Page 89 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

It’s clearly the opening my father wanted. He turns to the table and brags that Caltech is one of the few schools known for not accepting donations. “Even I can’t purchase a place at Caltech. As many Birkins as my women want, but Lorelai had to get in on her own.”

Everyone laughs as if this is a great joke, while my father unbuttons his vest, spreading his legs wider. “And she went to public schools. I never hired a single tutor, never called in a single favor.” My father overenunciates every word, drawing out each syllable. “I never had those fancy opportunities, had to fight for everything I ever built, so why should she? I knew she’d never appreciate things that were just given to her. I knew that if she was really my daughter, she’d succeed,” he brags. “You were, what, fifth in North America?”

He knows it was bronze. But this allows him to lengthen the story and humble-brag.

“We won bronze.”

It’s the waiter who saves us. “My apologies, but we really have to get you to the table. The Omakase experience . . .”

My father motions for me to come over even as he waves my friends away, telling them to enjoy themselves. He switches back to Shanghainese, and I can see that being allowed to brag has not appeased him a single iota. “Email me an explanation if you want me to ever send money again.”

It’s not a request. It’s not even a reprimand.

This past week has been carefree, an idyllic fantasy where I didn’t let myself think about rent or my sisters’ activities.

But that’s all it was, all it is.

A fantasy.

Without my father’s financial support, there is no tomorrow for me or my family.

While Brody, Wendell, and Qi and their respective dates (all young women from Yellowstone Club, who they’ve met over the course of our week here) keep the conversation flowing, it’s clear that Lucas and I are . . . even quieter than usual.

No one asks me about my father until after that entire party leaves. My father nods at me on his way out, his hand on his girlfriend’s ass.

It’s Qi who leans forward, lowering his voice before asking, “Is your father Beinan Zhao?”

Wendell’s eyes widen. “I thought he looked familiar.”

Brody fills in the details. “Zhaovestments. Yeah, whatever. Like you don’t know Arjun’s granddaddy is a billionaire and two of Elon Musk’s kids have infiltrated Tech.”

“I thought Caltech admissions weren’t for sale?”

Wendell shakes his head. “Musk’s kids are geniuses. And Lorelai’s on a team with Brody and Lucas Fucking Murray. She can code.”

Lucas remains palpably quiet, and almost on cue, Brody starts whining, “Can we stop squawking about rich parents and get back to celebrating the Brodster?”

“That’s not going to stick,” Wendell warns.

“Repeat it a few times, give it a chance.”

By the time we get back to Brody’s townhouse, I am a mess. No matter how prettily the food was presented, all I could think about was my father and the email, Lucas and how he must be feeling.

As soon as we’re back to our room, Lucas turns and starts changing.

“I’m sorry I never told you.”

“He doesn’t know anything about us?”

“My father is a traditionalist. He would never approve of a boyfriend who isn’t a wealthy Chinese heir.”

“And you’re telling me you care?”

After a night of comforting Lucas and his anxieties, I find myself irritated by the innocence of this question. “Caring implies choice.” I don’t bother to hide the bitterness in my tone. “Given my father controls all the money, I have no power to care or not care.”

“I’m sorry.”

My eyebrows rise involuntarily.