Page 87 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“Explain.”

“When we flew, I’d always distract you with riddles—you always had to know the answer, could almost not breathe until you’d solved the problems. Is that all this is? Your need to know the whole truth, even though there’s nothing you can change? Even if talking about it hurts both of us?”

“I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

“Then let this go.”

“And if I can’t?”

My hands tremble a little as I continue folding. “You always said I was the control freak.”

“You were, and are.”

“But it’s just as true for you. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. You were thirtieth on your own. You always solved the most problems. Meaning yes, you won with me and Brody, but you could have won with Arjun and Xinzhe.”

“I picked the teammates I thought would work well together. Look at everything you and Brody have⁠—”

“Don’t say it. I’ve accomplished nothing.” I look away, trying not to think about Khloe, trying to make sure the words are mine and mine alone. “You haven’t contacted me in years⁠—”

“You changed your number. Announced your engagement.” Lucas is quiet, but not in a way that communicates any sense of calm. It’s more eye-of-the-storm quiet, Please say something, anything, to lessen the tension, quiet.

“I’m just saying, the riddles I gave you, none of them were life-changing. You had to solve them because you were trapped on a plane and frightened to death. You were obsessed because the riddle was right there, in front of you.”

“And you think I only care about this because you’re what, convenient? Try again.”

I close my eyes, not knowing what to say, wondering if there is a version of the truth I can give him so that he will walk away after this week.

Before I can think of anything even remotely convincing, Lucas continues. “You declared we were over. You never gave me the chance to fight for us. And I wanted to. Then and now.”

I wipe away the tears that are somehow falling. I’m not a demure crier. I reach toward my sundress and remember, belatedly, that I don’t have pockets, which means no Kleenex. I wipe at my face angrily, the pens holding up my hair finally giving up. The barely green strands fall across my face as I whisper, “I can’t do this with you right now.”

I hate using that word, can’t.

But it’s the most accurate word to use. It’s not that I won’t talk to him, it’s that I feel, viscerally, as though it’s beyond me.

Lucas uses the corner of his shirt to help wipe my snot away, and I can’t decide if it’s gross or romantic.

Probably neither.

Probably my brain is just broken.

I push the wooden door open, not caring how angrily the hinges shriek back at me. The day, which had started off as clear and sun-dappled, has gone gray, the darkening clouds perfectly reflecting my mood.

Lucas grabs my hand; he doesn’t let go when I tug.

“You can’t talk to me right now? Or you can’t talk to me . . . ever?”

His shirt is a little tear- and snot-stained, but he looks (otherwise) flawless. There’s almost no trace of the anxious man-boy he once was. New Lucas is adept at small talk, carries himself with confidence, commanding attention and respect in way I can’t help but admire.

I grab at my stomach and feel the raised rash there, thinking that the difference between us has never been clearer. At the moment, I don’t care that he’s followed me outside the building where anyone can see.

“Ever,” I whisper, before tearing myself away. “As in I will never want to talk about this.”

28

10 PERCENT OF MY NET WORTH

BEFORE