Page 65 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

At myself and my life, but also, specifically, at her.

At decibel levels no music will drown out.

I stare at my mother, whose beauty is faded but still notable, and squeeze my hands into fists. I knock on the girls’ door and say my goodbyes, promising to come back an extra day, letting Aurora know there’s an additional meal in the freezer to thaw.

In the safety of their room—our old room together, so my mother could have her own space when we downsized—I pretend to admire their new clothes, give Aurora constant hugs and cuddles, before finally making my way to the kitchen, where I tell Lucas I’d like to return to campus.

Ever the gentleman, Lucas nods to me and then my mother while gathering his tools. “The dishwasher’s fixed.”

My mother’s smile is as shallow as it is fake. “See? Nothing to stress over.”

I stare at the woman who birthed me, who I don’t remember ever being close with, who would turn down hugs if my fingers were sticky, who always tried to transfer my affection to nannies, when nannies had been available, and find myself unable to formulate a coherent sentence.

I shake my head and leave without saying goodbye, silent until Lucas reverses his earlier parking.

“You would never speak to your mother that way.”

“My mother would never squander my money on frivolous things while branding me a martyr.”

I let him drive for a few blocks in silence before I admit, “My father was going to hit her.” I stare out at the passing scenery, the twenty-four-hour doughnut shops and laundromats mixed in with boba stores and every flavor of Asian food one finds in Greater Los Angeles. “The day it happened, he’d been in a great mood—just closed a big deal—and I don’t even remember what my mother said, but he got annoyed. A moment later, I got between his hand and her cheek.”

Lucas turns into a well-lit neighborhood, pulling over so he can give me his full attention.

“You can keep driving.”

“I’d rather focus on this conversation?” He says this as though it’s a question, something I have the power to veto. And I want to go back to the dorms, to work on follow-up for Patel, but also, now that I’ve started, I want to get it all out.

“Afterward, they were both angry at me. They said I was making too much out of a little thing. My mother had apparently been hit before and felt as though this was an acceptable price. My father treated me as though I’d failed a loyalty test. They took turns berating me while Aurora, who was barely five, watched. I remember thinking I couldn’t apologize in front of Aurora, that I needed to set a good example. Stupid, right?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

“My father said he was washing his hands of all of us, that my mother had done nothing but produce péiqián huò, which are money-losing commodities—or, you know, all daughters, if you’re conservative and traditional enough. He gave me one last chance to apologize, and when I didn’t, he said my mother and sisters were my problem now.”

“I can’t even begin to articulate how terrible that is.” I don’t turn to look at Lucas, but I can see the faint outline of his expression through the car window, can hear how hoarse his voice is.

“That’s also when my mother started calling me her tuó shuāi jiā. Her bad luck charm.”

The streetlamps look almost fuzzy, the edges blurred past what any nighttime fog ought to be capable of doing, as Lucas squeezes my fingers.

“It’s not your fault.” Another squeeze, a deep inhale that I think comes from him, but might be my own broken lungs trying to work. “You know that, right?”

I shake my head, which can be interpreted whichever way he wants, and we sit there, listening to a basketball game that’s being blasted through one of the nearby living rooms. UConn is ahead. The people listening are clearly invested, their shouts and whoops sounding overloud in the otherwise quiet neighborhood.

It’s Lucas who breaks the silence. “You know one of my favorite things about you?”

“My sexist father? My materialistic mother?”

“One of my favorite things about you, besides the fact that you’ve protected your sisters, raised Aurora and the girls so well⁠—”

This brings a small twitch to my lips. “You claim not to play favorites but Aurora gets a name while Wren and Harper are the girls. It’s like saying Josie and the Pussycats. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.”

But Lucas cannot be nerd-sniped today, not even with musical trivia. Instead, he pulls me a little closer, even though it’s awkward with the center console between us, particularly so because I resist folding into him. He kisses the side of my hair. “You don’t hold grudges.”

I huff out a laugh. “That’s the lesson you’ve gotten out of all of this?”

“You solved more problems than Arjun did last year, at nationals. But you didn’t make it a big deal.”

“I hadn’t looked it up.”