Page 2 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Microscopic.

And it’s not like I’m about to tell Brody about my lupus. He’s already kept so many of my secrets over the years, I don’t want to give him one more burden.

“Yes.” I breathe in through my nose and breathe out again, counting to five. “I’ll come to your Big Fat Splashy Hawaiian Wedding.”

“The whole week before too. Vi and I scheduled it around UCLA’s spring break. For you.”

“Yes.” I don’t deserve such a loyal friend—one who continually puts up with my lapses in communication and who is endlessly tolerant.

“And promise you’ll be one of my two best people.”

I don’t need to ask who the other one is. Brody and Vi’s registry lists a slew of other groomsmen, most of whom I don’t know (a couple with google-able names, because that’s the type of wedding this is), but Lucas Sebastian Murray and Lorelai Anneliese Zhao have been listed as the two best people for months. My voice is surprisingly thick with emotion as I confirm, “I’d be honored.”

“Shit, you’re not getting all weepy on me, are you, Cap? I always suspected you were a sap.”

I laugh again, even though it is noticeably a bit watery. Lucas was the anxious and emotional one, the one who invited us over for family meals and cried during everything from animated movies to, sometimes, commercials. Brody was the carefree entertainment, the one who always dragged us on new adventures, reminded us that there was more to life than academics. I was the rock. The cold and calculated taskmaster.

“Listen—” I’m already breathing heavily, though I’m still a block from campus.

“Wait, are you jogging? Does Ms. Zhao exercise now?” Brody’s tone is light and teasing.

“No.” According to Dr. Grier, tendonitis and chronic fatigue are common with lupus, and because nerves compound physical symptoms, even navigating an emotionally tricky conversation while walking can feel exhausting.

Brody clears his throat. “It’s been six years. I know seeing Lucas will be difficult, but⁠—”

“Stop.”

I think, but do not say: It will be impossible.

I think, but do not admit: It will likely break me. Again.

Instead, I tell my oldest friend, “I really do have a meeting. Abe emailed saying he has to see me before today’s guest speaker. Most likely, he just wants to check I’ve booked the correct number of people for dinner⁠—”

“Kleinberg’s still treating you like his personal secretary?”

“I mean, I am his only female graduate student. And Abe’s been alive since well before suffrage, so he’s probably forgotten I’m not his secretary.”

“You had your pick of advisors.”

Yes, I did. Even within UCLA, my top-choice school given it kept me close to my mother and sisters, there were three other respected and respectable professors who expressed interest. But none of the other potential mentors had Abe’s inglorious track record. Another mentor might have pushed me to publish quickly, might have made the type of conference suggestions and networking introductions necessary to obtain a postdoctoral position.

But Abe?

Abe Kleinberg will sit on his funding and rot on the corpses of his past accomplishments, shackling as many graduate school minions as he can. While the national average for finishing a PhD is already hovering at nearly eight years, Abe’s students average nine and a half.

It was my primary reason for selecting him.

Everyone—except Brody, who knew my reasons—thought I was crazy.

“There might be other ways out of your contract. You could also consider the consequences of breaching⁠—”

“Stop.” My tone is gentle because it’s nice that after so many years Brody’s still trying, that he hasn’t figured out I have neither the strength nor the motivation to fight for anything these days.

At some point, Abe will sign off on my graduation.

Eventually, I’ll make a decision about my findings. Either I’ll share the full results with Abe, who will publish a series of papers he’ll likely try to claim credit for, or I’ll share them with my father, letting him monetize my research while hoping a small portion of the proceeds will benefit my sisters.

Postgraduation, my father will order me to head up either the Shanghai or New York office, likely whichever office he doesn’t have a girlfriend stationed at.