3. Peers Who Didn’t Keep Up With You
PEERS WHO DIDN’T KEEP UP WITH YOU
PRESENT
“Finally,” Abe chastises, as if he hadn’t emailed me less than thirty minutes ago. As if this is a long-standing meeting I’m deliberately late for.
Normally, I’d be annoyed by Abe Kleinberg’s dismissive tone. I’d bring him slightly sweetened decaf the next time he texts me to grab him a black coffee on my way in, because petty microaggressions are the only acts of defiance I allow myself.
But right now?
Every molecule of ATP is being converted to performing the basics. Swallowing. Breathing. Standing. Everything feels strikingly effortful now I’m within three feet of Lucas. I’m frozen in the office doorway, my now-sweaty hand clenching the doorknob as if there might still be time to flee.
Lucas stands in greeting, and my heart aches at the million-and-one ways he’s changed.
Physically, he’s filled out. His dark-blue jeans no longer hang off a too-wiry frame; instead, his clothes mold to his body and there are corded muscles along his forearms that flex as he casually rests his hands half in his pockets.
His beard is well maintained and he no longer wears glasses, meaning there’s no disguising his long lashes, his lovely hazel eyes that feel like every shade of brown and green at once.
I’m so busy drinking in how he looks, cataloging the details—that his hair is still a tad too long, but now sprinkled with the tiniest bit of premature gray—that I don’t notice how long of a moment has passed until Abe coughs.
“Lorelai lives within walking distance of campus, and yet—” Abe cuts himself off to shake his head, his wheezy voice admonishing.
Because I’m still collecting myself, Lucas explains in his deep and measured baritone, “Lorelai and I were at Caltech together.”
“Really?” Abe asks, his voice supremely disappointed, his bushy white eyebrows rising.
I’ve always thought that it was a cosmic miscasting that Abe Kleinberg, PhD, looks like jolly Santa but acts like the petulant kid atop the Naughty List. He steeples his wrinkled hands and grumbles, “You never mentioned you were classmates with such a prominent Forbes 30 Under 30, Lorelai.” And yes, I just know I’ll be spending our next postmortem justifying the oversight.
“Not just classmates,” Lucas continues as Abe’s eyebrows lift, for this is a man who loves tea.
“Also ICPC teammates; competed at worlds together. Though we haven’t kept in contact,” Lucas explains, his lips thinning even as his gaze remains locked unerringly on me, no doubt taking in every detail of my appearance, from the clown-green hair to the too-loose jeans and whatever oversized T-shirt I grabbed from the overflowing pile of similar options.
It’s my court jester look, the human embodiment of aposematism, the animal defense mechanism where we use bright, toxic colors to warn predators (or in my case, people) away.
Usually, my looks are too jarring for anyone to want to scrutinize me more closely or consistently.
Meaning no one beyond my Grad or Die roommates have ever noticed the weight fluctuations caused by the various medications I’ve been on and off of.
No one notices the rashes that have come and gone, usually because they’re too distracted by my ever-changing rainbow hair.
It’s as calculated as my chaotic texting style, my performative meekness.
And yet, confronted with the reality of Lucas Sebastian Murray? Of course I feel like a fool.
“I completely understand. There’s simply no way to keep track of peers who didn’t keep up with you.
” Abe gestures at his corner office, as if being a tenured UCLA professor is on the same level as the likely many-times multimillionaire, magazine-headlining CEO he sits across from.
“I admit I’m embarrassed to attend my own Harvard reunions sometimes. Not everyone makes it.”
Lucas’s jaw tightens. Never mind that he has every reason to detest me on a personal level, Lucas has never tolerated bullies.
I cut in, hoping to ward off an argument. “Did you want to see me about something specific?”
Abe’s eyes narrow a little; he hates when I explicitly direct our conversations. “I was telling Lucas about your language analysis model. The one you’ve been trying to improve?”
It’s such a small thing, really.
Trying to improve.
Abe could have, just as truthfully, said: Single-handedly created and implemented, with little help or guidance. Drafted paper and am continuing to optimize.
“Lorelai’s research isn’t within my normal range, but I’ve been known to allow my students a certain amount of leeway.”
“I’d love to see the program.” Lucas’s voice contains none of the underlying anxiety that used to be there when speaking to professors.
His posture is relaxed, long fingers resting along the armrest, apparently cured of his need to fidget or make endless origami.
