6. Accidentally Discovered Coding While Drunk #2
“Since my parents are alive, I’m more like a trust fund wannabe.” As usual, Brody’s face is more smirk than not. This is a man who’d be hard to offend.
“And what is your position on girlfriends?”
I’m surprised that Lucas asks this, that we’re one practice in and he’s already fishing. “No time at the present for girlfriends or boyfriends. Which is fine, since I don’t believe in relationships. Or love.”
“Respect.” Brody puts up a closed fist, and even though I hate myself for communicating in bro-speak, it’s important Lucas doesn’t get any ideas about the possibility of an us.
It’s Lucas’s gaze I meet when I ask, “Can we get started now?”
Lucas has printed a mock contest, and it’s almost immediately clear there’s something about our team dynamic that just clicks.
Lucas is pedantic as fuck about the actual coding; he’s a rule-follower who has to leave comments because he wants everything to be re-creatable.
But he’s also shockingly purposeful and articulate when explaining his thought processes, meaning he’s the type of problem solver who’s open about sharing his logic: Not only does this mean it’s faster to find and correct any potential errors, it also means he’s an easy man to inherit a problem from, when it’s half solved.
Considering this is a five-hour contest that relies as much on innovation as collaboration, Lucas is the ideal teammate.
There will be problems we’re each faster at, individually, but for the problems complex enough to need multiple sets of eyes, being able to communicate freely, to shore up one another’s weaknesses, is an undeniable advantage.
And Brody, for all his bro/dude talk, not only helps keep the mood light in a way that moves things along, he’s actually kind of brilliant.
More than that, there is something inarticulable about the way Lucas and I work together.
When Lucas explains his logic, I grasp it right away and am (somehow, even though I’ve never been a team player) able to deduce what the next steps ought to be.
And when I have a half-formed idea that I blurt out, half composed, Lucas picks up on my direction almost immediately.
Neither of us gets to complete our thoughts, and we’re often speaking over each other only because our minds are leapfrogging in a way that’s shockingly productive.
There’s a synergy between me and Lucas.
“Get a room,” Brody jokes, before picking up one of the problems Lucas and I had gotten stuck on . . . and finishing it. Oddly, Brody doesn’t seem bothered by whatever mind meld Lucas and I have—he seems to feed off it.
Five hours of programming and problem solving.
But it feels effortless.
We finish our first contest having solved ten out of twelve problems; comparing against actual contest data shows we would have placed third. It’s an astoundingly high placement for a Team B that’s just been thrown together.
I don’t bother hiding my surprise as I ask, “Why are your Codeforces rankings so low?”
Brody answers first, because of course he does. He’s the guy who talks just to hear his voice sometimes, whereas Lucas speaks as if each word is about to be documented for prosperity. “You asking me? Or him?”
“Both.”
Brody lifts a huge, careless shoulder. “Coding is boring. Solving a new problem is fun. Implementation and debugging . . .” He’s whining, having already accepted a proffered beer from some unnamed classmate who was passing by.
“And you?”
Lucas shrugs, his attention still directed at his laptop, trying to figure out why one of our solutions exceeded the time limit. “I didn’t have time for clubs in community college.”
Because I don’t want anyone to get too excited, all I say is, “Okay.”
But what I’m thinking is: We have a chance.
My online rating is probably the most accurate, and because I’m the most experienced competitor, it will be on me to manage the workflow, to fill in the holes—algebraic geometry is a huge blind spot, even though those problems aren’t common, and Brody, with his visualization skills, might come in handy—and combinatorics, we’ll need to buff up there, but . . .
Our odds aren’t great, only because the rules dictate that we have to defeat Arjun’s group to even advance to nationals.
But they’re not zero.
We get through another partial contest before Brody allows himself to be pulled away. He’s actually taking off his shirt when he tells us, “We should do this again sometime.”
“I feel like that’s exactly what he’d say to a one-night stand he never calls again.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Lucas confirms in that deep, steady voice of his.
My mouth quirks, and I notice the way Lucas’s gaze drifts down to my lips for just a moment before I tell him, “You could have a second career as a radio DJ with that voice.”
