Page 1 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

1

PLEASE RSVP IS REDUNDANT

PRESENT

I’ve barely gotten out of the apartment elevator when Brody calls. Brody Huntington-Branca—who believes texting is more efficient and being in person is the only way to truly converse—never calls.

“I’m in a meeting?”

“Since you’re asking, the answer is no: I know you’re not in a meeting. You’re still home.”

“That’s creepy⁠—”

“You can turn off location sharing whenever you want.” And yes, he’s got me there. There’s no longer any real reason for us to be sharing location with each other. We’re not undergraduates traveling out of the country. We’re no longer teammates who need to coordinate practice schedules or check in while traveling. But Brody’s the only undergraduate friend I’ve hung on to, and it’s always been comforting to know he’s still there for me.

“Well, now I know you’re stalking me⁠—”

“You’re not answering my texts. And since we’ve previously established you don’t date or have a nominal version of what others label ‘life,’ you have no excuse.”

I let out a small huff of amusement. “Who talks like that?”

“I do. The highly paid lawyer you helped get through the LSATs.” I can hear the tap-tap-tap of a pen in the background, because Brody can never sit still. “Now, considering I normally bill by the quarter hour, can you provide a semibelievable explanation as to why you’ve been ignoring me?”

I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and, to my utter disgust, find that more than a few of the currently dyed-green strands fall out. I should be used to it by now. I’m that poster child: This is your body. This is your body with lupus. Hair loss is one of the most common side effects, and yet each time any of my once-thick hair comes out, I’m caught off guard. Emotional.

As the silence drags, Brody sighs dramatically, and I can practically picture him squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. “Vi’s flipping out, which means you need to RSVP. Please.”

“Fun fact! To say ‘please RSVP’ is redundant⁠—”

“Répondez s’il vous plaît. Respond if you please. Yes. I took French. I’m purposefully doubling down on pleases because I’m that desperate.”

“Right.” I shake the stray hairs off my hand and press the faded pedestrian crosswalk button.

“Want to guess how much I charge per hour?”

“An obscene amount?”

“You’d call it offensive. Vulgar. But instead of checking on clients in a way that contributes to those indecently high hourly rates, the same ones paying for your hotel room⁠—”

“You don’t have to pay for my hotel room.”

“Already done, reserved in your name months ago. And what do I ask for in return? Your eternal gratitude tattooed across your forehead? No. All I ask is an RSVP and maybe some appreciation from my best man⁠—”

“Best woman.”

“Best friend, who’s arguing semantics in a pathetic attempt to stall⁠—”

“I wouldn’t say⁠—”

“—mere weeks before the actual wedding.”

“Okay.” I capitulate, laughing because this kind of half amusement, half exasperation is what Brody always inspires. “You can stop guilt-tripping me.”

“You’re coming.” I can tell Brody’s in full lawyer mode, his voice commanding in a way I’m not used to. A moment later he softens his tone to confirm. “Right?”

If I had a way out, I’d take it. I’ve googled fake diseases, hoping to find one that skirts the line between not life threatening (read: don’t give me and my sudden medical event a second thought, please have fun at your wedding) and still undeniably temporarily incapacitating (read: digestive, and I’ll be too busy hugging the toilet to walk down the aisle in that tux). The options were scant.

Miniscule.