Page 50 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“So no more nerves?”

Lucas straightens his shoulders, and though he’s always been tall, now that he’s filled out, now that he’s very clearly not 135 pounds and putting extra belt notches to keep his pants up, he projects confidence, even when he’s talking about potential weaknesses. “It’ll never be my preferred mode of travel, but it’s gotten better with familiarity.”

“Since Brody’s not here, I feel compelled to say, ‘That’s what she said.’”

Lucas laughs at my fairly on-point Brody impression, and I feel warmed by the sound, the rarity of that full-out smile, which I’ve yet to see in a single newspaper article or interview.

I’m not sure what I’ll say next, and I’m never given the opportunity to find out.

“Lucas!” A striking and oddly familiar blonde in linen slacks in a beautifully fitted black tank saunters toward us. She rather expertly shimmies past me, her ample boobs weaponized in a way that forces me to take a half step back as she leans forward, her hair a perfumed cloud enveloping first me and then Lucas.

“I can’t believe we’re on the same flight!”

“Serendipity,” I say. Lucas shoots me a bemused gaze under heavy lids, but the blonde ignores me, adjusting her YSL purse—the small kind that can hold nothing more than lipstick and a cell phone—before settling herself in the seat next to Lucas and leaning into him.

Lucas, I notice, does not shift or otherwise try to distance himself from the woman pressing into his left side.

“I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up before the ceremony.” She lays one hand on Lucas’s forearm, and it’s an effort to not react, to pick her hand up and settle it back on her lap.

“Happenstance.”

This time, Lucas actually chuckles, his eyes on me warm.

And so this time, the woman, for whom striking is almost an insult, who is, upon closer inspection, ethereal and gorgeous in an almost uncanny valley, photoshopped way, finally looks at me. Her ice-blue eyes, fringed by thick, curled lashes, are piercing in their sudden predatory focus. Her cheekbones are high and sharp, and though I can see the traces of makeup, it’s been so expertly applied it almost passes as natural. She’s Business Casual Barbie. Except given the variety of name brands she’s adorned in, the Mattel comparison is likely too low-class.

She looks like a Chanel model, or some old-school British nobility who’s stopping for just a moment to condescend to the little people.

“Do introduce me,” she says, her hand patting Lucas’s forearm territorially.

“Lorelai, meet Khloe Shindler, Vi’s twin. Khloe, this is Lorelai Zhao⁠—”

“Your former teammate! Brody has mentioned you many times.” Khloe turns her face toward me, the narrowing of her eyes so slight I can’t tell if I’m imagining it. Now that I know who she is, I can revise my previous opinion. Khloe doesn’t just look like a Chanel cover model. She actually is one. Brody told me that Vi and her twin had fronted some campaign—Chloé? Dolce and Gabbana?—and it was how they’d met. He’d been the legal representative.

Something like that.

Being the shit friend I am, I’ve forgotten the details. Never even bothered to look up the campaign in question.

I’d had so little curiosity, so little interest in anything beyond getting through each day, I’d let myself not pay attention to the details. Else I would have recognized the identical twin of Brody’s fiancée right away.

“Isn’t Vi a brunette?”

It’s a stupid thing to say, not at all related to the conversation. I’ve only met Vi twice, both times when we were part of a larger group, but I remember reddish-brown hair that had seemed striking. Vibrant. Not this bleached-out, overly aggressive white-blonde.

“Vi and I often change our hair for specific jobs. We just wrapped a rather large project, still protected under a nondisclosure agreement of course.”

She leaves it hanging in the air, waiting for someone to ask.

“Right.” I hear the acidity in my own voice and realize it’s time to pull back. Because what I’m thinking is: Why does a perfume/jewelry/fashion campaign need an NDA? But this woman is about to be Brody’s sister-in-law. “You must feel . . .”

Mannequin-like?

A complete loss of autonomy?

“. . . thrilled. It must be such a privilege to be hired for these kinds of campaigns.”

Khloe could take the compliment, but she does not. “It’s pretty standard for campaigns of a certain caliber. But enough about me. I’m dying to hear your stories about Lucas, before he became . . . Lucas.”

Yes, I’ll admit that I was thinking the same thing mere minutes ago.