Page 33

Broken Equations

Nora

I last exactly seven minutes in our dorm room before I can’t stand it anymore.

“I need to call him,” I tell Sadie, who’s been watching me pace the small space between our beds like she’s afraid I might shatter.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea right now?” she asks gently. “Maybe give Daphne some time to cool off. Give yourself some time to process.”

“I need to tell him before she does.”

Understanding crosses Sadie’s face. “Right. Okay. Do you want me to…?” She gestures toward the door.

“No, stay. Please.” The thought of being alone right now is somehow worse than my embarrassment at having her witness this conversation.

She nods, settling back on her bed. “I’ll just put in my headphones.”

I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, finding Dean’s name in my contacts. It rings twice before he answers.

“Hey,” his voice comes through, warm and familiar. “How’s girls’ night going?”

For a moment, I can’t speak. The normalcy of his question, the casual affection in his tone—it feels like it’s from another lifetime.

“Nora?” Concern enters his voice. “Are you there?”

“She knows,” I say, the words coming out in a rush. “Daphne knows about us.”

A beat of silence. Then, “What happened?”

“I slipped up. Said something about your tattoo. The Roman numerals.” My voice breaks. “She figured it out immediately.”

“Okay,” he says, his tone shifting to something steadier, calmer. “Take a deep breath. Tell me what happened.”

I sink onto my bed, legs no longer able to support me. “It was horrible, Dean. She was talking about getting back together with you, and then she showed us this sketch she’d drawn of you playing hockey, and I mentioned the ninety-seven on your jersey, except your number is eighty-three, and—”

“Nora,” he interrupts gently. “Breathe.”

I close my eyes, forcing air into my lungs. “She was so hurt. So angry. She kicked us out.”

“Us?”

“Me and Sadie. She figured out Sadie knew too.”

Another brief silence. “Where are you now?”

“Back at the dorm.”

“Stay there. I’m coming over.”

“No,” I say quickly. “No, that’ll just make things worse if she decides to come here to confront you or something.”

“Nora, you’re upset. I want to be there.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though the tremor in my voice betrays me. “I just needed to warn you. She might call you. Or text. I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

“I don’t care about that,” Dean says firmly. “I care about you.”

The simple statement makes tears well up again. “It’s my fault. I should have told her months ago.”

“We both should have,” he corrects. “This isn’t all on you.”

“You don’t understand,” I whisper. “She thinks I betrayed her. That I was using her to get information about you. That I—”

My phone buzzes against my ear—another call coming in. I pull the phone away just enough to check the screen.

Professor Wexler.

At 11:42 PM.

My blood turns to ice.

“Dean, I have to go. Wexler’s calling me.”

“Now? Why would he—”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”

I switch to the incoming call before he can protest.

“Professor?” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Nora.” Wexler’s tone is clipped, formal in a way I’ve never heard before. “I need to see you in my office. First thing tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”

My heart sinks. “Is everything okay? Did something happen with the assay?”

“This isn’t about the lab work.” A pause. “The department has received a… complaint. Of a serious nature. Regarding your conduct as a peer tutor.”

The room tilts sideways, nausea rising in my throat. “My conduct?”

“I’d rather not discuss the details over the phone. But I’m obligated to inform you that it involves allegations of an inappropriate relationship with a student you’ve been tutoring.”

Daphne. It has to be. But how could she have moved so quickly?

“Professor, I—”

“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 did what ?” 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?”

“Who else?” I wrap my arms around myself again. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning with Wexler, the department chair, and someone from the Office of Academic Integrity.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “I’ll go with you.”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “That would just confirm everything.”

“Nora, they need to hear my side too. This involves both of us.”

“They haven’t called you in yet,” I point out. “Which means the complaint is specifically about me. My conduct. My violation of the tutoring code of ethics.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s bullshit. I’m not some helpless student you took advantage of.”

“Doesn’t matter. I was in the position of authority. I’m the one who will face consequences.”

Dean moves closer, reaching for me. I step back, maintaining distance.

“What consequences?” he asks quietly.

I laugh, a hollow sound devoid of humor. “Best case? Removal from the peer tutoring program. Worst case? Academic probation, loss of my research position with Wexler, and…” I can’t even say it.

“And the Archer nomination,” he finishes for me, understanding dawning in his eyes.

