Page 8 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

It’s maddening.

And thrilling.

Abe’s never understood the broader applications of my program and thus has never pressed. As far as my mentor’s concerned, if it’s good enough to get through committee, solid enough for the buzzy preprint, he’ll accept it as the crux of my dissertation.

But Lucas is thorough, pedantic, and hyperfocused, sussing out all the angles, challenging me to defend and rethink core tenets. Lucas remains one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, and when his focus is directed at me? It’s a heady, almost drugging sensation—the way Lucas still debates with me as though we’re equals, that despite the difference in our current accomplishments and stature, Lucas listens intently, really taking the time to hear and think through my individual points.

“I assume you’ve continued optimizing and expanding since this?”

Yes, I almost say, because the need to impress Lucas, to have Lucas continue to consider me capable, competent, and worthy, is almost overwhelming.

I have expanded the scope of the project far beyond the preprint paper Abe knows about. More than that, I have results from the new optimizations.

Amazing, publishable, potentially sellable results.

But I’m not ready to do anything about it. And so I look down, unwilling to confirm or deny.

Abe swivels in his chair and takes this moment to clear his throat loudly, disgruntled to have missed out on so much of the conversation. “I doubt Lorelai’s expanded her code beyond what’s strictly necessary. Lorelai’s already behind schedule, and she’s never been particularly ambitious. Though I will grant that she’s quite decent at implementing when provided with my support and a solid theoretical grounding.”

The implication—that I’m his code monkey—is delivered in Abe’s habitual belittling style, and I don’t even consider defending myself. I chose Abe Kleinberg because he was a big enough, believable enough name to hide behind when my father asked. I always knew he’d be an incompetent advisor.

Lucas allows the silence to stretch, his eyes narrowed on my advisor. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold. “You and I must know very different iterations of Lorelai. I can’t comment on anything else she may have contributed to your group, but her design, even from what little I’ve seen, is as impressive as expected.”

Abe sucks in a breath. My mentor’s not used to being contradicted, particularly not within the confines of his own hallowed office.

Lucas steeples his long fingers, completely in control. “I am curious as to how the two of you came up with the initial concept?”

“It was Lorelai’s pet project.” Abe scratches at his Santa beard. He’s not happy about being challenged, but he can’t pass up an opportunity to monologue. “My work is predominantly focused on the broader ways technology can transform our lives. The Kleinberg Group is full of students and associates who think big: What is the machine learning model that will help us detect and eradicate cancer? When will there be functioning AI models to predict and potentially evade political unrest? We’re focused on applied computational models that help us navigate increasingly extreme weather or climate change. Compared to her peers, Lorelai’s focus has always been narrower.”

“Hyperfocus is often considered a strength.” Lucas’s voice is quiet.

Not sensing this is a test he’s failing, Abe waves away Lucas’s words. “Under my guidance, her project’s obviously grown in scale. Left to Lorelai? I believe her initial goal was nothing beyond filtering out news articles she found emotionally distressing.”

I close my eyes, willing Abe Kleinberg to stop talking, to not accidentally give away the fact that my entire dissertation was a post-breakup defense mechanism. That in the days, weeks, and months after I left Lucas, I needed a nuanced, bespoke filter to counteract Google’s algorithms, weeding out all mention of Lucas and his startup.

In layman’s terms? I created a computer program expressly designed to delete every mention of Lucas from my personal internet feed. It went far beyond just blocking things out because I also stored, saved, and analyzed it . . . That the project eventually became something more was truthfully almost an accident.

Lucas’s face barely changes, and he doesn’t glance in my direction. “And when did this project start?”

I take a deep breath, preparing to redirect, but Abe beats me to it. “It was your undergraduate honors thesis, if I remember correctly? The seed of it helped her admission into my group.”

“Fascinating.” Though Lucas still isn’t looking at me, his jaw clenches alarmingly. I watch as he relaxes himself before briefly fidgeting with his watch, a habit so achingly familiar I have to stop myself from reaching out and intertwining our fingers.

He glances down at my shirt briefly, the loud orange one I’d unthinkingly grabbed.

“You like Cake’s music?”

It sounds like an accusation. Because it is.

Cake is—or at least was—Lucas’s favorite band. An obscure rock band that sang songs about everything from modern consumerism to critiquing social pressures. Brody and I always teased Lucas about his devotion.

“My roommate loves them.” I stare at him through my fake glasses, hoping he doesn’t see it for what it is: a partial truth, a deliberate misdirection. Gwendy does love Cake, but only because I introduced her to the band and then made her attend every concert within a hundred-mile radius.

Lucas nods, his face continuing to be an expressionless, indecipherable mask. He glances down at the time. “We should probably⁠—”

“I’ll walk you down.” Abe gets up with the sprightliness of a much younger man. He doesn’t look in my direction as he guides Lucas to the door. Only after Lucas has stepped outside does Abe throw his careless question back at me. “You’ll check the dinner reservations?”

I nod, relieved to be dismissed, that I’ll have a few minutes to collect myself before attending Lucas’s talk.