Page 27 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“That Lucas is poor?”

“I mean, I guess the signs were there, but⁠—”

“You didn’t look.”

We’re silent again, and I don’t say that yes, I’d guessed a long time ago. It’s in his clothing, the way everything is too worn and repeated too often. Seeing him today, it’s difficult not to see our similarities: Lucas is clearly working and contributing to his family; he’s so obviously the sibling who’s also the parent. It’s clear in the way the twins look at him when talking about course selections and sports fees, even the way he turns down second helpings until everyone else has eaten.

“Doesn’t Caltech have good financial aid?”

“Aid rarely covers incidentals.”

We’re almost back at campus before Brody speaks again. “You know how Lucas looks at you when he doesn’t think you’re noticing?”

“Yeah.” I don’t bother denying it. With Brody, I figure the best defense is an offense. “But you need to stop shipping us. If we date, you’ll end up feeling like a third wheel. And if it doesn’t go well? The aftermath would be hell on team dynamics.”

“I’m already a third wheel,” Brody tells me, as if this should be obvious. “And I’m not sure you guys will break up.” He waits until I look in his direction. “I’ve seen the way you look at Lucas too, when you don’t think he’s noticing.”

I glance away. That’s . . . inconvenient. “We’re here to train, not date.”

“You could do both.”

It’s not that I’ve never considered this. Quite the opposite. I’ve wasted too many hours turning it over in my mind, and I’ve come to the same conclusion each time.

“Lucas and I work well together, nothing more.”

“Why say lot word when few word do trick?”

“Is that The Office again?”

“Let me give you the few-word, truncated truth: Lucas and you work.”

I look away because it’s not something I really want to dwell on.

“Neither of us has time to date.”

Brody kicks at a rock on the sidewalk more forcefully than it likely deserves. “And your CEO daddy wouldn’t approve.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that my sharp teammate is . . . sharp. But still. “You didn’t notice how poor Lucas is, but you know who my father is?”

Brody heaves a dramatic sigh. “My father believes country clubs are year-round job fairs, because there’s always someone who’s getting separated and he’s pretty good about reminding people he’s one of the top-rated divorce attorneys in the country. He rotates between three, one of which your father’s a member of. Last week, your dad bragged to mine about a coding competition. Dropped the Caltech name.”

Of course. My father’s texted fairly regularly, reminding me he expects updates. Usually, they’re one-word messages.

Updates?

Or sometimes: News?

And once: Well?

My father never says it, but I’ve already lived through the consequences of not replying. He’ll stop sending money, or he’ll halve the agreed-upon allowance. So I’ve been spinning being on Team B as well as I can, even though he told me it was disappointing.

Still, it’s no surprise he’s bragging about it in public. My father’s adept at spinning the same truth into a series of half lies.

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“That your father’s Chinese Daddy Warbucks?”

“Do I look wealthy?”