic Integrity.
I know what this means. The Archer Initiative nomination—gone. My research position with Wexler—possibly gone. My academic reputation—definitely damaged.
Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed for, and for what? A few stolen moments with Dean Carter.
My phone buzzes again. This time I answer.
“Where are you?” Dean’s voice is tight with concern.
“Walking. Nowhere specific.”
“It’s midnight, Nora. Come to my place. Please.”
Part of me wants to refuse, to keep walking until exhaustion overrides panic. But a stronger part—the part that’s been gravitating toward Dean since that first tutoring session—can’t resist the pull.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside his apartment door, hand raised to knock. Before my knuckles can make contact, the door swings open.
Dean stands there, hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it, eyes dark with concern. He’s wearing sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, feet bare. He looks young. Vulnerable.
“Come here,” he says, pulling me into his arms before I can speak.
I let myself collapse against him, just for a moment. His heart beats steady and strong beneath my ear, his arms solid around me. For exactly four seconds, I feel like everything might be okay.
Then reality reasserts itself, and I pull away.
“Wexler called,” I say, moving past him into the apartment. “There’s been a complaint. About us.”
Dean closes the door, turning to face me. “Daphne?”
