Page 29 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m always nice.”

“Not always.” Lucas’s words are a little slurred, but the goofy grin is front and center, making him difficult to look away from. And so I let myself stare for a moment, feeling safe in the knowledge that Lucas is drunk and loopy and a few extra seconds can’t possibly hurt. I pull the blankets around him, grateful he took off his jacket in the Uber. He nuzzles into my pillow and smiles, his eyes never leaving mine. “Smells like you.”

The urge to go over and smooth the stray lock of hair away from his face is almost too much, but I manage to step away, making sure his back is to me as I hide the small mementos that are normally strewn around the room. It takes frighteningly little time. Two years as teammates. A little over half of that where Lucas and I were officially a couple. But all I have to show for it are two sweatshirts, a handful of origami charms he made me, and that same strip of photo booth shots Lucas still has, and which I keep hidden next to my passport.

The most serious relationship I’ve ever been in—the only actual relationship I’ve ever been in—and that’s all that’s left.

Pitiful.

By the time I come back with a bottle of Gatorade and the Tylenol he’ll surely need in the morning, he seems asleep, his breathing deep and measured, his face relaxed. In rest, it’s easier to see the ways he’s aged, not just the firmer muscles, but the deeper grooves alongside his mouth, the small wrinkles that radiate from his eyes. His long lashes fan against his cheeks, and his lower lip juts out just the tiniest bit, in a way that makes me want to bite him awake. I let myself smooth away a stray hair while studying the familiar-yet-not contours of his face, but even my light touch is enough to wake him.

He opens sleepy eyes and wraps his fingers around my wrist, pulling it in and running his lips along where my pulse has already started beating erratically.

“I’ve missed you.”

His voice is laced with a sadness I don’t let myself linger on. I think of my mother, crying while tipsy, and remind myself that alcohol loosens our inhibitions and heightens our emotions. Lucas sounds sad . . . but it’s likely a drunk sad. I shouldn’t read too much into it.

“This is where you tell me you missed me too.”

It’s tempting, of course, to give in. If this was one of the romantic comedies Gwendy’s always forcing on us, the heroine would admit everything and the hero would (magically) remember her confession the next day. They’d be reunited with a otherwordly kiss under fluffy snowflakes while slow jazz crescendoed in the background.

But in the real world, I’m still bound by contract to my father.

There’s still an active NDA.

And of course my lupus.

The potential operation. A lifetime of limitations and emotional baggage.

So I say nothing, even while I allow myself to look at him, to count the small freckles, the slightly tanner thin scar.

“Have you missed me? Even a little?”

I take a deep breath, sorting through what I can admit without implicating myself, unwilling to lie if I don’t have to. Because of course I have missed Lucas. Yearned for him. Reached for him when I wake, forgetting he’s no longer there.

“I’m not the right girl for you.”

Lucas’s smile is slow and wide, and I wonder what it is about my answer that he finds so much joy in. I wonder if it’s just the alcohol that’s making him loopy. His gaze rests on me for a moment longer before he reaches a hand out and loops it around the red thread that holds my constant talisman, the small jade pendant my grandmother gave me. He uses it to tug me forward.

“You’re less angry than you used to be.”

“I wasn’t angry⁠—”

“But sadder.”

“Oh.”

“And you wear glasses now.”

They’re not real, but I doubt Lucas is sober enough to tell the difference. Just another part of my clown disguise.

I lick my lips. “And you don’t.”

“Corrective contact lenses,” Lucas tells me. “Part of my makeover.”

Our breaths mingle as I lean in until our lips are almost touching. And even though I tell myself I shouldn’t, that I’m borderline taking advantage of him given how inebriated he is, I don’t pull away. I linger until Lucas closes that final inch and touches his lips to mine.