Page 62 of The Equation of Us

Ouch.

“That’s a good quality,” I say, guilt twisting in my stomach.

“It is.” She smiles, more genuine this time. “He’s a good guy. Part of me still wishes things had worked between us.”

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.

“Anyway,” she continues, oblivious to my internal struggle, “James wants to make it up to me. Dinner tonight at that new place downtown.”

“Are you going to go?”

“I think so,” she says. “I like him. He makes me laugh. He challenges me. And when he’s not having family emergencies, he’s actually quite reliable too.”

“That’s great,” I say, meaning it despite everything. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks.” She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand briefly. “And thank you for coming to talk. I feel better.”

“That’s what friends are for,” I say, the words sticking slightly in my throat.

As we say our goodbyes and I walk back toward Harvey Hall, my mind whirls with conflicting emotions. Relief that Daphne doesn’t suspect anything. Guilt that I’m sleeping with her ex while she praises his character. Confusion about what’s developing between Dean and me.

But beneath it all, one thought rises to the surface: What if Daphne’s not actually ready to move on? What if she realizes Dean’s still the better choice for her?

The realization doesn’t help my guilt any. Tonight, when I go to Dean’s apartment, I’d like to think I can be present without Daphne’s ghost between us. Without wondering if I’m betraying a friend who still has feelings for him.

But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Family Matters

Nora

I knock on Dean’s door at exactly eight o’clock, a flutter of nervous anticipation in my stomach. After everything that’s happened today—seeing his lab, learning more about Jesse, and my conversation with Daphne—it feels like we’re on the edge of something new and dangerous.

The door opens, and there’s Dean in jeans and a simple gray t-shirt, his feet bare. A familiar warmth spreads through me at the sight of him.

“Hey,” he says, stepping back to let me in.

“Hey.” I move past him, catching the clean scent of his soap as I do. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Productive.” He closes the door, watching me with that intense focus. “Yours?”

I think about my meeting with Daphne, the relief of knowing she’s moved on, the guilt that lingers despite it. “Interesting,” I say finally.

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “Hungry?” he asks instead, gesturing toward the kitchen counter where two takeout bags sit waiting.

“Starving, actually. I’ve been studying all day.”

“I ordered Chinese. Hope that’s okay.” He moves to the counter, unpacking containers. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a few different things.”

The simple thoughtfulness of the gesture touches me. “Chinese is perfect.”

We move around his kitchen with surprising ease, Dean gathering plates and utensils, me opening containers and serving food. There’s a strange domesticity to it that should probably worry me—another rule about to bend—but instead, it feels comfortable. Natural.

He scoops a pile of chow mein onto my plate. “Want more?”

“That’s plenty,” I say.

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