Page 98 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

But Lucas is done with my games. He steers me and my overactive hormones through the exhibit, and standing in front of the inscribed vellum that’s protected in a humidity-and-temperature-controlled case that looks bulletproof, I admit I feel a small spark of joy.

“I’m going to grudgingly admit this isn’t your worst ten-dollar date.”

“I’ve already apologized about the pennies.”

For one of our first outings, Lucas had interpreted my instructions literally. He’d gone to the bank and gotten a thousand pennies, taking me on a walking tour of Pasadena’s fountains, branding it a wish-making exercise.

I run my hand along the edge of the display case, because I’m genuinely curious about the level of security here. No alarms go off, but my finger comes away a little black and the sleepy-looking security guard gives me a lazy one-eyebrow lift.

“I’m an amazing practice girlfriend, saving you from future embarrassment by vetoing one bad date at a time.”

Lucas’s lips thin a little as he looks away from me. The longer we’re together, the less he enjoys my jokes about the transient nature of college relationships.

“If I’m banned from I love you, you should be banned from calling yourself a practice girlfriend.”

“It’s what I offered, from the very start.”

“You should have known I accepted it as a starting offer.”

I try to keep my tone light, inviting Lucas to help me turn this into a joke, thinking that this is what’s better, simpler about sex. Not just the endorphins, but also the fact that there are far fewer opportunities for me to fuck things up. “You should have read the fine print.”

“Next time I’ll be more careful. We can put the entire thing in writing.” Lucas takes my hand, because that’s about how much PDA I can handle.

As we wander the hallowed halls, much of which is clearly designed for the purpose of advertising their wealth, ceilings that are twenty-six feet high, a rotunda that soars forty-three feet, I do find myself drawn to the book collections.

But the one I stop in front of is Audubon’s Birds of America. It’s at least three and a half feet in height, a couple feet wide. Because it’s protected, it can only be turned to display one bird at a time, meaning most of the hand-drawn plates will never be seen by commoners like me, who can at most visit once a month.

Lucas edges closer, his hand squeezing mine, his voice a low, Huntington Library–appropriate whisper along the back of my neck. “Why do you look angry?”

“I’ve always thought this is the dumbest charity.”

“You have something against birds?”

The artwork is beautiful, objectively so. It’s detailed and nuanced in a way that draws you to it. And yet⁠—

“Ever wonder how rich you have to be to care about birds? I mean, stop and think about it for a minute. How satisfied would you have to be with your own life, how little would you have to be paying attention to class issues or world hunger before you’d start worrying about the preservation of rare birds?”

“I’m not seeing the connection, but I’m guessing this has something to do with one of your parents.”

I wonder whether I’m really this predictable, or if Lucas just equates all my negativity with one or the other of my parents.

“This was one of my mother’s volunteer activities, back when she was one of those ladies who lunched. She didn’t know any of my teachers’ names, but she had time for birds.”

Hazel eyes open wide, twinkling with humor. “Don’t tell me this is why you like cats.”

“One of the many, many reasons.” And then, because even I can hear the bitchiness, I try again. “I’m sorry, this was a nice idea, truly. I’ve just been in a bad mood for⁠—”

“Your entire life?”

“Ouch. See this right here? This is why I don’t talk about feelings.” I nudge him toward the Japanese gardens. “Why do you put up with me again?”

“Dating practice, right?” He smooths a strand of hair away from my face because I’ve forgotten a hair tie, again. The tenderness of his voice belies his words. “We all have to start somewhere.”

Later, after we’ve walked through all the exhibits and allowed the docents to bait us (“Which of the Virgin Mary portraits would you guess is the most expensive?” and “Did you know Pinkie and Blue Boy weren’t intended as a set?”), we spread out an old blanket on a patch of grass and pour honey over French bread. Lucas is propped on one elbow, chewing slowly as we try to more properly appreciate the Queensland kauri, apparently the oldest planted tree on the property.

“Why is oldest potted plant something they track?”

“Any excuse to put up a plaque?” Lucas’s fingers are intertwined with mine, meaning that even though his voice remains steady, I can feel the way he tenses.