Page 23

Confidences

Nora

The neuroscience department’s tiny kitchen smells like burnt popcorn and old coffee—a scent so familiar I barely notice it anymore. I’m filling my travel mug with what might be this morning’s brew when Daphne appears in the doorway, looking polished as always in a camel coat and knee-high boots.

“There you are,” she says with a smile. “I’ve been looking all over campus.”

“Hey,” I say, surprise making my voice higher than normal. “What are you doing in the science building?”

“I had a department meeting next door.” She gestures vaguely toward the social sciences wing. “Want to grab lunch? My treat.”

My first instinct is to make an excuse. It’s been five days since our conversation in the student center, five days since Dean and I had dinner with his brother, since we acknowledged something deeper growing between us. Five days of texts that definitely break our “logistics only” rule, five days of stealing moments between classes and study sessions.

Five days of guilt whenever I think about Daphne.

“I’ve got lab in an hour,” I say, which is true, though not the whole reason for my hesitation.

“Perfect,” she says, already turning toward the door. “That new soup place in the student union is quick.”

I follow her, trying to quiet the anxiety churning in my stomach. This is normal. Friends have lunch. Daphne and I had lunch regularly long before Dean entered the equation.

Still, as we walk across campus in the crisp spring air, I can’t help feeling like I’m living a double life. The Nora who’s Dean’s…whatever we are now. And the Nora who’s still Daphne’s innocent friend.

“So,” Daphne says once we’ve settled at a table with our soup and half-sandwiches. “James and I are officially a thing.”

“That’s great,” I say, genuinely happy for her despite my complicated feelings. “The hospital visit drama is behind you?”

“His mom’s doing better,” she confirms. “And he’s been super sweet about the whole thing. Flowers, apologies, the works.”

“I’m glad.” I take a spoonful of soup, relieved we’re discussing James and not Dean.

“Actually,” she continues, stirring her own soup absently, “talking to him about what happened made me realize something.”

“What’s that?”

“That I never really apologized to Dean. For how things ended,” she says, her gaze dropping to her bowl. “I was pretty callous, looking back.”

My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”

Daphne sighs, looking genuinely remorseful. “I made it all about him—his intensity, his control issues. But a lot of it was me. I wasn’t in a place where I could handle someone who felt things so deeply.”

I set my spoon down carefully, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I thought you said you weren’t compatible. Different needs and all that.”

“We weren’t,” she agrees. “But the way I ended it… I said some pretty harsh things. Things I knew would hurt him.”

“Like what?” I ask before I can stop myself.

She meets my eyes, guilt evident in her expression. “I told him I felt suffocated. That being with him was like having a second job, always managing his expectations, his moods.”

Something cold settles in my stomach. This isn’t information I should have—not without Dean knowing, not without his permission.

“The truth is,” she continues, unaware of my discomfort, “I knew he was dealing with anniversary grief over his friend’s suicide, and I still chose that week to end things. Because I knew he’d be too emotionally raw to fight back.”

I almost choke on my water.

She broke up with him the same week that marks Jesse’s passing?

Heartless.

But I keep my expression neutral.

“Yeah, it was after I found him crying in his car. It was the only time I ever saw him break down completely.” She shakes her head slightly. “He’s usually so controlled, you know? But that night… it was like watching someone shatter.”

My chest tightens at the image—Dean, always so careful and contained, breaking down alone in his car. The Dean I know has shown me vulnerability, yes, but measured, deliberate. The kind you choose to reveal, not the kind that overwhelms you.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Daphne looks slightly taken aback by my tone. “I don’t know. I guess… working with him on the project, you probably see sides of him I didn’t. And I wanted someone to know I’m not completely heartless. That I know I handled it badly.”

“Have you told him this?” I ask. “That you regret how things ended?”

“Not yet,” she says, picking at her sandwich. “I’m working up to it. It’s not easy admitting you were cruel to someone who was already suffering.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There’s a knot in my throat, a pressure behind my eyes that threatens to become tears if I’m not careful.

“Anyway,” Daphne says, clearly wanting to move past the heaviness of the topic, “enough about my ex-relationship guilt. How’s the lab research going?”

I answer on autopilot, giving her the sanitized version of my oxytocin studies, my mind still reeling from what she’s revealed. Dean showed me Jesse’s photos, told me about the accident, about his guilt for not being there. But he never told me how raw his grief still is around the anniversary. Never told me Daphne ended it when he probably wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe if he had been, he would have fought for her.

When lunch ends, I hug Daphne goodbye with a hollow feeling in my chest. She walks away thinking she’s unburdened herself, made some kind of amends by acknowledging her past cruelty. She has no idea she’s just complicated everything between Dean and me.

Because now I know something about him that he chose not to share—something intimate, painful, revealed through the woman who hurt him during his most vulnerable moment. And I have no idea how to navigate this new terrain.

Do I tell him what Daphne said? Do I pretend she never confided in me? Do I watch for signs of this grief and try to support him without revealing how I know?

There are no clear answers, no labeled paths through this emotional maze. Just the growing certainty that what’s happening between Dean and me is far more complicated than our carefully constructed rules ever accounted for.