Page 38 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“And we do have to talk after my tournament.”

My head bobs up and down again as I try to think of something that might lessen the tension between us. “Good luck and⁠—”

Aurora’s phone pings, and she smiles down at whoever she’s texting. It’s the kind of joyful, carefree smile she used to (at least sometimes) direct at me. I swallow the rest of my words as Aurora lifts her suitcase and slings her backpack over her shoulder. At the door, she looks back briefly to shake her head at me (What is that, disappointment?) before waving a half-hearted bye.

So yeah . . . not sure how to fix that one.

I call for Wren and Harper, who should have heard me come in but were likely too engrossed in their smartphones.

Two sets of footsteps come pounding down the stairs before I’m engulfed in a hug that almost knocks me over.

“How long have you been here?” Harper’s squeezing me so tightly it’s hard to answer; I don’t bother trying because Wren is already speaking over her.

“Why didn’t you say you were here?”

“I have to show you my new project⁠—”

“No.” Wren’s voice, still squeaky and 95 percent petulant, 75 percent I’ll-fight-you, breaks through. “First, I have to show you⁠—”

And then they each grab a hand and lead me upstairs while talking over each other. It’s difficult to keep the details straight, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They’re at the age where they’re still just happy I’m here. It’s emotional whiplash to transition from Aurora to them, but I’ll take it.

I’m most of the way to Harper’s bedroom when I ask, “Where’s Mom?”

“Here.” My mother has a suitcase with her as she exits the master bedroom. She switches to Mandarin, because neither Wren nor Harper ever learned. “I’ve decided to go away for the weekend. You are here all weekend anyways.”

This isn’t unusual. My arrival signals to my mother that she can take a break—this has sometimes meant she keeps to her room, watching C-dramas, and sometimes she goes away. Once upon a time she’d tell me where, but because she never felt as though I evinced enough interest (a wine-tasting weekend, so she could meet proper adults; a mahjong tournament, because she’d been invited; a country club getaway, just once), she’s long since stopped telling me the details.

I smile. “Sounds good.”

My mother’s eyes travel dispassionately down me, studying my baggy clothes and green hair. “Why do you wear those glasses? Your eyesight has always been perfect.”

“I think they’re cool,” Wren, always my staunch defender, announces.

“I think they’re cooler,” Harper says, still gripping my other hand and glaring at Wren.

My mother shakes her head. She’s never been particularly close to any of her children, but the fact that her other daughters (well, perhaps minus Aurora these days) have always been closer to me than her . . . hasn’t ever gone over well.

“I’ll leave you to your fans.” She’s back in Mandarin because she likely knows the girls will defend me if she says anything denigrating in English.

She’s at the top of the stairs when she turns back. “I assume you’ll be making more of an effort for the wedding?”

The only reason my mother knows about the wedding is because normally, I’d spend the entirety of my spring break here, to give her additional time away from her parenting duties. “I’ll be dressing up for the ceremony, of course.”

“And you’ll dye your hair back?” My mother, whose long, thick hair has been blow-dried to perfection, looks at me, her entire face a frown.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” I know she hates when I’m overly casual, but I’ve exhausted what little patience I had on Aurora.

My mother’s entire face scrunches up briefly, before settling back into the neutral, fewer-potential-eventual-wrinkles blandness that is her norm. “It’s such a silly color. And it does nothing to disguise the fact that you’re losing your hair.”

“You’re losing your hair?” This time both Wren and Harper speak as one.

“You’re not sick, are you?” This comes from Harper, and I know why even before she continues. “Kavita’s mother⁠—”

“I don’t have cancer.” It’s been a fear of Harper’s ever since her friend’s mother was diagnosed. I give my mother what I hope is a quelling look.

“Your sister stresses herself out needlessly. She’ll give herself early wrinkles too, if she’s not careful.”

And with that, my mother goes down the stairs.