Page 73 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

The night air seems to cool quickly now, though I’m sure it’s just my imagination. “Do you think Brody’s unhappy?”

“I think happiness comes in shades.” She takes a deep breath and wraps her shawl more tightly around herself. “And I think a wedding like this is a production, meaning far more work than they probably bargained for.”

Dinner is, of course, a luau complete with a whole kalua pig and hula performers who, after demonstrating their skills, pull guests onto the stage for demonstrations. Vi and Khloe are predictably quick studies, but it’s Brody and Wendell’s shirtless efforts that have everyone doubled over, particularly after they’re given pairs of coconuts to wear while gyrating.

Afterward, there’s fire-and-knife twirling and juggling.

Because of course there is.

This is the Brodster’s last stand in bachelorhood. He can’t help but go all out.

Lucas takes a call halfway through the meal, and I try not to watch for his return. My skin feels overheated and flushed in a way that I’m almost certain signals a flare-up.

If I’m lucky, I’ll only develop a rash on my arms or legs, parts easily hidden by long dresses. But if a butterfly rash develops on my face? I can’t imagine what Vi will say about that.

Brody doesn’t talk to me until people are starting to choose between continuing the party (“Open bar starts tonight!”) or resting in their rooms (where Vera heads, saying good night on her way out).

“Lorelai—”

“I’m happy to dye my hair back. Amazon delivery means I can get it here in two days and do it myself, or if Vi wants her hairstylist to do it, that’s fine too.”

Brody barely looks surprised. Years of courtroom experience, I guess. Even Mr. Bro Dude can mask his reactions now. “You heard?”

“I meant to change it before I came. I’m sorry it caused tension.” Such a simple thing: completely in my control, if only I had thought about it, had acted in time.

A pained expression flits across my friend’s features. “Vi’s gotten a bit obsessive about making everything picture-perfect.”

“I’m sure I would be too.”

Around us, the waitstaff are busily clearing away the debris of the night, but even as more of the other guests wave to Brody, he doesn’t move to join them.

Instead, he looks at the ground. “What if I’d shown up with green hair at your wedding?”

I see what he’s doing; I lean forward to put my hand on his. “I wouldn’t be marrying a potential future congressman. I wouldn’t expect my wedding pictures to be posted on Reuters. So I imagine my lack of reaction would be appropriately correlated to my complete lack of expectations.”

Brody stands, clearly agitated. He rubs at his face in a way I haven’t seen since ICPC, when he was particularly frustrated with a problem.

“You don’t think I’m a shit friend for not standing up for you?”

“I think you know you’re one of my best friends and should stop fishing for compliments. My smile is wan and so is his, but it’s better than nothing. I take a deep breath but then stand too quickly, momentarily dizzy, overcome with exhaustion. Brody steadies me, flicking my hair back to study me.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wearing yourself out again.”

“Grad school,” I whisper, closing my eyes. When I open them a moment later, it’s to see Brody’s familiar face lined with worry. His laugh lines are furrowed with concern as he stares at me, no doubt cataloguing details I’d rather he not notice. “Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to having a proper hairdresser fix my hair. Honest.”

The next morning, I wake with my upper thighs and torso covered by a large angry rash.

Worse, I wake to pings from my sentiment analysis program, the updated one that’s both broader and deeper in its ability. The one I haven’t told Abe about and which I always keep running.

When I pull out my laptop, it’s to see a detailed analysis overloaded with reports of gossip rags, all showing more or less the same pictures: My hand on Brody’s in the aftermath of the large dinner, captured in a way that looks intimate and private. Brody standing with his hands over his face, clearly agitated while I look up at him, captured in a way that makes my guilt look almost like longing. Brody’s face, leaning in close to mine, backlit by fading torchlight so that his friendly concern can be twisted and misconstrued into something else.

Most of the articles show pictures of not only Brody and Vi from their engagement announcement, but also a selection of photos from when Tatum and I were engaged.

Every headline is a variation on the same theme: Is Tatum Huang’s Ex-Fiancée to Blame for Political Upstart’s Troubled Engagement?

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