16. Harvard Hermès Is Clearly Pissed #3
“Your intelligence, loyalty, and steadfastness are among your most attractive qualities.” Particularly contrasted against my father’s capricious whims, my mother’s depressive episodes. “But tonight . . .”
I don’t have to say the words: Today was Lucas at his worst.
“Under the guise of helping me”—Lucas puts his hands up in mock air quotes—“one of the guys from Princeton pulled me aside to show me what a standard résumé looks like. Did you know some of these guys published papers in high school? They have research, conference experience—some of them already have internships lined up. And do you know what I have to show for the past three years? What I listed as one of the bullet points of my qualifications? Dean’s List at Pasadena City College. ”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I thought a competition like this would mean we’d be on equal footing, but—”
“There’s no such thing.”
He looks down, his boots kicking at the carpet, trying to dig in. “Even if I get a summer internship, even if I then get a return offer at Jane Street, Citadel, whatever, it would be years before I could buy you a Gucci”—he intercepts my look—“Chanel, whatever the hell brand scarf that was.”
“And when have I asked for that?”
Lucas glances upward, brows furrowing in concentration.
“Mén dāng hù duì.” His pronunciation is terrible, but I know immediately what he means—that we’re not a match, from a status point of view—and who he heard it from.
“Your mother has said it almost every time I’ve come over.
It wasn’t hard to look that up and translate.
While I was snooping, I looked up your father too.
So at least now I know why people say Lorelai Zhao, with the emphasis on the Zhao, for Zhaovestments. ”
“My father and his company shouldn’t have any bearing on us, should it? The idea of our doors matching comes from a time when people still used matchmakers. It’s old-fashioned and backwards.”
“Of course it is. The idea that we ought to be paired through similar wealth, education, and class is so . . . last generation.” Lucas breathes out a humorless laugh and runs a hand through his hair, kicking again at the carpet.
“But the literal ideal, that our doors and stations don’t match, isn’t completely unfounded.
I can barely keep my shit together on an airplane.
Stuck out like a greasy thumb in that lounge.
And I know you noticed. I could see you .
. . trying not to react.” He gives a shrug, not making eye contact. “Wouldn’t you rather I was rich?”
“Of course.” My glib answer surprises him enough that he looks at me, finally.
His glasses are fogged from emotion, his hazel eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“I’d also rather I was a six-foot-tall redhead with a C-cup.
I’d love slightly larger eyes that are double-lidded, hair I can dye without needing to bleach it first, and on a less selfish note, I’d rather live in a world where there aren’t nuclear weapons.
If I could snap my fingers and disappear every tech bro who’s ever made a mommy joke, I could live with that too.
” I can see the reluctant smile that is tugging at Lucas’s mouth, even though if he had even the tiniest sense of self-preservation, he would not be amused right now.
“But here’s the thing: I don’t allow myself the luxury of dwelling on unattainable hypotheticals. ”
Lucas’s gaze is intent. “I wanted enough money to take you on a real date.”
I can practically taste the wistfulness in his voice. But we can’t both be romantics. “We have bills and responsibilities. Fun and over-ten-dollar dates can wait.”
“You’re beautiful and sharp and damned near perfect.
” The words come out in a rush, genuine and real in a way that only Lucas, who never hides anything from me, can deliver.
“When I see how far ahead everyone else is, when I see what the rest of the world could offer you, I can’t help but worry you’re . . . settling.”
“And you think I don’t know my own damn mind?”
My bite of anger is what finally pulls Lucas from his dazed state. He looks up, holding up his large hands, fingers spread, in mute surrender. “I should know better.”
“You should.”
He reaches long arms toward me and pulls me into a warm embrace. He burrows his face against the top of my head, and I let myself breathe him in. Because we’re in Boston and everything is different, he doesn’t smell like he usually does. It’s all hotel shampoo and maybe a faint sheen of sweat.
It shouldn’t be attractive, but apparently, even an anxious and moodier-than-usual Lucas is . . . the one I want. I tighten my arms around him, and we stay locked there, together, wordlessly passing some milestone I never would have agreed to.
I really meant to keep this casual.
Because I really don’t have time or capacity for emotional entanglements. But then Lucas is bending his head toward mine and asking, “Makeup kiss okay?”
And of course I nod, knowing I’m already saying yes to everything else he’s not asking.