Page 139 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

She sighs dramatically, her attention back on her laptop.

“UCLA has ended, you’ve graduated. Thus, you have no teaching duties to rest from.”

“I did wonder why I was suddenly caught up with my grading.”

“Now that you’ve published your paper on the sentiment analysis program—and released all of the associated code—that project should also be complete.”

“It should be, shouldn’t it?” She grins at me, that old sparkle in her eyes.

“You’ve started something new, haven’t you? Because you have absolutely no understanding of the concept of rest and relaxation.”

“Be honest, would you really want me to be… less me?”

I try not to smile, which is almost always a losing proposition these days. Because no, I wouldn’t ever want Lorelai to be a lesser version of herself. Still, considering how insistent her doctors were about bed rest, and because when Lorelai’s in coding mode she can forget about everything else, up to and including taking care of basic necessities, I suggest, “You could help me interview chefs.”

“Or, and here’s a thought, we could not hire a full-time chef.”

At least her attention’s on me now, engaged enough to allow me to close her laptop and take it away. I rearrange the blankets around her more comfortably and wonder whether she’ll notice if I text the doctor a couple of quick follow-up questions. When I check out the side table, I see that she’s at least eaten a little of the granola my mother keeps making and sending over religiously. It’s not the balanced meals she ought to be consuming, but it’s better than nothing.

To carry on the argument, because I know she enjoys it, I say, “A full-time cook will be more careful than either of us ever could be about your diet.”

“I’m not giving up garlic.”

“And that’s the perfect example of something to take up with a trained chef. Debbie’s found several who specialize in diets that reduce inflammation.”

“Is that really a good use of your executive assistant’s time?”

“If it makes your life easier, of course.”

She shakes her head dramatically, and then, because it’s only technically been a week since her pericarditis surgery, she winces. “Money has really changed you, Lucas.”

It hasn’t, really. But it has changed how others view me.

Because I’m wealthy now, when I’m quiet, people explain away the silence for me. They tell themselves I’m taking my time, preparing to impart wisdom. These days, when I’m awkward, people label it eccentricity, as if it’s something to aspire to.

“Tell me how I can bribe you to keep still.”

“Your bargaining powers are terrible.” She reaches out a hand to me, to soften the supposed insult.

“Only with you.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, obviously tired but unwilling to admit it. “You could read to me.”

“I’d love to.” Over the years, I’ve slowly collected every book that reminded me of her—the shelves of our Pasadena craftsman library, the house that was only deemed acceptable because of both the library and its close proximity to the middle and high schools we’ve picked for Wren and Harper—are filled with multiple copies of her favorites. There’s a first edition East of Eden, but also used copies of the same, because it’s one of her favorites. There are the Barnes and Noble special editions of her favorite Toni Morrisons, Margaret Atwoods, and probably a few too many iterations of Anne of Green Gables.

Every time I passed a bookstore, I would go in. Every time I saw a book that even slightly reminded me of Lorelai, I’d buy a copy. Perhaps that’s why there’s an entire section devoted to the type of romances. Seeing the way she’d hide the spicier novels between her copy of Introduction to Algorithms and Lectures in Topology had been one of my favorite quirks about her.

“I had a lunch meeting near Vroman’s and got you a new book.”

Lorelai shakes her head slightly; at least this time she doesn’t wince. “Actually, I don’t know if I feel capable of following complicated plots right now.”

“Then how about we watch a superhero movie? The Cutting Edge?”

“Or something similarly entertaining without being too cognitively . . . demanding.”

I smile, thinking I finally know how I can distract her. “So you’re saying I should not ask you any taxing or important questions right now.”

Lorelai is justifiably, immediately suspicious. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head to the left.