Page 81 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

When I pull Lucas’s face down for a kiss again, he pauses.

“I should shower.”

I close my eyes against the gurgle of laughter that’s threatening to overtake me.

“You want to shower now?”

There’s the blush again, his face reddening at an alarming rate. “It’s our first time together, and you know it’s my first—” He swallows and I watch the long line of his throat, the stubble of growth along there that I can’t wait to feel against my skin. “And I want it to be perfect.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” I reach a hand down to unbutton his jeans. While I’ve tried to be flippant about it, I’m not much more experienced than he is. In high school, it seemed to be a thing to check off, a tiny act of rebellion against my father: That I wouldn’t be the docile, virginal daughter he could mold as he wanted.

But completely unsurprisingly, there was little desire and almost no satisfaction to be found in the arms of high school boys who were as unpracticed as I was.

But with Lucas, when I wrap my hands around his length, which is somehow simultaneously soft and hard in a way I’ve only read about, that I’ve never bothered to notice in my other rushed encounters, I feel an answering pool of desire. “Aiming for perfect would be setting ourselves up for failure.”

Even as he hardens in my hand, I can see the internal battle warring inside. “You’re perfect, Lorelai, and I⁠—”

This time, he’s the one who cuts himself off, his mouth meeting mine in an almost frantic kiss as my hand around him smooths a path down and then up. There’s almost no finesse in the way he jerks my tank top above my head, the way he groans when it becomes apparent it’s not physically possible to maintain contact while he removes my clothes. He fumbles with the clasp of my bra and accidentally—in a completely unsexy way—snaps the waistband of my panties.

There are so many mistakes along the way. He’s too gentle in a way that allows me to get into my own head. And somehow, stupidly, it takes Lucas Sebastian Murray three condoms before it’s not inside out and not broken, meaning he’s almost shaking with need, muttering that there’s no way he’s going to last while I reassure him.

He (of course) apologizes that I need to reassure him.

And then we’re both laughing because this isn’t how either of us really imagined it. With such sloppiness and so many apologies, with a little too much sweat and not nearly enough finesse.

But then I pull him to me, and yes, there is a moment of perfection when he enters me.

I hate that my mind labels it as such.

Because I ought to know better.

And yet, even as I rationalize that this is a college romance, that I shouldn’t romanticize, it is almost impossible as Lucas mutters to me that I’m perfect, and this is perfect. A small part of me whispers that yes, being this close to Lucas is frighteningly, almost world-redefiningly good.

For a moment, I feel safe and content. I am protected and cherished.

Then Lucas whispers, “I love you.”

And I burst into tears.

25

NOTHING TO EXPLAIN

PRESENT

“There’s nothing to explain.”

Lucas’s glare would probably seem withering to anyone else. But I know him—or at least I knew him—too well for such intimidation tactics. I’ve seen him with his head between his knees, scared. I brought Kleenex knowing he’d cry within the first five minutes of Pixar’s Up.

“Nothing to say about why you have an NDA? About why a graduate student, who always claimed to need money for her family, would sit on a program worth tens of millions of dollars while living in a run-down two-bedroom apartment and thrifting clothes?”

When I remain silent, Lucas turns his head towards Brody.

“Brody’s my lawyer. He can’t say anything.”

Brody tilts his head, clearly wanting to clarify the bounds of the agreement.

Lucas, quite unerringly, fixates on the perfect question. “How long has Brody been your lawyer? That’s not protected, right?”