Page 101 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

PRESENT

We are victims of our own success: Because so many of the pictures have been picked up and distributed, because the ones of Brody purposefully overreacting at golf are now higher ranked than the ones from the luau, and because the twins are both seeing an increase in their social media activity, everyone agrees that it’s time to intensify our efforts.

The original suggested itinerary becomes secondary as everyone brainstorms how to make Brody’s wedding as Instagram-worthy as possible.

“This has been the most lucrative crisis we’ve ever had.” Khloe looks from her phone to her twin as she says this, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips.

“Why didn’t we think of this before?” Vi asks.

“Because we wanted a memorable wedding, not a monetizable one.” The quietness of Brody’s voice is what gives me pause. He’s normally brash and bold. He thrives on being the center of attention. Meaning that when he forces out a laugh a moment later, it’s not the least bit convincing.

Vi’s voice is understandably hurt. “Capitalizing social media is kind of my business.”

“I understand.”

It’s clear no genuine compromise has been reached and that I understand means We’ll argue about this later, in private.

We go over the details: That today’s groupings have been purposefully scrambled, to differentiate from yesterday and better demonstrate our cohesiveness as a wedding unit. It’s meant adding additional options and packing the days a little more tightly, but since the itinerary’s technically been expanded upon, so far, none of the outside-of-Elrond guests have complained.

Later, before we disperse to three different activities, I corner Brody. “Are you okay?”

“I’m awesome,” Brody says, obviously trying to psych himself up.

“Don’t.”

Brody sits down on the edge of the cream-colored vegan leather sofa, which I know because, for some reason, the hotel publishes a pamphlet about its furnishings; because I couldn’t sleep well my first night, I read it.

“It’s not exactly what I imagined. Not that I sat around dreaming about my wedding, but⁠—”

“I thought paparazzi-baiting was up there with Disney princess themes?”

Brody’s jaw juts to the side, and he scratches at his well-trimmed beard. He doesn’t normally wear one, but I know it’s meant as another way to make each outing photograph distinctly.

“Vi didn’t just choose her parents’ outfits, she micromanaged the ratio of shades of blue, not because she cares or wants pictures to commemorate this by, but because all of the additional attention and hoopla helped her mother sign a watch endorsement deal. So even though they’re part of the beach set, Vi spent almost an hour showing her mother exactly how to stick her hand partway in her pocket, how to cross her arms for optimal cleavage/watch photos, and reminding her mother to wave, even if no one is waving back.”

It sounds fake and awful, but it also sounds . . . like show business. “Vi and Khloe are models and aspiring actors.”

“My wedding is now a staged commercial for a midrange, nearly waterproof, stylishly unisex timepiece. Oh, and designer flip-flops.” Brody rubs a large hand over his eyes before staring off into space.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve not only got zero culpability in this, you’ve helped mitigate the damage.” Brody takes a deep breath. “Fuck do I hate that this is how I talk now.”

I sit down next to Brody and wrap one arm around his large shoulders, knowing we only have a few precious minutes before we need to join the others in the lobby.

“Are you happy?”

Brody lets out a loud, gusty breath. “Are you?”

“I’m content.”

“Bullshit. You traded your entire life for Lucas’s family and yours.” He runs both hands through his thick brown hair until he’s completely undone the styling. “You have a chance now, at true happiness, and you’re running scared.”

Feeling a little like I’m suddenly being cross-examined on the witness stand, I stutter, “I was trying to⁠—”

“I appreciate it. No one ever checks on the clown because, by definition, the jester is perpetually happy.” He spreads his legs, running his hands up and down his thighs in an unfamiliar show of agitation. When he finally stops, his gaze is unfocused. “I never doubted my parents’ plans. It meant I didn’t really have to think about anything. Just work hard, play hard, and follow the plan. Activities and stellar résumé. Check. Yale Law. Check. Play the field while you can. Double fucking check. And when you feel that youth slipping, you find someone suitable, someone who will support your ambitions and understand the plan, and you settle down. Vi fit the bill in every possible way, the obviously right choice.”

I nod, because clearly, Brody doesn’t need advice right now. He just needs to talk.