Page 48 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Even as I hesitate, I watch Lucas’s eyes drift to the clouds, watch his hands clench at air as he draws in a deep breath.

“I’m just here for the free slippers and warmed nuts.”

“The warmed nuts thing is objectively dumb, right?” Lucas’s voice is shaky, though, and I can see the effort this attempt at normalcy costs him. I tear a piece of paper off the notepad and hand it to him, watching as he tries to fold it with fingers that are shaky with nerves.

Clearly, origami’s not going to work.

“Hey.” I keep my voice soft, redirecting his attention to the notepad. His eyes remain unfocused and he lets out a shaky breath, but then he looks at the problem I’ve written down. “Problems sound like the type of fun people like you and me have.” I shiver a little, because I’m always cold on airplanes. I’ll ask for an extra blanket later, once Lucas is settled. I tilt the pad a little more, and he finally looks down at what I’ve scrawled.

“I have been meaning to try this one.”

“Let’s talk it through together.”

“You can’t take me anywhere, can you?”

I lean in and pat him on the cheek, happy to see he’s at least making an effort now. “Most of the time we’re too poor to go anywhere, so that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

Lucas takes another deep breath while accepting my proffered pen. He’s looking at the paper when he tells me, his voice so low and soft I almost can’t make out the words, “I don’t deserve you.”

15

HAPPENSTANCE

PRESENT

“Why are you on my flight?”

I have not thought this through.

I’m dressed in old cotton pjs, in the middle of the first-class lounge because Brody insisted he’d take care of my ticket and because I’d wanted to feel comfortable while flying. In some ways, it’s been the best (and really, only even sort-of good) part of lupus: Knowing that stress can trigger a flare, knowing that if I don’t take care of myself, my symptoms can worsen, has made me infinitely more likely to . . . let myself be comfortable.

Knowing the plane ride would likely be the last bit of anonymous alone time I’d get before Brody’s Big Fat Wedding Extravaganza, flying in my fleece pajamas had seemed sensible. But now, standing in front of the decidedly well-put-together Lucas—whose slacks might as well be tailored and whose fitted plain cotton tee hugs his muscles—I feel silly. Underdressed. Exposed.

“Hello, Lorelai.”

Damn my skin for prickling at his voice.

And damn Lucas for being in my lounge, which means he’ll be on the last plane headed to Oahu today. My plane. Stealing the last few hours of peace I thought I’d have.

“I see the docile mouse act is over.”

I don’t bother asking what he means. “Abe is my advisor. I treat him with deference.”

“That he neither returns nor deserves.”

Six words that embody how different Lucas has become. From the man who was so tongue-tied he couldn’t describe to Professor Miller what language he predominately programmed in during their first meeting . . . to this.

“You don’t live in SoCal. Meaning you shouldn’t be flying out of LAX.”

His eyes lower enough to hide any expression I might have gleaned. “And how would you know where I live?”

There are a myriad of ways to answer this: His company’s offices are based out of New Jersey, which has been reported on in the news. Brody has accidentally confirmed Lucas is an East Coast guy a number of times. My algorithm, which blocks Lucas news most of the year, still collects and aggregates it so that I can read sanitized summaries when I need a Lucas fix.

I decide to change tactics, not wanting to give away anything.

Then I remember he already knows about the whole Sagittarius A* thing and amend myself: I don’t want to give away more than I already have.

“Did Brody tell you what flight I’m on?”