Page 103 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

But Lucas is (as usual) the busiest of the three of us. After turning down Eluva, he’s spent half a year balancing full-time development alongside classes and seemingly endless investor pitching. Besides my piddling contribution and Lucas’s savings, Brody also committed to investing an obscene-for-a-twenty-year-old amount, and Lucas got verbal angel-level funding agreements from two well-known investors. He has three meetings lined up this week, because word is out and Lucas is the hot property of the moment.

Am I really going to distract him from what might be the most important few days of his life because I want my emotional support boyfriend there?

“I’m not a toddler who needs my blankie. I’ve got this.”

I finger my grandmother’s jade necklace, trying to stave off the feeling of dread I can’t quite displace. Because it is . . . unusual for my father to request a meeting. We haven’t seen each other since Brody’s birthday run-in, and he’s only called twice during that time. There have been more (earned) bonuses and a couple of sporadic messages, but this is the first time he’s requested a meeting since before the split.

“Last chance,” Lucas tells me, handing me another origami star he’s folded. The origami-ness has been on overdrive these past few days, a telltale sign that the stress is getting to him.

“Final decision.” I take the star and drop a light kiss on his lips. “Back before you know it.”

An hour later, in front of the overly ornate entrance of the Langham Huntington, Pasadena’s only five-star hotel, I find myself second-guessing every major and minor decision.

It had seemed smart to walk. It’s only a mile and a half from campus, but wearing my reserved-for-interviews slacks and shirt and business casual shoes means I’m uncomfortable and sweating by the time I arrive, having had over half an hour to catastrophize and stew in what-ifs.

No one stops me as I head toward the elevator to the $5,000-a-night super-necessary two-floor penthouse suite.

I knock on the intricately carved wooden door while my mind spirals.

Amber lets me in. She’s been my father’s primary assistant for a year now. Like several of her predecessors, she’s dressed and stylized in a way that makes it difficult for me to tell: Is Amber just the assistant? Or is she also the girlfriend? Assistant with benefits?

She certainly treats me like there’s a power differential she’s in control of. She makes a production out of checking her watch, even though I’m technically one minute early.

“He’s so looking forward to seeing you.” She looks Chinese but has a British accent, so that’s fun. I can’t think of two languages better suited for deliberate condescension.

She steps forward as if she’s about to hug me, and I take an automatic step back.

“Lorelai’s never been particularly affectionate,” my dad says from the other room.

He’s wearing Moncler chino shorts, a Prada polo, Chanel socks, and Louis Vuitton moccasins. Even though there was a time when I might have helped him pick out these pieces, all I see now is the dishwasher I could have replaced, Aurora’s laptop, the dance lessons I could have arranged for Wren and Harper.

The closer I’ve come to graduation, a potential job offer, the ability to support my family myself . . . the more I’ve allowed myself to admit just how much I resent this man. The simmering anger is an almost tangible thing, often unwelcome and increasingly unavoidable.

I steel myself and take a deep breath, knowing he’s about to gesture for me to come closer, to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll prepare the tea,” Amber announces, leaving just as I edge closer to my father, trying not to breathe in his cardamom-scented cologne. The one I’ve forgotten the brand name of, but which I helped him pick years ago, when he insisted that every gentleman needed his own signature scent.

“It’s time to finalize your plans, postgraduation.”

Never mind that we haven’t spoken of specific plans since he lived with us, back when I was still in middle school.

“Neither Jane nor Amanda was able to produce a son.”

I bite my tongue to keep from asking whether this means I have another new half sister or if his swimmers are finally waning.

“Some of our recent ventures have also underdelivered.” He pauses, as if expecting me to add insight, but the truth is I no longer follow news about my father’s company. I did when I was younger, but my father thrives on drama, not only in his private life but also in his investments. He’s a thrill-seeker, believing the largest rewards are correlated with men (yes, men) willing to take the boldest risks. He was worth tens of millions, but he wanted to be worth a hundred million. He was worth a hundred million, but only billionaire status would do. He was never satisfied, was always after the next high.

When he first left, I kept up with the news, waiting for him to have a dramatic change of heart. And there were certainly times, especially during the first part of high school when employment options had been limited and my mother’s tears endless, that I thought about groveling.

But in the past year or so, I’ve realized . . . I don’t need him.

If my internship goes well enough, if I stack up on classes just right, I can graduate in three years. Even with a less-than-Eluva-level offer I’ll be able to pay for rent and my sisters’ extracurriculars. Braces for Harper and Wren, if necessary, won’t feel financially apocalyptic.

Though my father’s clearly disappointed with my ongoing silence, his only outward tell is that he shifts back instead of forward, splaying his legs farther as I pick a seat across from him.

“It won’t be announced until the end of the month, but we’re merging with Huang Enterprises.”

This, I know enough to comment on. “Didn’t you and Huang Lu have a falling out?” My memories here are hazy, but I remember dinners with the Huangs, vacationing together once.