Page 88 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Other than I-love-you-gate, almost everything about the next few days is some exquisite dream. We wake to picturesque, postcard-ready sunrises. Brody has a mini buffet of warm croissants, fresh fruit, and individual mini jams delivered each morning.

Most days, we hike with whoever’s awake enough to join. In the afternoons, while Wendell, Qi, Brody, and others go horseback riding or fly-fishing, Lucas and I borrow blankets and load up a picnic basket to explore the trails.

Each night, under the clearest night skies I’ve ever experienced, Brody brings out the telescopes he apparently leaves here, year-round, and goes into lecture mode, telling us about constellations and the sound made from black hole collisions.

Not until Brody’s birthday is there a small hiccup.

“Mom says there’s a last-minute filing, but Dad said there’s a big to-do they simply must attend. So, dealer’s choice about which excuse we should believe.” Brody’s tone is nonchalant, but his expression is stony. “Good news, though. They made us all a ten-course reservation tonight at Big Horn.”

“Omakase?” one of the Lloydies says, clearly excited.

“Omakase.” Brody nods. He makes a show out of looking at his watch. “Strings were pulled, and so it’s happening tonight, basically now.”

Everyone else clearly gets it, but Lucas and I have to look it up afterward. While many of my father’s meetings were conducted over meals, they were traditional Chinese affairs, and so even I had no way of knowing that these ten-course, chef-curated meals existed.

We dress in the nicest clothes we brought, which don’t quite feel up to par. Lucas fidgets terribly, and I have to squeeze his fingers to remind him to be still. When that doesn’t work, I kiss him while we wait in front of the restaurant, pulling back only to check in on whether he’s breathing more calmly now.

“I was kinda hoping the eye-fucking situation would improve,” Brody says, his face only a few inches from ours, because neither of us noticed him approaching. “Now that you’ve presumably . . .” He holds up his hands. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. You’re a kid sister to me, Lucas is my brother, and I’ve just realized how incestuous this all is.” His finger moves between the two of us. “Double incest. Is that a thing?”

We’re all laughing at Brody’s horrified expression as we walk through the restaurant, and I’ve often wondered, afterward, whether we could have avoided the whole scene if we’d just been a little quieter. The tables at Big Horn are spread apart, to optimize privacy and the views of Montana’s mountains and natural landscape. There are heat lamps and the lighting is romantic. If I’d been a little quieter while the waiter led us to our table, what might have changed?

“Peinan?” Even if I didn’t immediately recognize his voice, my father’s the only person who calls me by my Chinese name.

Even as my body stiffens, I paste a purposefully soft smile on my lips before turning. With my father, you never know if he’s out with a girlfriend or business associates. Either way, he’ll expect me to behave appropriately.

“Father.” I keep my voice warm, even though my entire body feels like it’s been plunged into an ice bath. He’s mere feet away, impeccably groomed and in his usual fitted and brand-savvy clothes. He’s got one arm on the upper thigh of a young woman who’s definitely not Jane Wei, the last girlfriend I knew of. He’s sitting with his legs spread, clearly the alpha within this particular gathering.

There are six other people at the table, perfectly paired older-men, younger-women clichés that tell me exactly what this is: One of my father’s business trips, where you bring girlfriends in lieu of wives. Where they pass around picturesque family photos and brag about their children while fucking their mistresses.

My father holds an arm toward me, and I move forward obediently, giving him a hug and, when he tilts his head toward me, a kiss on his perfectly contoured beard.

I’m close enough to smell the liquor and the remnants of the cigars he favors.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be here.” Considering how fluent my father is, in three languages and an additional four Chinese dialects, his use of the Shanghainese is purposeful. It cuts out my Caltech friends, excludes mainlanders who might only know Mandarin, excises the Hong Kong associates who’d be fluent in Cantonese.

I lower my head so my father can’t see the flash of annoyance. He hasn’t responded to any of my recent emails.

And given that my research with Patel hadn’t impressed him, it never occurred to me to share this part of my life, my friend and boyfriend, the small pieces of myself I hadn’t wanted tainted by my father’s opinions.

I keep my head down and I reply in Mandarin, so everyone at his table can appreciate my grovel. “I’m sorry. I should have.” They won’t know what he’s reprimanding me for, but it’s important they see my acquiescence. If I can appease my father, perhaps he’ll restart the allowance next month.

My father lets the silence stretch between us, no doubt enjoying the drama of the moment, his power over me. “My daughter,” my father announces more broadly now, in English, gesturing to the table. He waves at my friends.

“Introduce me to your friends.”

They come forward and shake my father’s hand, two of theirs to one of his because one of his hands remains firmly, inappropriately high, on his companion’s thigh. Brody manages to greet my father in broken Mandarin, which makes everyone chuckle. “You’ve met my father, Benjamin Branca. You’re both members at the Los Angeles Country Club?”

Brody manages to make it sound like a question, even though I know Brody tracks his parents’ social network the way I track programming problem sets.

My father nods. “Attorney?”

Only my father can infuse that much disdain into a single word, as if a high-powered, Yellowstone Club member attorney is an unemployed leper.

But Brody has as much social experience as I do, and his smile doesn’t waver as he half whispers, “Guilty. Both of my parents specialize in keeping high-profile divorces low-key private.” I hide a smile, because leave it to Brody to turn an insult into a marketing opportunity. Even the “low-key” feels purposefully deployed, meant to make him seem more of a doof than he actually is.

My father leans back even farther before pointing to Brody and Lucas, a slightly confused look marring his otherwise smooth features, the straight patrician nose and thin lips. Objectively, he would probably be considered an attractive man, handsome despite the streak of cruelness.

“Lucas and Brody are my coding teammates at Caltech.”