Page 102 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Clearing his throat, he looks back down at the page. “Now, over here, since the cosine of zero is one, this part simplifies to two because we’re adding this one to it here.” He taps the equation with the end of his pencil where it says + 1 next to what I’m guessing is the cosine he mentioned.

I bob my head. “Okay, that kind of makes sense.” I think.

“Then the square root of 9 u squared over here is 3 u , so if we rewrite the equation…” Underneath Blondie’s handwriting, he scribbles a new set of numbers and letters across the wrinkled paper, then leans back and points his hands at the page, making a ta-da gesture.

“See? Not so scary looking anymore. And now that we’ve gotten rid of the logarithm, the square root, and the cosine, we’re just working with basic algebra. ”

This is supposed to be basic? I muse, but I don’t bother to say that out loud.

“So, let’s start with simplifying this first fraction. We can combine the terms that have the same variables, and once we do that, what do you notice about the numerator and denominator?”

I glare down at the page as if it has personally wronged me. Fucking hell, I hated fractions in school. What’s the rule with them again? Something about common denominators? No, that doesn’t apply here. This is just a single fraction…

I frown, certain steam must be coming out of my ears from how hard the wheels in my brain are turning. I swear, Blondie is lucky I love her because if this had come from anyone else, I would’ve thrown it in the trash before I even left my room.

Think, Damian. Do it for Dornan. What do you see?

I narrow my eyes at the equation.

“They both have a two?” I guess.

The man gives me an encouraging smile. “Right! So, we can cancel that two out, leaving us with i + u for the first fraction. Then for this next fraction, we want to isolate it on one side, then use common denominators to simplify.”

Common denominators! I knew I remembered something from math!

Thankfully, though, my guy doesn’t ask me to do any of the calculations myself, determined to hold my hand through it, which I’m incredibly grateful for.

Still, I follow along intently, attempting to understand just in case I glean something from the numbers that will give me a clue as to what Blondie is trying to tell me.

“Now, we multiply everything by four to get rid of the fractions, and then you rearrange to combine like variables until you’re at a point where you can solve for i ,” he explains, rewriting an even more simplified version of the equation underneath the others. “Once we do that, we…”

It takes me a second to realize the man has gone silent, and I peek over at him, sucking in a deep, calming breath to quash the unease in my chest. Is he going to say the equation’s impossible? Or that it means nothing and Blondie was just fucking with me?

I’m about to prod him when he huffs out a laugh. “Oh, I see what they did there. Cute.”

Cute?

“What?” I ask, confused.

The man scrawls something at the bottom of the page, then turns to look at me, placing his pencil down. “Who gave this to you?” he asks.

I hesitate, somewhat perturbed by the amused smirk on his lips. Why does he want to know? Did Blondie just come up with the solution for world hunger using math or something? Spilled some big government secret? Does the simplified equation resemble a dick?

“My girlfriend…why?” I drag out the words.

Mr. Academic Coordinator lets out another soft laugh. “It looks like she’s trying to tell you something.”

No shit, Sherlock, I nearly say. The question is, what?

But that question is answered when he turns the page toward me, revealing the final version of the equation.

“ i is less than 3 u ?” I say, and it’s only when the words slip out of my mouth that I realize what it’s really saying. When positioned next to each other, the less-than symbol and the three resemble a heart. It isn’t just math. It’s a message.

I love you.

My pulse trips. Blondie loves me. She loves me. And she’s telling me the way she knows how to convey it best, in a way that’s comfortable and safe for her.

With numbers. With something she easily understands.

My breath catches as I jump up from the chair. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

I hear a flustered, “No problem,” as I give the guy an appreciative slap on the shoulder, then I’m pocketing the paper and pencil, and sprinting for the exit, off to find my girl.

And finally tell her I love her, too.

Curious stares follow me as I race across campus, my ears only catching bits of the confused mutterings that accompany them, but I don’t pay attention to any of it. My focus is singular.

Blondie will be out of class by now, and though we usually meet for coffee at Izzy’s, we didn’t make plans for today, and seeing as she spent the night with me, it’s likely she’s heading home now to get changed and to check on her mom.

