Page 20 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“You should go.”

Lucas looks at me, and it’s a charged moment that feels definitively like a prelude to more. But instead of making a move—one I tell myself I’d turn down—he gives me a lopsided smile, one that’s visible even beneath the thick beard.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Only as he’s walking away do I admit there’s something about Lucas Sebastian Murray (whose middle name I only know from online stalking) that makes me want to peel away the layers, to find each of his small scars and hear the stories behind them.

He’s not my type.

Because I don’t have a type.

Because I’m too busy and too damaged and too harbinger-of-doom to deserve a type.

I take a deep breath and turn toward my dorm. I remind myself that I don’t have time for distractions right now. I have textbooks to check out, a study plan to put together, and a trio of overconfident Caltech alphas to take down.

7

AS IF HE’S MISSED ME AS MUCH AS I’VE MISSED HIM

PRESENT

Gwendy’s already come and left for the airport and I’m three-quarters of the way through editing Maya’s dissertation on the psychological cost of growing up in food deserts when Abe Kleinberg calls me.

I’m tempted to ignore it, the way I’ve also ignored the Line messages from my mother, reminding me I’m supposed to come over this weekend so she can have some space.

I stare at Abe’s contact photo; it’s a decade out of date because that’s what he insists remain on his website and because he rarely deigns to take photos with students.

I should let it ring.

Not once has Abe called for a reason that’s actually appropriate or related to my responsibilities as a graduate student. But because Abe thinks of me as not just his mentee but also his personal secretary, and because he comes from the generation that just doesn’t text, he’s always emailing or, when he’s not near a computer, calling.

The printer is broken and IT isn’t available. Do you remember how you fixed it last time?

The Wi-Fi isn’t working. Can you do the thing you do? It’ll only take a minute.

What was the name you put my anniversary dinner reservation under again?

And my personal favorite: What is the name of the dish I like from Wolfsglen again? (Spoiler alert: ribeye. It’s not that hard to remember, Abe. You always get the ribeye.)

I let it go to voicemail, my teeny tiny act of defiance.

The ringing starts again almost immediately.

“Hi—”

“Lucas Murray is drunk and you must come get him.”

I do my breathing exercise—one, two, three, four, in; hold; one, two, three, four, out—before I answer, so I’m collected and don’t say anything stupid.

“Is there anyone else, someone already there, who could escort him—” My mind blanks for a moment, because is he staying with his mother? An hour away? Or did he get a hotel?

“He asked for you specifically.”

It’s perhaps the most boundary-crossing chore Abe has asked of me.

But . . . it’s also Lucas.

“Are you at Plateia?” It’s where I made the reservation, but I only remember Lucas drinking one other time. And even though I know it’s not anatomically a possible thing, I feel my stomach drop when Abe confirms my fears.