I nod, a fresh wave of tears threatening. “It’s over, Dean. Everything I’ve worked for. Gone because I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”

“Hey.” His voice hardens. “Don’t do that. Don’t reduce what we have to something cheap.”

“What else would you call it?” I snap, anger flaring bright and hot. “I risked my entire academic career for—what? Sex? The thrill of sneaking around?”

“For us,” he says firmly. “For what we’ve built together.”

“And look where that’s gotten me.”

He flinches like I’ve struck him. “So what are you saying? You regret it? All of it?”

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. Do I regret it? The late nights in his bed, the study sessions that turned into more, the way he makes me feel seen and understood and wanted in a way no one else ever has?

“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I just know I can’t do this anymore.”

Understanding crosses his face, followed quickly by something that looks like panic. “Nora, don’t. Not like this. Not when you’re upset.”

“I’m not just upset, Dean. I’m facing a misconduct hearing that could derail my entire future.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “And being with you is what caused it.”

“Being with me in secret caused it,” he corrects. “If we’d been honest from the beginning—”

“If we’d been honest from the beginning, I would have lost Daphne’s friendship anyway, and we’d still be in this position professionally.” I shake my head. “There was never a scenario where this worked out well for me.”

“For you,” he repeats, something hardening in his expression. “Just you. Not us.”

“There is no ‘us’ after tomorrow,” I say, the words cutting my throat like glass. “Whatever the outcome of that meeting, I can’t—we can’t—”

“You’re breaking up with me.” It’s not a question.

I nod, unable to speak past the knot in my throat.

“Because of what might happen tomorrow?” he asks. “Or because you’re scared of what already has?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” His voice drops, intensity building behind it. “It matters to me if you’re ending this because of external pressure or because you genuinely don’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I just lost one of my best friends and possibly my career in the span of two hours,” I say, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming me. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Dean is silent for a long moment, just looking at me with those penetrating gray eyes that see too much.

“I think you do,” he says finally. “I think you’re scared, and hurting, and looking for something you can control. And right now, that’s walking away from me.”

The accuracy of his observation makes me flinch. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“Then don’t lie to me,” he counters. “Or to yourself.”

“I’m not lying! I’m being realistic.” I take a shaky breath. “This was always going to end badly. We were fooling ourselves thinking otherwise.”

“So that’s it?” His voice remains controlled, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the strain around his eyes. “First sign of trouble and you’re done?”

“This isn’t a ‘sign of trouble,’ Dean. This is my life imploding.” My voice cracks. “And I need to focus on saving what I can.”

“Without me.”

“Yes.” The word feels like a betrayal. “Without you.”

He’s silent again, the muscle in his jaw working as he processes. Finally, he nods once, accepting but not agreeing.

“If that’s what you want,” he says quietly.

The simple offer of continued support, of uncomplicated acceptance despite what I’m doing, breaks something inside me. Tears spill over, running hot down my cheeks.

“I should go,” I whisper, unable to bear the weight of his steady gaze.

“Stay,” he counters, no demand in the word. Just a request. “It’s late. You’re upset. Nothing has to happen. Just… don’t go like this.”

For a moment, I consider it. The comfort of his arms, the solidity of his presence. One last night before everything falls apart.

But I can’t. If I stay, I’ll weaken. I’ll let myself believe there’s a way through this, a future where Dean and I emerge on the other side intact.

And I can’t afford that kind of hope right now. I need to be strong. Need to be ready to deal with whatever’s coming at me in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. “For all of it.”

I move toward the door, half-expecting him to stop me, to argue. But he doesn’t. He steps aside and lets me pass.

At the threshold, I pause, unable to leave without looking at him one last time. His expression is carefully controlled, but I can see the devastation beneath it. The same devastation tearing through my chest.

“Goodbye, Dean,” I whisper.

The walk back to my dorm is a blur of tears and regret and bone-deep exhaustion. When I finally collapse onto my bed, Sadie asleep in the bunk above, I curl into myself, trying to contain the hurt.

It doesn’t work.

Nothing does.

Because ending things with Dean wasn’t like cutting out a tumor—clean, precise, necessary for survival. It was like amputating a limb with a dull blade. Necessary, perhaps. But messy and traumatic and leaving me forever changed.

And despite everything—despite the tears, despite the fear, despite the certainty that I’ve made the right choice—there’s a part of me that already knows: This wound might never heal completely.

Some equations, once balanced, leave permanent marks when broken.