I hope she is at least, since that’s where my feet carry me as I put Conwick’s campus behind me, and bolt through Newport’s streets like a man possessed.

Blondie’s neighborhood is only a few blocks away, and when I veer onto her road, relief and elation nearly bowl me over when I spot her walking on the sidewalk toward her house. Easing my pace to avoid alerting her to my presence just yet, I pull the paper and the pencil I swiped out of my pocket.

I only speed up again when she’s about to turn onto the short path leading up to her porch, breaking into a jog.

“Dornan!”

Her steps falter at the sound of my voice, and her gaze whips over her shoulder, those green eyes piercing beneath furrowed brows, which pop up when she spots me, reaching for her hairline with bewildered surprise.

She turns to face me fully, her mouth puckering with probably several unasked questions as she takes me in.

“What are you—Did you run all the way here?” she asks, no doubt noting the slight bead of perspiration dotting my forehead.

I’ve suddenly never been more grateful that I make it a point to keep fit, and actually have the stamina to run for a couple of blocks without breaking much of a sweat.

Otherwise, I would be a disgusting mess right now, and what kind of aesthetic would that set for this moment?

I slow to a stop a few feet away from where she stands watching me, and hold up the folded piece of paper. “I solved it.”

Her eyes widen, fixing on my upraised hand.

A torturous silence stretches between us, and the only movement I notice her make is the subtle shift of her delicate throat when she swallows.

“And here I thought you couldn’t do math,” she rasps, her voice barely above a whisper.

I shrug. “I got a bit of help.” Drawing in a steadying breath, I take a step forward and extend my hand.

Her cheeks—which have turned a striking pink—twitch with an aborted smile as she hesitantly reaches out to take the paper from me. It doesn’t escape my notice that her fingers are trembling.

“So…is it right?” I hedge as she unfolds the note.

Blondie swallows again, more loudly this time, when her eyes lock on the simplified equation.

She lifts a shaking hand to her glasses, and my stomach sinks a little when I recognize her telltale sign of anxiety.

I didn’t get the answer wrong—the ridiculously gorgeous stain of red spreading across her face makes me damn sure of that—which can only mean she’s worried about my reaction.

Perhaps she thinks it’s too soon, that we’re moving too quickly, and regrets telling me how she feels.

Maybe she thought I wouldn’t solve it for another decade or two.

Or more likely—given what she said to me at Grape Expectations that night she got drunk all those weeks ago—she’s worried that I won’t reciprocate. Not yet, at least.

I nearly laugh at the thought. How could I not love her?

This brilliant, stubborn, fierce but soft-hearted, unapologetically blunt, beautifully chaotic gem of a woman who matches my weird and makes my world make sense just by simply existing in it.

Even if I went back to the start of senior year without any memory of the last five months, I would fall in love with her all over again.

Because we’re inevitable. She is the exception to every rule I ever set for myself, the balm to my grief, the life-saving breath to my drowning lungs.

And she has converted me, not only to love—to the raw vulnerability it takes to really let another person in—but away from my longstanding loyalty to Team Jacob, which is saying something.

Because Blondie is the Bella to my Edward.

And we’re not just inevitable, we’re eternal.

“Turn it over.”

When Blondie peers up at me, I jerk my chin toward the note clutched in her hand, and as she slowly shifts the paper in her grip, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the message I wrote on the back when I first turned onto her street.

A confession of my own, unspoken but from the heart. Just like hers.

Her breath catches.

“Are you sure?” Her gaze lifts to meet mine, uncertain.

I snort out a laugh. “Not quite the reaction I was expecting.”

Her eyes flit away. “It’s just…past experiences have told me that I’m not always easy to love.

” Her tone is guarded, and I know in this moment, she’s thinking not only of her asshole dad, who abandoned her instead of telling her every day how absolutely fucking remarkable she is, or of the jerk-off she dated in high school, who dumped her because she stayed in Newport, but of me —of how easily I ghosted her my junior year after making her think I liked her.

A mistake I sure as hell don’t ever plan on repeating.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Blondie,” I chide, bridging the remaining distance between us. I take her chin in my hand, forcing her to look up at me. “Because loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

As she stares at me, I silently plead, Hear me. Believe me.

And when our lips collide, I know she does.