Page 137 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“But wouldn’t you want… your own?”

He takes my hand in his and maneuvers me so that I’m sitting next to him on the couch. “We watched over Leno, Levi, and Aurora. Sometimes I feel like we raised Brody. We’ll have Wren and Harper for at least a few years, and if later on we, as a unit, decide that’s not enough children and chaos, there are many ways to conceive or adopt.”

He reaches one hand toward my face but doesn’t touch me. “Does it hurt if I touch you?”

“Sometimes. It doesn’t always. It can feel like anything from a mild sunburn to an irritating itch. There are days where the irritation is so light I’ll forget I even have a rash until someone points it out.”

Lucas is silent in a way the tells me he’s waiting for me to continue; he knows there’s more. I lick my lips. “My doctor thinks I might also need, uh, surgery.”

“Okay.” He squeezes my hand. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Not now.” I shake my head, not even aware that I’ve started crying until Lucas wipes the tears away. “I’m just saying that if you stay with me, if we really do this, it’s not all going to be fun and roses.”

Lucas’s laugh is genuine. “I know we’ve disagreed on this, but I’ll remind you, again, that fun is not one of the top three adjectives I’d use to describe you. And you’ve always maintained you don’t like roses.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Khloe said I’m a Honda Civic. That I used to be all you could hope for but that now, you can afford… some really expensive cars.”

“Khloe’s a moron.”

“I’m not saying you’d choose Khloe. But there are hundreds of women who would maybe not kill but at least maim to have a chance with you now. Are you sure you really want”—I gesture to myself, fighting to keep my voice steady—“me?”

Lucas is silent for so long I’m worried he’s gone back to his old timescale. Finally, when I’m about to break, he says, “This is too stupid of question to warrant an answer.”

“It’s not a stupid question.”

He purses his lips, waits for another eternity, before he finally speaks again. “I want to make sure I’m answering every part of this ridiculous question so we can put it to rest and never waste time on it again. It has always felt absurdly illogical to me that given the choice between the Khloes of the world, who only want me now that I’m successful, and you, who chose me when all I had to offer were origami stars and ten-dollar dates . . . Let’s be honest, how is that even a choice?”

He’s squeezing my hand tightly now, but I don’t pull away, and he’s clearly not done.

“I’ve met a handful of people as brilliant as you are. Fewer with even a modicum of your loyalty and determination. Added to that, I can’t even begin to imagine a universe in which any single other person who’s not you would have sacrificed themselves for me and my family. So yeah, Lorelai, your question is dumb. I’ll never, ever find anyone who will love me as much as you do, which is kind of perfect, because I could add up all of the romantic feelings I’ve ever entertainment for anyone else and it isn’t even an infinitesimal fraction of the love I feel for you. You are frustrating and impressive, challenging and⁠—”

“Fun?” I whisper, trying to lighten the mood.

“—maddening.” His eyes are wide and earnest, his breathing uneven in his need to communicate his sincerity.

I swallow, blink rapidly, knowing there’s one more thing I have to resolve, or at least attempt to apologize for. “You’re sure you can really forgive me, for before? When I made decisions for the both of us as if… I knew better, as if it was my sole right to decide?”

“That depends.” He tilts his head, expression serious as I hold my breath, waiting for his next words, “Are you ever going to do it again?”

I shake my head.

“Then we should focus on the future, don’t you think?”

My eyes are misting over, but I manage a small nod. “Is it too late to say I love you?”

Lucas’s smile is the sunshine after the storm. It is warmth and goodness and makes me feel secure and grounded and almost impossibly, incandescently happy. But instead of answering as I expect, he reaches for the sash of my robe, looking up at me for permission. “May I?”

I nod and then look away, not wanting to watch as Lucas sees the various ways my body has been ravaged and changed in our years apart. Up until now, I’ve been careful. It’s always been at night. I’ve always stayed partially clothed.

Lucas unties my robe slowly, and I let my eyes close, my head falling back to the couch because I cannot bear to see any potential flicker of disgust. I know Lucas loves me, believe it with every fiber of my body. But love and desire⁠—

“I can wear things to cover up the rash,” I whisper. “I own an embarrassing amount of lingerie, not that anyone else has seen, of course.” I’m babbling now and don’t even know how to stop. The longer he’s quiet, the more I need to fill the silence. “If the lingerie isn’t enough to disguise—that is, I mean, if, during the times I have flare-ups, you don’t want to—” I bite my lip, too embarrassed to continue.

“I think you should open your eyes, Lorelai.”