Page 25 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

The week after that, a visibly unhappy Lucas invites us over to his house.

Lucas lives barely a mile off campus, with his mother and two younger brothers, in a midsized apartment complex that’s just this side of decrepit. The paint is peeling, the lawn is more brown and yellow than olive, with patches of clover and dandelions that tell their own tale, and several abandoned grocery carts have been left rusting to one side of the main entrance.

Two older gentlemen sit in front of the building on folding chairs, on a little uncovered paved area that was probably meant, at some point, to be a front porch.

Both start talking without waiting for introductions or replies.

“How are classes?”

“Don’t ask him about books—he’s brought a girl!”

“Has Lucas ever brought us a girl?”

“Never. Kid’s got no game.”

“Prom?”

“No, Stan, that was Marcus, in 3D. He went twice. Sisters in different grades.”

Lucas waits until the two men have finished to introduce us. (Stan from 1A and his buddy Cal from 1B, they went to elementary and middle school together, can you believe it? And now they’re neighbors, ain’t it a world.) I was a little worried Brody would . . . be Brody, but he’s surprisingly relaxed about the introductions. Should have trusted that he went to the type of school where they washed the feet of the homeless while preaching about allyship.

I ought to know.

That was my world once.

Brody shakes hands, agrees that Lucas is a very smart cookie without an ounce of sarcasm, and after we listen to a few more pleasantries about how proud Stan and Cal are, explain what our coding competition is, and listen to them extol about the pizza shop around the corner, we’re allowed to go.

As I’m passing by, Stan taps my arm and motions for me to lean in. “Lucas has never had a girlfriend before.”

I’m smiling even as the tips of Lucas’s ears are turning red. “We’re just teammates and friends.”

Stan lays a heavy, calloused hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “The best marriages are founded on friendship.”

Brody is barely able to contain his laughter as we walk up the stairs to Lucas’s apartment, but anything he might have said is swallowed by the excited still-squeaky voices of teen boys when the apartment door opens.

“Brody, right?” It’s a mini blondish Lucas who greets us. He’s maybe fourteen, fifteen. Brody barely has a chance to nod before Hi-I’m-Leno drags him off to the bedroom located directly to the side of the door. A quick peek in reveals three bunk beds, stacked basically to the ceiling, a small television, and a clearly built-from-scratch computer. “Show us how to counter-strafe.”

“Awwwww, you talked about me.” Brody puts a hand to his chest dramatically, and it’s clear he’s absolutely thrilled by the kid’s request. Brody sits gingerly in a chair that squeaks in protest and is quickly flanked by Leno and a mini brunet Lucas.

“And that’s Levi. They’re twins.”

Lucas looks at them fondly, his affection clear, and I take a moment to look around the overstuffed apartment. Every wall is covered with portraits and pictures of Lucas and his brothers, many of the earlier ones featuring an older man who was clearly Lucas’s father—they were obviously the type of family who did things together. They’re in matching Christmas pajamas, they’re hiking and biking, attending or hosting a neighborhood barbecue; there are hilarious selfies and also service pictures.

“Your dad was in the military?”

“Marines. And then he was a cop.” Lucas doesn’t tell me more, but he stands by while I study the other bric-a-brac. And there is a lot to see. Every conceivable surface and bookshelf edge has certificates, medals, awards, and old arts and crafts projects. There are a variety of Polaroids (that just never made it to a proper frame) propped against books, and every doorframe has competing hand-drawn lines with dates and names to track the boys’ growth over the years.

“We were supposed to each have our own doorframe, but the twins wanted to have proof that they were growing more quickly than each other and compared to me, meaning now⁠—”

“Every door is a piece of our history.”

A too-young-to-have-grown-children woman comes out, her smile open and inviting, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She looks . . . late thirties? She has lovely coppery curls stacked on top of her head, and bright, large hazel eyes she clearly passed on to all three sons. “You must be Lorelai!” She comes toward me, arms outstretched. “I’m Delilah. Can we start with a hug?”

And because I’ve still yet to find a way to turn down such requests without seeming like a jerk, I return her warm embrace with a stiff half pat. I hold out the container of green tea I’ve brought with me—it’s quality pu’er, regifted from when such presents were an everyday part of our lives.

“Thank you.” Delilah accepts the tea graciously before pulling a face. “Also, sorry, but we are a family of huggers.” I look toward Lucas—who has never hugged anyone that I’ve seen—not bothering to hide my surprise.

Lucas comes over to embrace his mother. “My mother loves hugs. My brothers have been conditioned to reciprocate and tolerate.”