15. Happenstance
HAPPENSTANCE
PRESENT
“Why are you on my flight?”
I have not thought this through.
I’m dressed in old cotton pjs, in the middle of the first-class lounge because Brody insisted he’d take care of my ticket and because I’d wanted to feel comfortable while flying.
In some ways, it’s been the best (and really, only even sort-of good) part of lupus: Knowing that stress can trigger a flare, knowing that if I don’t take care of myself, my symptoms can worsen, has made me infinitely more likely to . . . let myself be comfortable.
Knowing the plane ride would likely be the last bit of anonymous alone time I’d get before Brody’s Big Fat Wedding Extravaganza, flying in my fleece pajamas had seemed sensible.
But now, standing in front of the decidedly well-put-together Lucas—whose slacks might as well be tailored and whose fitted plain cotton tee hugs his muscles—I feel silly. Underdressed. Exposed.
“Hello, Lorelai.”
Damn my skin for prickling at his voice.
And damn Lucas for being in my lounge, which means he’ll be on the last plane headed to Oahu today. My plane. Stealing the last few hours of peace I thought I’d have.
“I see the docile mouse act is over.”
I don’t bother asking what he means. “Abe is my advisor. I treat him with deference.”
“That he neither returns nor deserves.”
Six words that embody how different Lucas has become. From the man who was so tongue-tied he couldn’t describe to Professor Miller what language he predominately programmed in during their first meeting . . . to this.
“You don’t live in SoCal. Meaning you shouldn’t be flying out of LAX.”
His eyes lower enough to hide any expression I might have gleaned. “And how would you know where I live?”
There are a myriad of ways to answer this: His company’s offices are based out of New Jersey, which has been reported on in the news.
Brody has accidentally confirmed Lucas is an East Coast guy a number of times.
My algorithm, which blocks Lucas news most of the year, still collects and aggregates it so that I can read sanitized summaries when I need a Lucas fix.
I decide to change tactics, not wanting to give away anything.
Then I remember he already knows about the whole Sagittarius A* thing and amend myself: I don’t want to give away more than I already have.
“Did Brody tell you what flight I’m on?”
That slight pause again, the screen-loading type of wait time that seemed so common years ago, and which he’s clearly found ways to short-circuit in the years since. “No. Brody did not tell me what flight you’re on.”
Even though I can’t quite see through his bland business mask smile, it’s clear from the preciseness of Lucas’s wording that I’m missing . . . something.
“You don’t believe in serendipity?” There’s a teasing quality to his voice, a thread of confidence that never used to be there, at least not this consistently.
“You know I don’t.”
“Fortuity?”
“I’m my family’s bad luck charm.”
Lucas waves a dismissive hand; we’ve already agreed to disagree on that topic. “Happenstance?”
“Try again.”
Lucas scratches at his trim beard, one of the few tells that has clung to him from his younger days. “Brody still ships us?”
My eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me you bought my ticket?”
“Okay.” A beat passes. “I won’t tell you I bought your ticket.”
Lucas’s gaze is steady; I’m the one who’s flushed. “I’m going to kill Brody.”
“Efficient. Wedding and funeral. Everyone will already be gathered.”
Brody said he’d take care of it. Not that he’d buy it. And I ought to know better than to trust a lawyer. “Brody really let you buy my ticket?”
There’s the suggestion of a smile again, the lips that are barely curving upward, if anyone’s looking. And I am, of course, looking.
“I would never have accepted a ticket from you. Why would you even want to?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was to repay you for past kindnesses?”
His answer sucks the air out of me completely.
It’s not because he still has feelings about me.
Not because he misses me or wants to spend more time with me.
But because I was the one who talked him down from his fear of flying, spent nearly six exhausting hours puzzling and riddling without break.
“No need to thank me for things that happened almost a decade ago.”
“Barely eight if you start counting from when we met. Less than six if you start from . . . the break.” He leans forward just a little, and the juxtaposition between us is almost laughable—he’s sitting in his business casual, and yet he’s almost eye level with me, in my pajamas, confronting him like some crazed fishwife.
He points to the tiny bit of gray hair dusting his temples. “Now that we’re getting older, you should probably stop rounding time up.”
“You’re barely over thirty.”
“We’ve both always felt older. It adds up.
” I don’t remember the exact conversation that’s an echo of, but yes, a faded memory stirs.
The sense of shared responsibilities, of being the eldest child-not-child in a single-parent family.