His once-readable face is guarded in a way I can no longer decipher.
“Abe has the working copy of the paper we’re—”
“The code,” Abe interrupts. “I wouldn’t have called you in if Lucas could be fobbed off with a preprint.
” When I remain frozen for a moment too long, Abe continues, his voice taking on that now-familiar mix of annoyed and impatient, as if re-explaining arithmetic to a toddler, “Get your laptop out.”
I nod while Abe continues the conversational thread from before I came in, obviously a pitch for Lucas to engage Abe’s consulting services.
I look down, trying to calm myself even as I’m distracted by the fact that Lucas still smells like Dove and Old Spice, that even after all these years, he’s maintained his old habits.
My eyes stray to his wrist, where I can see his father’s old watch.
I’m remembering everything Lucas has shared about his father as I open my shoulder bag, my motions jerky and unbalanced in a way that jostles everything.
It’s my mother’s voice I hear—that I’m the to seoi gaa, Cantonese for disgrace, a bad luck charm—as I watch my glasses case fall quietly to the floor and see two little origami stars rolling away.
I bend quickly, my back to both men, and hastily shove both stars into my pocket, jamming my glasses on in the process.
Only a few seconds have passed. I hold my breath, only allowing a small sigh of relief when I turn to see Lucas’s gaze remains fixed on Abe.
And my mentor, of course, remains wholly absorbed by the possibility of landing a new client.
Neither seems to have noticed the small twitch of clumsiness, neither deigns to look in my direction as I open my laptop.
I sit quietly, feeling overexposed, almost itchy in my need to leave this always dusty, often too hot and stuffy office.
Long minutes pass while Abe finishes his pitch and waits for Lucas to nod, murmuring something noncommittal, before they both direct their attention toward my computer screen.
I’ve been careful to only open files dedicated to the preprint, none of the later, more ambitious ones I’ve yet to share with my advisor.
“Here’s everything related to the paper.”
Lucas gestures a May I? before taking over my computer, bending his head.
“I’m prepared to be impressed.”
It’s the same words he said years ago, only this time, Lucas’s tone holds none of the teasing warmth or shyness it once did.
As Lucas scrolls through my code, I find my hands clenching at my sides even as I try, as unobtrusively as possible, to drink him in.
Now that we’re closer, I can see the tiny crow’s feet that make him look, if anything, more handsome.
His jawline looks sharper, even under the well-maintained beard.
Lucas seemed beautiful to me years ago, when he was wiry and too thin, all elbows, angles, and pointed edges.
But now, with the glow of health and undeniable muscle, the tangible aura of confidence, Lucas is breathtaking.
He looks confident and poised, completely comfortable in his own skin.
He looks like success.
Lucas has achieved everything I hoped he would when I broke up with him. I ought to feel content, that it was all worth it.
And I do.
But at the same time, seeing him now, knowing the differences in trajectory and career accolades between us, I can’t help but agree with Abe: We don’t all land.
Though Abe tries to say something (incorrect) about the code, Lucas is far too immersed to notice.
As before, Lucas Murray is an easy man to nerd snipe.
Present him with an intellectually stimulating puzzle and everything else falls away.
Barely two minutes have passed before he starts asking methodical questions in that painfully slow and precise way of his.
I allow Abe to answer the first few; Abe barely made edits on our joint paper, but he’s not a tenured professor and former department head for nothing.
Abe has solid command of all the overarching points.
Still, it doesn’t take long before Lucas’s questions are too specific for my mentor, who’s never thoroughly understood agentic search and thus can’t address the theory behind any of my specific design decisions.
Lucas shifts his attention to me even as he continues to scroll through the code and my commentary.
When he asks, “What was your thinking here?” my initial answer is stilted.
But it’s not long before we fall into old habits, arguing and interrupting each other in a shorthand that would be difficult for others to follow.
“Did you consider—”
“Of course, but with other reinforcement learning—”
“And what about reasoning via—”
“You are prone to sometimes, and I’m being gentle here, ignoring—”
“In that case, may I point out that you have a proclivity for underestimating—”
It’s maddening.
And thrilling.
Abe’s never understood the broader applications of my program and thus has never pressed. As far as my mentor’s concerned, if it’s good enough to get through committee, solid enough for the buzzy preprint, he’ll accept it as the crux of my dissertation.