Page 25

Critical Variables

Nora

“Maintaining boundaries is essential,” Professor Wexler says, tapping his pen against my data charts. “Otherwise, we get unpredictable results that can’t be replicated.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Boundaries. Unpredictable results. The scientific terminology mirrors my personal life so perfectly I almost laugh.

I’ve been nodding for the past fifteen minutes, making appropriate noises of agreement while my mind replays Gavin’s knowing chuckle, the flash of my underwear visible beneath the library table, Dean’s calm certainty that nothing has changed.

Except everything has.

“Nora?” Wexler’s bushy eyebrows draw together. “Are you with me?”

“Yes, sorry,” I straighten in my chair. “You were saying about the control variables?”

He studies me for a moment longer than necessary, concern evident in his expression. “Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow. You seem… distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, even as my phone buzzes in my pocket—Dean, most likely. “Just a little tired. Finals preparation.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiles, nostalgia softening his usually stern face. “I remember those days. The human brain isn’t designed for sustained cognitive exertion without adequate rest, you know.”

“I know,” I say, restraining myself from reciting the exact neurological mechanisms behind cognitive fatigue. “I’ll get some sleep tonight.”

Another lie to add to my growing collection.

After Wexler gathers his papers and leaves with a final concerned glance, I pull out my phone.

Dean: All good?

Such a simple question. Not “Are you freaking out about almost getting caught with my cock in your mouth in a university library?” Not “Have you reconsidered our entire arrangement now that someone knows about us?” Just… All good?

My fingers hover over the screen. What do I say? That I’m mortified? Terrified? That a part of me—a part I’m not proud of—is somehow thrilled by the edge of danger, the almost-getting-caught?

Me: Meeting with Wexler done. Need time to think.

His response comes immediately.

Dean: Come to my place later? 9pm?

I stare at the message. The logical answer is no. Create distance. Reestablish boundaries. But logic seems to fail whenever Dean Carter is involved.

Me: OK.

I press send before I can overthink it, then gather my things and head for the exit. The afternoon sun is harsh after hours in the library’s fluorescent lighting, making me squint as I cross the quad.

“Nora!”

I turn to see Sadie jogging toward me, pink hair bouncing in the breeze, a knowing grin on her face.

“What’s with that look?” I ask as she falls into step beside me.

“Nothing,” she says, her tone suggesting exactly the opposite. “Just wondering why Gavin Matthews was telling everyone at the athletic center about Dean Carter’s ‘private study session’ today.”

My heart plummets. “What?”

“Relax,” she nudges my shoulder. “He didn’t mention you by name. Just said Dean was ‘getting some extra help’ from a ‘very dedicated tutor.’”

“Oh god,” I groan, heat flooding my face. “Kill me now.”

“In the library?” Sadie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Gotta say, Shaw, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I mutter, walking faster.

Sadie keeps pace easily. “Fine, don’t tell me the dirty details. But seriously, are you okay? This thing with Dean is getting… intense.”

The concern in her voice makes me slow down, my defensiveness fading. “I don’t know,” I admit. “It was supposed to be simple. Physical. No complications.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s…”

I trail off, unable to find the right words. How do I explain that what started as curiosity has become something I can’t seem to control? That Dean has somehow slipped past all my carefully constructed defenses? That I’m breaking my own rules, risking friendships, compromising values I thought were unshakeable?

“I think I’m in trouble, Sadie,” I finally say.

She loops her arm through mine, her usual teasing manner replaced by genuine concern. “Talk to me.”

We find a bench under one of the sprawling oaks that dot the campus, its new spring leaves casting dappled shadows. I tell her everything—well, not the explicit details, but the rest. Dean’s jealousy at the party, our increasingly frequent meetings, how he opened up about Jesse, how Daphne confided in me about their breakup. How today wasn’t just embarrassing but a wake-up call.

“So what are you going to do?” she asks when I finish.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “The smart thing would be to end it.”

“Smart doesn’t always mean right,” Sadie observes.

“What?”

“I’ve known you for what, three years now?” She turns to face me fully. “And in all that time, I’ve never seen you this… alive. Before Dean, everything was schedules and plans and control. You’ve been so afraid of getting hurt that you never let yourself really feel anything.”

I start to protest, but she raises a hand. “Let me finish. This thing with Dean? It scares you because it’s real. Because for once, you’re not just going through the motions. You’re actually investing yourself.”

Her words hit uncomfortably close to home. “That doesn’t make it right,” I argue weakly. “Daphne—”

“Is happily dating James,” Sadie interrupts. “Has been for weeks. And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t she break up with Dean? Multiple times?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? Girl code? Some arbitrary rule that says you can’t date someone your friend dated?” She shakes her head. “Life’s too short for that bullshit, Nora. Especially when you’ve found someone who actually gets you.”

I sink back against the bench, letting her words sink in. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise,” she says with a grin. “You’ve just been too busy alphabetizing your spice rack to notice.”

“I don’t alphabetize my—” I catch her expression and laugh despite myself. “Fine. Point taken.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching students cross the quad in the golden afternoon light. The campus feels different somehow—softer, more vibrant, filled with possibilities I hadn’t allowed myself to consider before.

“So,” Sadie says finally. “Dean’s place at 9, huh?”

I shoot her a look. “How did you—”

“Your phone screen was facing up when you checked it earlier.” She grins unapologetically. “What are you going to wear?”

“I haven’t even decided if I’m going,” I protest.

“Yes, you have.” She stands, pulling me up with her. “Come on. Let’s find you something that says ‘I’m still mad about the library incident but also want to jump your bones.’”

I let her lead me toward our dorm, torn between exasperation and gratitude. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this thing with Dean is worth the risk, worth breaking a few rules.

Or maybe I’m rationalizing, looking for permission to do what I want despite the consequences.

Either way, I have until 9 p.m. to figure it out.