Lucas leans back, and I find myself drowning in his hazel eyes, feeling as though no time has passed, that I still belong to him, and he—
“Are you still anxious about flying?”
“Not sure we can define, under even the most generous circumstances, my head-between-knees stunt in the middle of security as . . . anxiety?”
“Illogical terror?” I can feel myself smiling, even though I’m furious at Brody for putting me in this position, furious at Lucas for still caring enough to purchase my ticket.
Angry, too, at myself for not RSVPing earlier, so I could have arranged the tickets myself.
“All that talk about being strapped to forty elephants.”
The quirk of his lips, again, as we travel down memory lane together. “You were patient and understanding.”
“So no more nerves?”
Lucas straightens his shoulders, and though he’s always been tall, now that he’s filled out, now that he’s very clearly not 135 pounds and putting extra belt notches to keep his pants up, he projects confidence, even when he’s talking about potential weaknesses.
“It’ll never be my preferred mode of travel, but it’s gotten better with familiarity. ”
“Since Brody’s not here, I feel compelled to say, ‘That’s what she said.’”
Lucas laughs at my fairly on-point Brody impression, and I feel warmed by the sound, the rarity of that full-out smile, which I’ve yet to see in a single newspaper article or interview.
I’m not sure what I’ll say next, and I’m never given the opportunity to find out.
“Lucas!” A striking and oddly familiar blonde in linen slacks in a beautifully fitted black tank saunters toward us.
She rather expertly shimmies past me, her ample boobs weaponized in a way that forces me to take a half step back as she leans forward, her hair a perfumed cloud enveloping first me and then Lucas.
“I can’t believe we’re on the same flight!”
“Serendipity,” I say. Lucas shoots me a bemused gaze under heavy lids, but the blonde ignores me, adjusting her YSL purse—the small kind that can hold nothing more than lipstick and a cell phone—before settling herself in the seat next to Lucas and leaning into him.
Lucas, I notice, does not shift or otherwise try to distance himself from the woman pressing into his left side.
“I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up before the ceremony.” She lays one hand on Lucas’s forearm, and it’s an effort to not react, to pick her hand up and settle it back on her lap.
“Happenstance.”
This time, Lucas actually chuckles, his eyes on me warm.
And so this time, the woman, for whom striking is almost an insult, who is, upon closer inspection, ethereal and gorgeous in an almost uncanny valley, photoshopped way, finally looks at me.
Her ice-blue eyes, fringed by thick, curled lashes, are piercing in their sudden predatory focus.
Her cheekbones are high and sharp, and though I can see the traces of makeup, it’s been so expertly applied it almost passes as natural.
She’s Business Casual Barbie. Except given the variety of name brands she’s adorned in, the Mattel comparison is likely too low-class.
She looks like a Chanel model, or some old-school British nobility who’s stopping for just a moment to condescend to the little people.
“Do introduce me,” she says, her hand patting Lucas’s forearm territorially.
“Lorelai, meet Khloe Shindler, Vi’s twin. Khloe, this is Lorelai Zhao—”
“Your former teammate! Brody has mentioned you many times.” Khloe turns her face toward me, the narrowing of her eyes so slight I can’t tell if I’m imagining it.
Now that I know who she is, I can revise my previous opinion.
Khloe doesn’t just look like a Chanel cover model.
She actually is one. Brody told me that Vi and her twin had fronted some campaign—Chloé?
Dolce and Gabbana?—and it was how they’d met. He’d been the legal representative.
Something like that.
Being the shit friend I am, I’ve forgotten the details. Never even bothered to look up the campaign in question.
I’d had so little curiosity, so little interest in anything beyond getting through each day, I’d let myself not pay attention to the details. Else I would have recognized the identical twin of Brody’s fiancée right away.
“Isn’t Vi a brunette?”
It’s a stupid thing to say, not at all related to the conversation. I’ve only met Vi twice, both times when we were part of a larger group, but I remember reddish-brown hair that had seemed striking. Vibrant. Not this bleached-out, overly aggressive white-blonde.
“Vi and I often change our hair for specific jobs. We just wrapped a rather large project, still protected under a nondisclosure agreement of course.”
She leaves it hanging in the air, waiting for someone to ask.
“Right.” I hear the acidity in my own voice and realize it’s time to pull back. Because what I’m thinking is: Why does a perfume/jewelry/fashion campaign need an NDA? But this woman is about to be Brody’s sister-in-law. “You must feel . . .”
Mannequin-like?