Page 32

Girl Code Violations

Nora

“Okay, but seriously,” Sadie says, reaching for another slice of pizza. “Who puts pineapple on pizza and then adds jalapenos? That’s sociopathic behavior.”

“It’s sweet and spicy!” Daphne protests, laughing. “Don’t judge my pizza choices when you put ranch dressing on yours.”

“Ranch is a perfectly acceptable condiment.”

I smile, watching them bicker. This feels almost normal—the three of us sprawled across the floor of Daphne’s apartment, surrounded by pizza boxes, nail polish bottles, and half-empty wine glasses. Girls’ night, just like old times.

Except nothing about this is normal. Not the way my stomach twists every time Daphne mentions Dean. Not the guilt that’s become my constant companion. Not the text messages from him I’ve been ignoring all evening.

“Earth to Nora,” Sadie waves a hand in front of my face. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” I say, refocusing. “Just thinking about that assay protocol I need to finish tomorrow.”

“No shop talk,” Daphne declares, topping off my wine glass. “Tonight is about forgetting responsibilities and enjoying each other’s company. God knows we need it after everything that’s happened.”

She’s not wrong. The past two weeks have been chaotic for all of us—finals looming, the Archer deadline approaching, and Daphne’s pregnancy scare upending what little stability remained.

“Speaking of everything that’s happened,” Sadie says, settling back against the couch. “How are you doing? Really?”

The question is directed at Daphne, whose smile falters slightly. “I’m okay. Better than I expected, honestly. The relief of not being pregnant outweighs the disappointment of James turning out to be a complete asshole.”

“He did you a favor,” Sadie says firmly. “Anyone who bails at the first sign of trouble isn’t worth keeping around.”

“True.” Daphne takes a sip of her wine. “And it helped having Dean there. He was… amazing, actually.”

My chest tightens at the casual mention of his name. I focus intently on repainting my thumbnail, hoping my face doesn’t betray anything.

“Oh?” Sadie prompts, her tone carefully neutral. I can feel her glancing my way.

“Yeah.” Daphne’s expression softens. “He dropped everything to take me to the appointment. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t judge, just… showed up. The way he always does.”

I’ve been avoiding looking at her, but at this, I can’t help raising my eyes. The fondness in her voice is unmistakable.

“That was good of him,” I manage.

“It was more than good,” Daphne says. “It made me realize something.”

Oh no. I know that tone. That dreamy, nostalgic, I’ve-had-an-epiphany tone.

“I think I made a mistake breaking up with him.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and significant. Sadie carefully sets down her wine glass, her eyes flicking to me with barely concealed panic.

“Really?” she asks, giving me time to compose myself. “Last time we talked, you were pretty clear about why things weren’t working.”

“I know, I know.” Daphne sighs. “But I think I was focusing on all the wrong things. Yes, Dean’s intense. Yes, he can be controlling sometimes. But when it really mattered—when I was terrified and alone—he was there. No questions asked.”

“That’s what friends do,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

“Except we’re not really friends,” Daphne counters. “We barely talked after the breakup until the pregnancy scare. But he still showed up.” She leans forward, eyes bright. “And the way he looked at me in that waiting room… I think there might still be something there.”

My stomach drops to somewhere near my feet. I reach for my wine, needing something to do with my hands.

“Have you talked to him about this?” Sadie asks cautiously.

“Not yet.” Daphne tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s been a little distant since we got the negative result. I wanted to wait until the timing felt right.”

Sadie’s expression is carefully blank. “And what makes you think he’s… available?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Daphne refills her own glass. “He has been acting different lately. More distant. Checking his phone more. I’m worried—” She breaks off, then laughs self-consciously. “This sounds so paranoid, but I’m worried he might be seeing someone else.”

I nearly choke on my wine.

“You okay?” Daphne asks, glancing at me with concern.

“Fine,” I manage, wiping my mouth. “Wrong pipe.”

“Anyway,” she continues, “I hope that’s not the case, but I know Dean would have told me if he was dating someone else. He’s not the type to hide things.”

The irony is almost too much to bear. I catch Sadie’s eye, a silent plea for help, but she looks as trapped as I feel.

“Maybe he’s just busy,” Sadie suggests. “End of semester, hockey playoffs, that engineering project he’s always working on.”

“Maybe.” Daphne doesn’t sound convinced. “But I think I’m going to talk to him this weekend. Clear the air. See if there’s still something worth saving.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, desperately trying to keep my voice steady. “You said yourself the breakup happened for valid reasons.”

“I know.” She sighs, leaning back against the couch. “But the more I think about it, the more I realize those ‘reasons’ were mostly me being scared. Dean feels things so deeply. Being with him means really being seen, you know? And that terrified me.”

I do know. The way Dean’s eyes track every expression, every micro-reaction. How he catalogs responses, adjusts his approach. Remembers everything.

“But after seeing how he handled the pregnancy thing,” Daphne continues, “I think I might be ready for that kind of intensity now. Someone who doesn’t bail when things get hard.”

“That’s… that’s great,” I say weakly. “If that’s what you want.”

I feel sick.

“I think it is.” Daphne hugs a pillow to her chest. “I just hope he’s still available.”

