Page 51 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Specifically, that the Old Lucas, the one who’d practically hyperventilated trying to board a plane, bears almost no resemblance to the man who informed me Abe Kleinberg doesn’t deserve my deference. But it rankles, coming from the woman draping herself over my ex.

I’m tempted to ask why she isn’t digging into Brody, her future brother-in-law, but I rein myself in enough to say, “Lucas’s default factory settings were already set when we met.” I hate relying on an old joke, claiming my territory via our shared history like a dog pissing a ring around a fire hydrant, but here we are.

“How sweet,” Khloe says, her tone implying anything but. “You were teammates for two years?”

“Lucas was our strongest programmer.”

“And Lorelai was my personal black hole.”

Khloe looks at us, clearly perplexed. “The supermassive things you can’t escape?” And yes, I admit that I’m a little surprised. The idea that models must be airheads is a stereotype, sure, but more practically, the idea that hot girls might encroach into smart nerd territory feels . . . inherently unfair.

A disturbance in the Force.

I try to lighten the moment. “His personal albatross. I’m sure Brody feels the same.”

“Albatrosses brought luck to seafarers,” Lucas reminds me, a refrain of our old argument.

Khloe shakes her head, her long earrings catching the light. “I thought they were supposed to drag you down by your neck.”

“Misconception,” Lucas supplies, tilting his chin toward me.

“An albatross brought ill fortune only if you hurt them first. At least according to Coleridge.”

Khloe’s laugh is a practiced tinkle that grates on every last nerve. “You’re a programmer, right? Quoting⁠—”

“Lorelai was English and computer science, two majors with almost no overlapping courses. Yet she still graduated tenth in her class.”

I declared my second major after we broke up. Graduation was nearly two years later. Meaning Lucas kept tabs on me.

After I broke up with him and left him.

After I blocked him.

I look away and blink rapidly, hating how emotional I’ve become.

“Lorelai and I are seated together in the first row. And you?”

Khloe pouts, not wanting to take the hint. “You’ll have all week to catch up with Brody as a team. Plenty of time for that good old college days stuff.” She turns to me, placing one manicured hand over my arm. “You won’t mind switching, would you? Lucas and I have been trying to align our schedules forever.”

Eight years ago Lorelai would have said no. Why would I give up something I want for someone I don’t know?

Six years ago Lorelai, secure in Lucas’s love, would have been snarky. (“I’m fine, but I’m awfully afraid Lucas would mind.”)

But pajamas and makeup-free Lorelai?

I think of this morning, when I woke up to find a more-than-usual amount of hair on my pillow. I had to count to five and then list prime numbers. I had to center and breathe and really, really focus, to not cry about hair I found on my pillow.

I think of the unread messages I’ve ignored over the past three weeks, all from Dr. Grier, each of which I know, know, know is about finalizing when (or even whether) I’ll be scheduling the recommended surgery.

And I think of the useless minutes I’ve spent spinning about what I’ll do with Wren and Harper. Wondering how I’ll put my father off for another year so I can take temporary informal custody of my sisters. Another Band-Aid solution for the seeping, festering wound that is my life.

Even if Khloe Shindler isn’t the type of good and kind and intelligent and loyal woman I might have chosen for Lucas, she’s breathtaking. Confident. Clearly from the same social circle.

More importantly? She has none of the baggage and drama that I’m immersed in on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis.

I take out my ticket without looking at Lucas. “Think they’ll let us switch?”

Khloe’s smile is all gleaming white teeth. “You wouldn’t believe the things people let me get away with.”