He laughs, and it’s low and husky in a way that has no business coming from such a thin frame—it’s the type of deep, growly register you expect from a mountain man, and it does odd things to my stomach.
I wince at the thought. I cannot afford anything as trite as butterflies around a man right now.
“Are you okay?”
“Indigestion,” I blurt, because it’s the least sexy sentence I can think of. “I usually keep snacks on me.” I reach for the hairband I meant to keep on my wrist, only to find I’ve lost yet another one. It’s a terrible habit and one I keep trying to break Aurora of.
But I’m no better than my little sister.
I, too, can’t seem to help fidgeting with my hair when I’m anxious.
“Do you want to grab a bite?” He pauses, and just in case I don’t understand, he adds, “Together. Eating smaller meals more frequently helps with indigestion. And we can continue arguing about how that second problem ought to have been coded.”
“I’m right.”
“You certainly think so.”
Part of me is dying inside because I’m not sure which of us is more awkward: The girl who started babbling about indigestion or the guy who runs with it? But still—
“No.” It comes out a little too forcefully, and I try to backtrack.
I check my phone and am, for once, thankful to see a slew of messages from my mother.
I scanned them earlier and none are important, but I feel zero guilt weaponizing them now.
I use my thumb in a vaguely hitchhiking gesture, as if that helps my case.
“Family things to take care of. And truthfully, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to .
. . for just the two of us to . . . you know. ”
“Share bread.” There’s just the hint of a smile on his face as he says this, and again, I feel a thawing sensation, a pull of attraction that is as foreign as it is unwanted.
Instead of answering, I redirect. “I noticed you tried heap sort on the last problem.”
It’s comical how quickly Lucas takes the bait. “Obviously not well thought out. But I do have some new theories.” He pulls out his notepad, which functions as everything from scratch paper to origami stock, depending on his mood, and walks me through his ideas.
We debate outside of Brody’s dorm for almost half an hour before Lucas is satisfied, telling me he’ll implement as soon as he gets home to confirm.
“You know the contest is over, right?”
“Yeah, but we can’t leave it incomplete.”
Feeling safer now that we’re no longer in the awkward almost-date-category, I look toward Brody’s dorm, where music is leaking through every crevice. “You think Brody’s night is ending with beer, video games, or sex?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I nod. “All of the above sounds correct.”
I could turn and walk toward my dorm. I shouldn’t drag this out, but I find myself lingering until it’s Lucas who asks, “Ever think we’re doing it wrong?”
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “You mean the whole college experience? Our youth? Or just life in general?”
Lucas nods, his gaze on me. As usual, his beard needs trimming and his glasses are askew.
“I’ve tried some of this fun stuff before.” I try to brush away Lucas’s surprised look. “People said dating was fun, that sex would be a release.”
There’s a pink hue spreading across Lucas’s face, because the same guy who can’t say pussy likely hasn’t had serious talks about intercourse before. “Personally, I’ve found both to be overrated. Some of us have responsibilities.”
“The fun comes later?” His face, as always, is open and guileless. He doesn’t bother to hide his wistfulness.
“The fun comes later.”
Lucas’s phone starts ringing again. He glances down and closes his eyes briefly. “Speaking of things that aren’t always fun, I’ve got to go.”
“Family? Or work?” I shouldn’t pry, should keep things dry and professional.
“Often both. But this time, just work.” He lingers and I’m wondering if he wants to say more.
“You should go.”
Lucas looks at me, and it’s a charged moment that feels definitively like a prelude to more. But instead of making a move—one I tell myself I’d turn down—he gives me a lopsided smile, one that’s visible even beneath the thick beard.
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Only as he’s walking away do I admit there’s something about Lucas Sebastian Murray (whose middle name I only know from online stalking) that makes me want to peel away the layers, to find each of his small scars and hear the stories behind them.
He’s not my type.
Because I don’t have a type.
Because I’m too busy and too damaged and too harbinger-of-doom to deserve a type.
I take a deep breath and turn toward my dorm. I remind myself that I don’t have time for distractions right now. I have textbooks to check out, a study plan to put together, and a trio of overconfident Caltech alphas to take down.