7. As If He’s Missed Me As Much As I’ve Missed Him
AS IF HE’S MISSED ME AS MUCH AS I’VE MISSED HIM
PRESENT
Gwendy’s already come and left for the airport and I’m three-quarters of the way through editing Maya’s dissertation on the psychological cost of growing up in food deserts when Abe Kleinberg calls me.
I’m tempted to ignore it, the way I’ve also ignored the Line messages from my mother, reminding me I’m supposed to come over this weekend so she can have some space.
I stare at Abe’s contact photo; it’s a decade out of date because that’s what he insists remain on his website and because he rarely deigns to take photos with students.
I should let it ring.
Not once has Abe called for a reason that’s actually appropriate or related to my responsibilities as a graduate student.
But because Abe thinks of me as not just his mentee but also his personal secretary, and because he comes from the generation that just doesn’t text, he’s always emailing or, when he’s not near a computer, calling.
The printer is broken and IT isn’t available. Do you remember how you fixed it last time?
The Wi-Fi isn’t working. Can you do the thing you do? It’ll only take a minute.
What was the name you put my anniversary dinner reservation under again?
And my personal favorite: What is the name of the dish I like from Wolfsglen again? (Spoiler alert: ribeye. It’s not that hard to remember, Abe. You always get the ribeye.)
I let it go to voicemail, my teeny tiny act of defiance.
The ringing starts again almost immediately.
“Hi—”
“Lucas Murray is drunk and you must come get him.”
I do my breathing exercise—one, two, three, four, in; hold; one, two, three, four, out—before I answer, so I’m collected and don’t say anything stupid.
“Is there anyone else, someone already there, who could escort him—” My mind blanks for a moment, because is he staying with his mother? An hour away? Or did he get a hotel?
“He asked for you specifically.”
It’s perhaps the most boundary-crossing chore Abe has asked of me.
But . . . it’s also Lucas.
“Are you at Plateia?” It’s where I made the reservation, but I only remember Lucas drinking one other time. And even though I know it’s not anatomically a possible thing, I feel my stomach drop when Abe confirms my fears.
“Of course not. It’s Lucas Murray. I had Eddie pick a more suitable place. We’re at Ocean Prime.”
And yes, I can see exactly how it happened.
Ocean Prime is an upscale, very well-known restaurant specializing in steak and seafood, the latter of which Lucas is allergic to.
Usually, he avoids shellfish-heavy restaurants.
But if there was contamination, or if Lucas didn’t realize how much shellfish he’d be surrounded by?
I can see how he’d have a drink, and then another, to try to relax himself.
It had happened the only other time I’d seen Lucas drunk. He hadn’t wanted to tell people he was uncomfortable about the sheer amount of shellfish, so he’d ordered a whiskey, because it had been his dad’s drink of choice.
And then another.
I could push on Abe to do the right thing. I could text one of the lab mates who’s probably right there. I could call Levi, who goes to USC, and hand Lucas over to one of his younger brothers.
And yet—
I look at Google Maps. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Though I expected to find one designated grad student who’d been tasked with babysitting Lucas until I arrived, when I pull up in my Uber, Lucas is surrounded by every single undergrad, grad, and postdoc who’d been invited.
Even as I internally grumble (because surely one of them could have taken Lucas home?), it says something about how much status Lucas has accrued these past years that even drunk and loopy, everyone wants to network with the hedge fund wunderkind.
“Finally.” As usual, Abe greets me with disdain and disappointment.
“Red!” Lucas pushes his way past two of the people who have their phones out, likely trying to exchange contact information. He comes toward me with a goofy grin and his arms stretched wide.
I don’t have to let it happen. Drunk Lucas is neither fast nor steady on his feet, meaning I have plenty of time to step to the side, to put a hand out to stop him. It’s what I should do, given the audience that’s gathered.
But . . . I don’t want to.
Instead, as Lucas’s long arms wrap around me, I luxuriate in the way he burrows his face into my hair and inhales as if he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.
I revel in the steady heartbeat thrumming beneath my cheek, the way his too-familiar scent soothes me.
And yes, I take a moment to get as close to the crook of his neck as I can, because that’s where his scent is the strongest.
“We can go now,” Abe tells everyone.
I wiggle a little, to better see my mentor, but Lucas’s arms tighten around me almost painfully.
He mutters something that sounds like the sleepiest, grumpiest, whiniest Not again before I duck enough to get out of his grasp.
I might as well have saved myself the trouble; mere seconds pass before Lucas manages to drape himself over me.