“Speaking of available,” Sadie jumps in, clearly attempting to change the subject, “did either of you see Professor Linley’s new TA? The one with the British accent?”

Daphne laughs. “The one who looks like he walked off a GQ cover? Yes. Very much yes.”

The conversation shifts, meandering through campus gossip and professor anecdotes. I participate on autopilot, laughing at the right moments, contributing just enough to appear engaged. Inside, I’m in free fall.

Daphne wants Dean back. Dean, who I’m already feeling too much for; Dean, who slept in my bed two nights last week; Dean, who I’ve begun to imagine a future with, despite my best attempts at caution.

An hour later, we’ve emptied the wine bottle and moved on to Daphne’s sketchbook. She’s always been talented, capturing moments and people with quick, confident strokes.

“These are amazing,” Sadie says, flipping through the pages. “Oh my god, is this Professor Wexler? You got his eyebrows perfect.”

“He has the most expressive face,” Daphne laughs. “Look at this one—Dean at the hockey game. I was trying to capture that intensity he gets when he’s focused.”

Sadie passes the sketchbook to me. The drawing shows Dean on the ice, mid-motion, eyes locked on something in the distance. Daphne has captured him perfectly—the coiled power, the absolute concentration. The Roman numerals XCVII barely visible on his jersey.

“It’s really good,” I say, handing it back quickly. “You got the ninety-seven detail right.”

Daphne’s brow furrows. “Ninety-seven? Dean’s number is eighty-three.”

I freeze, caught between the instinct to deny and the knowledge that it’s already too late.

“Sorry, I meant eighty-three,” I say, hoping she’ll let it slide. “I must have been thinking of someone else.”

But Daphne’s expression has shifted, suspicion replacing confusion. “No, you specifically said ninety-seven. And you pointed at his leg.”

“I—”

“That’s not his jersey number,” she says slowly. “That’s his tattoo. The Roman numerals for 97.”

The room suddenly feels airless. Sadie has gone very still beside me.

“How do you know about Dean’s tattoo?” Daphne asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer. “It’s on his thigh. High up.”

Blood rushes to my face, panic closing my throat. “I—”

“Don’t.” She drops the sketchbook like it’s burned her. “Don’t insult me by lying. Not now.”

“Daphne—”

“How long?” Her voice is eerily calm, her eyes fixed on mine. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

The bluntness of the question makes me flinch. “It’s not… it’s complicated.”

“How. Long.” Each word is precise, sharp-edged.

“Since February,” I admit, the confession both devastating and somehow relieving. “After you broke up.”

“After we broke up,” she repeats, a bitter laugh escaping her. “Well, that makes it completely okay then, doesn’t it? Not like there’s a friend code or anything.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen,” I say, desperation making my voice crack. “It just… did.”

“Things don’t ‘just happen,’ Nora. You make choices.” She stands, gathering her scattered notes with jerky movements. “You chose to sleep with my ex-boyfriend. You chose to lie about it. For months.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” It sounds pathetic even to my own ears.

“How about ‘Hey Daphne, I’m fucking your ex’? That would have worked.” Her voice rises slightly, anger finally breaking through the calm. “Instead, you sat there listening to me talk about him, asking questions, pretending to be my friend while—” She breaks off, shaking her head. “God, no wonder you were so interested in hearing about our relationship.”

The accusation hits like a physical blow. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?” Daphne demands, hands shaking as she holds the sketchbook. “Enlighten me.”

How can I explain something I barely understand myself? The magnetic pull between Dean and me, the way we fit together—not just physically, but intellectually, emotionally. How what started as curiosity became necessity, became… something I’m afraid to name.

“I care about him,” I say finally. “And he cares about me.”

Daphne stills, her expression shifting from anger to something worse—pity. “Oh, Nora. You think you’re different? Special? The one who finally got under his skin?” She shakes her head. “That’s what Dean does. He makes you feel seen, understood. Like you’re the only person who gets the real him.”

“That’s not fair,” Sadie interjects, finally finding her voice. “To any of you.”

“You knew?” Daphne turns to her, betrayal fresh in her eyes. “Of course you did. You’re roommates. You probably covered for them.”

“I found out after the fact,” Sadie says carefully. “And I encouraged Nora to tell you. Multiple times.”

“How noble.” Daphne’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Gold star for effort.”

“Daphne, please,” I stand, reaching for her. “Can we talk about this? I never meant to hurt you.”

She steps back, avoiding my touch. “Funny how people always say that after they’ve done exactly the thing that would hurt someone the most.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears threatening. “I’m so sorry.”

“Save it.” She moves toward the door, holding it open. “I think you both should leave now.”

Sadie gathers our things silently, the festive atmosphere of girls’ night completely evaporated. I stand frozen, searching for something, anything to say that might salvage this.

“He wasn’t mine anymore,” Daphne says as we reach the door, her voice quieter now. “I get that. I don’t have any claim on him. But you, Nora? You were my friend. I trusted you.”

The past tense hits like a slap.

“I still am your friend,” I say, desperate. “This doesn’t have to—”

“Yes, it does.” She looks me directly in the eyes. “Because friends don’t lie to each other for months about something this important. Friends don’t sit and listen to someone talk about wanting to reconnect with their ex when they know it’s impossible.”

“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.