Page 57 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

It’s not until we’re back in the hotel that Brody asks, “Are Mommy and Daddy going to fight in private now?”

He means well, but all I can manage is a weak, faded smile. “You should go to your room.”

“Don’t let the other teams hear you say that, or the mommy jokes will never die.”

In the elevator, Brody gets off on the second floor and turns toward us. “Never been in a relationship long enough to test it out, but I hear makeup sex is awesome.”

Lucas’s neck begins to turn red again, leaving it up to me to joke, “You really want to picture Mommy and Daddy banging one out?”

Brody barks out a laugh. “That’s wrong on too many levels to articulate.”

“Good night, Brody.”

“Good night, Mommy and Daddy.”

By tacit agreement, Lucas and I don’t talk until we get to my room. It’s so standard that ICPC teams are made out of three dudes that we had to get special permission to get an extra hotel room for me. Rice University was the only school to field a team of three girls, an event so rare they made several special announcements about the fact.

Since we’ve been practicing in the boys’ room, this is the first time Lucas has come over.

“I shouldn’t have accepted the bet.” Lucas’s voice is solemn, contrite. He looks down at his worn boots. “I’m sorry.”

“I know Arjun tried to get me replaced. Once he saw he couldn’t convince you or Brody, he went to Professor Miller directly. I also know that when Professor Miller asked you for your opinion, you said you’d only compete if I was on the team.”

Lucas bites one corner of his lip. His tells are truly endless. When I’m less annoyed, I’ll have to sit him down, try to break at least a couple of them. Convince him to stay away from all casinos. “Who told you?”

“Who didn’t? Caltech’s got less than a thousand undergraduates. This was the tea of the week.”

Lucas is turning red, likely wondering just how many of the details I heard. That Professor Miller had been incredulous. That Lucas had been intransigent.

“Your intelligence, loyalty, and steadfastness are among your most attractive qualities.” Particularly contrasted against my father’s capricious whims, my mother’s depressive episodes. “But tonight . . .”

I don’t have to say the words: Today was Lucas at his worst.

“Under the guise of helping me”—Lucas puts his hands up in mock air quotes—“one of the guys from Princeton pulled me aside to show me what a standard résumé looks like. Did you know some of these guys published papers in high school? They have research, conference experience—some of them already have internships lined up. And do you know what I have to show for the past three years? What I listed as one of the bullet points of my qualifications? Dean’s List at Pasadena City College.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I thought a competition like this would mean we’d be on equal footing, but⁠—”

“There’s no such thing.”

He looks down, his boots kicking at the carpet, trying to dig in. “Even if I get a summer internship, even if I then get a return offer at Jane Street, Citadel, whatever, it would be years before I could buy you a Gucci”—he intercepts my look—“Chanel, whatever the hell brand scarf that was.”

“And when have I asked for that?”

Lucas glances upward, brows furrowing in concentration. “Mén dāng hù duì.” His pronunciation is terrible, but I know immediately what he means—that we’re not a match, from a status point of view—and who he heard it from. “Your mother has said it almost every time I’ve come over. It wasn’t hard to look that up and translate. While I was snooping, I looked up your father too. So at least now I know why people say Lorelai Zhao, with the emphasis on the Zhao, for Zhaovestments.”

“My father and his company shouldn’t have any bearing on us, should it? The idea of our doors matching comes from a time when people still used matchmakers. It’s old-fashioned and backwards.”

“Of course it is. The idea that we ought to be paired through similar wealth, education, and class is so . . . last generation.” Lucas breathes out a humorless laugh and runs a hand through his hair, kicking again at the carpet. “But the literal ideal, that our doors and stations don’t match, isn’t completely unfounded. I can barely keep my shit together on an airplane. Stuck out like a greasy thumb in that lounge. And I know you noticed. I could see you . . . trying not to react.” He gives a shrug, not making eye contact. “Wouldn’t you rather I was rich?”

“Of course.” My glib answer surprises him enough that he looks at me, finally. His glasses are fogged from emotion, his hazel eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I’d also rather I was a six-foot-tall redhead with a C-cup. I’d love slightly larger eyes that are double-lidded, hair I can dye without needing to bleach it first, and on a less selfish note, I’d rather live in a world where there aren’t nuclear weapons. If I could snap my fingers and disappear every tech bro who’s ever made a mommy joke, I could live with that too.” I can see the reluctant smile that is tugging at Lucas’s mouth, even though if he had even the tiniest sense of self-preservation, he would not be amused right now. “But here’s the thing: I don’t allow myself the luxury of dwelling on unattainable hypotheticals.”

Lucas’s gaze is intent. “I wanted enough money to take you on a real date.”

I can practically taste the wistfulness in his voice. But we can’t both be romantics. “We have bills and responsibilities. Fun and over-ten-dollar dates can wait.”

“You’re beautiful and sharp and damned near perfect.” The words come out in a rush, genuine and real in a way that only Lucas, who never hides anything from me, can deliver. “When I see how far ahead everyone else is, when I see what the rest of the world could offer you, I can’t help but worry you’re . . . settling.”