Page 6 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Finally, after the tectonic plates have realigned in the time it’s taken for Lucas to construct a full sentence, he asks, “Is that what you’d like?”

“Of course. Arjun’s the shoo-in. And I think he’s already decided Xinzhe will be his second.” Lucas nods, and because no words are forthcoming, I explain just in case Lucas is this new to the competitive scene. “Xinzhe’s the medalist from China who almost made the cut last year? Either way, if they’re already matched, there’s only one spot left on Team A.”

I look impatiently at my phone; I have overdue library books to finish and return, because apparently there’s a one-hundred-book limit at Caltech, some ramen to boil, a string of not-an-emergency-but-she-thinks-they’re-emergency messages from my mother to reply to, as well as a problem set to turn in.

I’ve just about forgotten Lucas is there when he murmurs, “Then maybe we need to start putting together an even stronger Team B.”

“Why me?”

“Besides the fact you’ve performed consistently well? You taught me something today—you used the fact that in Python, dicts naturally iterate by insertion order. I hadn’t thought of it, and it was a better, cleaner solve.”

My eyebrows rise of their own volition. At least someone was listening.

Lucas hands me the little origami lucky star he was folding before the competition began. It’s made from the neon-green algorithmic cheat sheet we were given for the contest and is surprisingly sturdy.

“Good luck Saturday,” Lucas tells me, fidgeting a little now that he no longer has papers to fold. His lips curl up just a little, and I detect the slightest hint of a blush as he stammers out, “Given what I’ve already seen? I’m prepared to be impressed.”

3

PEERS WHO DIDN’T KEEP UP WITH YOU

PRESENT

“Finally,” Abe chastises, as if he hadn’t emailed me less than thirty minutes ago. As if this is a long-standing meeting I’m deliberately late for.

Normally, I’d be annoyed by Abe Kleinberg’s dismissive tone. I’d bring him slightly sweetened decaf the next time he texts me to grab him a black coffee on my way in, because petty microaggressions are the only acts of defiance I allow myself.

But right now?

Every molecule of ATP is being converted to performing the basics. Swallowing. Breathing. Standing. Everything feels strikingly effortful now I’m within three feet of Lucas. I’m frozen in the office doorway, my now-sweaty hand clenching the doorknob as if there might still be time to flee.

Lucas stands in greeting, and my heart aches at the million-and-one ways he’s changed. Physically, he’s filled out. His dark-blue jeans no longer hang off a too-wiry frame; instead, his clothes mold to his body and there are corded muscles along his forearms that flex as he casually rests his hands half in his pockets. His beard is well maintained and he no longer wears glasses, meaning there’s no disguising his long lashes, his lovely hazel eyes that feel like every shade of brown and green at once. I’m so busy drinking in how he looks, cataloging the details—that his hair is still a tad too long, but now sprinkled with the tiniest bit of premature gray—that I don’t notice how long of a moment has passed until Abe coughs.

“Lorelai lives within walking distance of campus, and yet—” Abe cuts himself off to shake his head, his wheezy voice admonishing.

Because I’m still collecting myself, Lucas explains in his deep and measured baritone, “Lorelai and I were at Caltech together.”

“Really?” Abe asks, his voice supremely disappointed, his bushy white eyebrows rising. I’ve always thought that it was a cosmic miscasting that Abe Kleinberg, PhD, looks like jolly Santa but acts like the petulant kid atop the Naughty List. He steeples his wrinkled hands and grumbles, “You never mentioned you were classmates with such a prominent Forbes 30 Under 30, Lorelai.” And yes, I just know I’ll be spending our next postmortem justifying the oversight.

“Not just classmates,” Lucas continues as Abe’s eyebrows lift, for this is a man who loves tea.

“Also ICPC teammates; competed at worlds together. Though we haven’t kept in contact,” Lucas explains, his lips thinning even as his gaze remains locked unerringly on me, no doubt taking in every detail of my appearance, from the clown-green hair to the too-loose jeans and whatever oversized T-shirt I grabbed from the overflowing pile of similar options.

It’s my court jester look, the human embodiment of aposematism, the animal defense mechanism where we use bright, toxic colors to warn predators (or in my case, people) away. Usually, my looks are too jarring for anyone to want to scrutinize me more closely or consistently. Meaning no one beyond my Grad or Die roommates have ever noticed the weight fluctuations caused by the various medications I’ve been on and off of. No one notices the rashes that have come and gone, usually because they’re too distracted by my ever-changing rainbow hair.

It’s as calculated as my chaotic texting style, my performative meekness.

And yet, confronted with the reality of Lucas Sebastian Murray? Of course I feel like a fool.

“I completely understand. There’s simply no way to keep track of peers who didn’t keep up with you.” Abe gestures at his corner office, as if being a tenured UCLA professor is on the same level as the likely many-times multimillionaire, magazine-headlining CEO he sits across from. “I admit I’m embarrassed to attend my own Harvard reunions sometimes. Not everyone makes it.”

Lucas’s jaw tightens. Never mind that he has every reason to detest me on a personal level, Lucas has never tolerated bullies.

I cut in, hoping to ward off an argument. “Did you want to see me about something specific?”

Abe’s eyes narrow a little; he hates when I explicitly direct our conversations. “I was telling Lucas about your language analysis model. The one you’ve been trying to improve?”

It’s such a small thing, really.