Page 49 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

That slight pause again, the screen-loading type of wait time that seemed so common years ago, and which he’s clearly found ways to short-circuit in the years since. “No. Brody did not tell me what flight you’re on.”

Even though I can’t quite see through his bland business mask smile, it’s clear from the preciseness of Lucas’s wording that I’m missing . . . something.

“You don’t believe in serendipity?” There’s a teasing quality to his voice, a thread of confidence that never used to be there, at least not this consistently.

“You know I don’t.”

“Fortuity?”

“I’m my family’s bad luck charm.”

Lucas waves a dismissive hand; we’ve already agreed to disagree on that topic. “Happenstance?”

“Try again.”

Lucas scratches at his trim beard, one of the few tells that has clung to him from his younger days. “Brody still ships us?”

My eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me you bought my ticket?”

“Okay.” A beat passes. “I won’t tell you I bought your ticket.”

Lucas’s gaze is steady; I’m the one who’s flushed. “I’m going to kill Brody.”

“Efficient. Wedding and funeral. Everyone will already be gathered.”

Brody said he’d take care of it. Not that he’d buy it. And I ought to know better than to trust a lawyer. “Brody really let you buy my ticket?”

There’s the suggestion of a smile again, the lips that are barely curving upward, if anyone’s looking. And I am, of course, looking.

“I would never have accepted a ticket from you. Why would you even want to?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was to repay you for past kindnesses?”

His answer sucks the air out of me completely.

It’s not because he still has feelings about me.

Not because he misses me or wants to spend more time with me.

But because I was the one who talked him down from his fear of flying, spent nearly six exhausting hours puzzling and riddling without break.

“No need to thank me for things that happened almost a decade ago.”

“Barely eight if you start counting from when we met. Less than six if you start from . . . the break.” He leans forward just a little, and the juxtaposition between us is almost laughable—he’s sitting in his business casual, and yet he’s almost eye level with me, in my pajamas, confronting him like some crazed fishwife.

He points to the tiny bit of gray hair dusting his temples. “Now that we’re getting older, you should probably stop rounding time up.”

“You’re barely over thirty.”

“We’ve both always felt older. It adds up.” I don’t remember the exact conversation that’s an echo of, but yes, a faded memory stirs. The sense of shared responsibilities, of being the eldest child-not-child in a single-parent family. Lucas leans back, and I find myself drowning in his hazel eyes, feeling as though no time has passed, that I still belong to him, and he⁠—

“Are you still anxious about flying?”

“Not sure we can define, under even the most generous circumstances, my head-between-knees stunt in the middle of security as . . . anxiety?”

“Illogical terror?” I can feel myself smiling, even though I’m furious at Brody for putting me in this position, furious at Lucas for still caring enough to purchase my ticket. Angry, too, at myself for not RSVPing earlier, so I could have arranged the tickets myself. “All that talk about being strapped to forty elephants.”

The quirk of his lips, again, as we travel down memory lane together. “You were patient and understanding.”