Page 106 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

I take a deep breath and regret it immediately, coughing through the sand I’ve just swallowed. Though Vi looks a little concerned, I swear a small smile curves over Khloe’s lips.

We take turns signing waivers on iPads. Even wearing cutoffs and a tank top to hide the rash, I’m already sweating. Today is forecasted to be a scorcher, and we have four more hours of this.

Wendell is driving his wife and a couple I’ve barely spoken to, which leaves me driving the twins, both of whom insist their skin needs protection, meaning despite my protests, they’ll sit in the back together while I chauffeur. Now feels like the appropriate time to tell them I once knocked over a stop sign, that I’ve definitely hit parked vehicles while trying to parallel park, and that I haven’t driven regularly . . . ever.

I’ve always walked or bussed. Basically everywhere.

I’ve just finished signing when my phone pings.

UNKNOWN: Saved my number yet?

ME: bizzy paying attn so eye donut die off roading

UNKNOWN: You don’t seem that stressed.

ME: y u say dat

UNKNOWN: You took the time to spell out eye.

UNKNOWN: Service while whale watching might be awful.

UNKNOWN: Riddles calmed me, but music always helped you. Sending you the playlist I made you, I’ve already checked that it syncs with the Polaris.

I download it immediately, while I have access to reliable Wi-Fi.

Hearing my own breathing echoing back in the mandatory helmet just increases my anxiety. The first song is one I’ve never heard of, “Make Way” by Aloe Blacc. But as soon as the singing starts, as soon as I hear the word legendary followed by clapping, I actually feel . . . lighter.

The rest of the list proceeds in a similar fashion. There are a couple of Chinese songs Lucas must have remembered from our time together, the Cake melodies Lucas always put on during our practice sessions, and a lot of workout songs with strong beats and repetitive hooks that pull my focus just enough.

Wendell’s car pulls far ahead, and I can feel one of the twins tap on my shoulder, saying something about whether I can go any faster, but it’s frightening, driving a vehicle like this, and I’m firm about maintaining the speed I’m comfortable with, especially because the roads-not-roads are bumpy as hell. We stop frequently so the twins can get out, de-helmet, and take the appropriate selfies. Khloe also records a small reel to upload and a separate one for Facebook.

When I ask why they need to upload different clips, Khloe looks at me pityingly, her makeup somehow still perfect while I have sweat tracks staining my face.

“Because we have imitators.” Khloe turns her phone toward me to explain. “I’m @Khloe_Shindler, but there’s also an account called @Khloe_Shindler_fans, and another that’s @real_Khloe_Shindler. If I post a video on Instagram first, sometimes one of these accounts steals it. If they get it uploaded to Facebook before I do, my account gets flagged. And considering each video brings potential engagement, potential sponsorship?” Khloe’s using the camera as a mirror even while she explains this to me, adjusting her hair and tilting her face from side to side. At one point, she drapes herself over the vehicle, making sure the Polaris logo is clearly visible, and raises her eyebrows, angling her body for optimal cleavage.

It’s reminiscent of the Carl’s Jr. ads with women in bikinis holding massive cheeseburgers, a reminder that there doesn’t have to be a link between model and product, just tangible sex appeal.

It’s simultaneously impressive and unnerving, watching Khloe, a college-educated woman in her mid-twenties, expertly contort and transform her face: Sad Khloe! Surprised Khloe. Shy but actually Coquettish Khloe? But damn if Khloe doesn’t look good flipping her hair, creating a perfect frame.

Examined from this angle, it’s easy to see both what Brody must have originally been drawn to—the savviness, the ability to constantly curate—as well as what he must now be doubting. Namely: How much of their relationship is tangibly real?

Vi tells us she’s going to hike just a couple of minutes away to get a solo shot, something about her last chance to be a runaway bride, which leaves me alone with Khloe.

Perfect.

I’m inching toward a shady alcove when Khloe’s voice stops me.

“I’m glad we’re getting this time together.” She isn’t looking at me, but still posing and snapping photos, ever the multitasker. “I wanted to say thank you for helping my sister. But⁠—”

She pauses, fluffing her hair, making me wait.

“He’s obviously a sentimental man, still wearing his father’s watch? Of course he’s also hung up on you and the grand, romantic idea of the one who got away.” She tears herself away from her phone for long enough to look at me finally. “And I can kind of see it. You were the cute girl at a college full of geeks, not all of whom were going to make it, and good for you, picking Lucas out from the crowd.”

“You’re quite good at this,” I say.

You’re kind of a sociopath-level manipulator, I think, twisting reality like a knife, one cruel dig at a time.

“But human being to human being, here, no one of Lucas’s caliber will drive a Honda Civic forever. You’re what he could afford then.”