At least this time he’s hanging off my side and not blocking my line of sight and allows me to adjust the glasses he’s knocked askew.
“Do you know where he’s staying?” I’m talking to Abe’s back, because he already started walking away.
“If we did, would we have called you?”
“Right.” I widen my stance, trying to better absorb the weight of Lucas, who’s docile and smiling, but awfully heavy.
“Shouldn’t take you long to figure it out.” Abe’s conviction is firm, even though clearly none of them managed to figure it out in the past however long it’s been. He’s already getting his keys out, done with this conversation.
Following his lead, everyone else begins to disperse. They all wave to me, but only one of the third-years goes so far as to whisper, “Wish I could help,” before raising his shoulders in a helpless shrug.
Barely two minutes later, Lucas and I are the only ones still standing in front of the lattice-network-over-hardwood awning that is the entrance of Ocean Prime.
I shift Lucas until he’s forced to look down at me and support more of his own weight. “Are you staying at a hotel?”
Lucas nods, the wide grin back, his eyes bouncing to different parts of my face as if trying to take me in all at once.
“You’re pretty when you’re annoyed. And soft. And so sharp.” He leans in, tilting his head down to rest on my forehead, his breath laced with vodka, and whispers, “I even like your green hair, but don’t tell Lorelai.”
I bite back a smile. “Why aren’t we telling Lorelai?”
A look of intense concentration passes over Lucas’s face. “She’s disappointed in me.”
My heart twists a little, because how could it not. It’s a stupid hyperbolic phrase that means nothing, and yet it feels like the only way to describe my feelings.
“I doubt that.” I smooth a lock of hair away from his face. “Can you tell me what hotel you’re staying in?”
Lucas shakes his head and then squints his eyes at me. “A big one. Fancy. Debbie only books fancy hotels. Doesn’t matter what I tell her.”
“Debbie?” The entire point of my dissertation/computer program was to filter out news I didn’t want to know, and since I only allow myself to check summaries twice a year, it’s been months since I’ve read any Lucas-related news. Does Lucas have a girlfriend? A fiancée?
“Assistant.” He scrunches his nose in the most adorable way. “Executive assistant? Everyone and their important titles.”
I heave a sigh of relief, not the least of which is because I know Lucas is most likely too drunk to remember any of this (including my very revealing overreaction to a potential girlfriend) tomorrow.
The one and only other time I’ve seen Lucas drunk, he woke with zero recollection of what transpired the night before.
He categorically denied that the various photos Brody and I took of him (willingly singing karaoke in a wig, for example) were legitimate.
“Can we call Debbie?”
Lucas looks up at the dark sky. We’re too far into the city for there to be many visible stars. “I think she will have gone home by now. Don’t want to impose.”
I sigh because even when he’s operating at normal capacity, Lucas’s words are measured. Now that he’s inebriated? I can feel the wrinkles on my face forming as he composes sentences.
“Could I have your wallet?”
The look he gives me is trusting but confused. He fumbles in his back pocket until he produces a shiny leather Ferragamo wallet.
“Wow, you’ve certainly, uh, upgraded?” I know it comes out sounding more like a question than a comment, but the wallet is gaudy in a way I wouldn’t have considered to be Lucas’s style.
“Brody.” Lucas waves the wallet in front of me haphazardly, using his nails to dig at the logo, as if he can pry it off. “I would never.”
He shakes his head, sad and forlorn about the accessory he’s clearly kept out of loyalty.
And even though I’m probably going straight to hell, I can’t help but chuckle.
It makes perfect sense that Brody would have given Lucas a bougie wallet (likely as a joke) but that Lucas, being Lucas, would feel too guilty to not use a wallet he clearly loathes.
I love Drunk Lucas.
Though really, who am I kidding? I love every single iteration of Lucas.
When he stops waving it around, I take his wallet and flip through. I find his ID, too much cash, and the same photo booth pictures I’ve also hung on to, where we’re grinning and kissing.
I refold it carefully, tucking it behind his driver’s license.
It’s an old picture. But a new wallet.
I close my eyes against the tidal wave of emotions I don’t have time for because what I did not find is . . . a hotel key. And short of going through his contacts and calling Debbie (which somehow feels far more intrusive than flipping through his wallet), I’m just about out of options.
It’s a terrible option.
I should text Levi. But that would absolutely give away the fact that I’ve kept in touch with both of Lucas’s younger brothers, raising questions I don’t want Lucas asking.
It’s a terrible idea.
“If I take you back to my place, will you behave?”
Lucas’s hazel eyes open so wide I can see the small flecks of gold and green. His voice drips with innocence. “I always behave.”