17. Who Peaked in College
WHO PEAKED IN COLLEGE
PRESENT
Ican’t resist telling my girls, first thing.
Grad or Die
ME: This jus inn
GWENDY: We’re waiting
DAISY: bated breath. Get on with it.
ME: Get jiggy w/ it u mean?
GWENDY: Lorelai
ME: sry, u guys r no fun sum-times
DAISY: any day now. The Dog is squirming and I got to go.
ME: 1st class seats == aweSUM. eye’d forgotten how aweSUM
ME: eye mean, eye always h8d bee-ing poor, but 1st class == woooooohooooo
GWENDY: how is this news?
ME: sry, donut h8. Eye be stressed.
GWENDY: The wedding?
DAISY: We love you. We’re worried about you.
GWENDY: Did you know your grammar gets worse when you’re stressed?
ME: It gives me something to do. I’m just anxious about the reunion.
DAISY: We also worry when your grammar is perfect, you know that, right?
ME: Can’t win, can I?
Brody picks us up at the airport wearing the updated version of his college go-to: He’s exchanged basketball shorts for Polo slacks, and instead of his favored tank top, he’s wearing a loud, probably very expensive Hawaiian shirt, one that natives would probably never wear.
One that, truthfully, most people would stay away from: light-pink hibiscus flowers war for attention against too-bright leaves and a hot-pink background.
Then again, Brody’s always been confident in . . . whatever stage he’s going through at the time.
“My favorite people,” he greets us. “And Khloe. You are also… here.”
Khloe’s smile is saccharine as she rubs the bridge of her nose with her middle finger. Brody grins but otherwise ignores his future sister-in-law. While I’d threatened to kill him just hours ago, there’s something teddy-bear-infectious about Brody’s energy.
He and Lucas exchange a quick, tight hug before he lifts and spins me until I’m squealing to be put down.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“That’s what I said,” Lucas agrees.
“Don’t start.”
So far, no one seems to have put together the pieces, but I see Lucas’s eyes narrowing. “What’s the first activity?”
Brody’s face lights up. “I hope you all slept on the plane because in”—he checks his watch with a dramatic flourish—“less than two hours, we are scheduled for extreme snorkeling.”
I’m a terrible swimmer, which means even normal vanilla snorkeling sounds nauseating. “What’s the difference between extreme and regular snorkeling?”
Khloe gives me a pitying look even as Brody and Lucas both reach for my one suitcase; a moment passes before Brody offers to help Khloe load her four-piece matched Fendi set.
“I’m the maid of honor,” she says defensively, as if that explains the need for the additional luggage.
Considering I’m one of the best people, I know Brody and Vi have arranged for the tuxedos and bridesmaids’ dresses to be delivered directly to the hotel and venue, meaning no extra luggage should have been necessary.
“Also, I’m a light packer.”
“True,” Brody agrees. “She used to pack half the shit I did for ICPC—our programming competitions.”
“You’ve said the acronym ICPC enough that I recognize it.” Khloe rolls her eyes. “Careful, darling, you don’t want to be one of those people who peaked in college, always droning on about the old glory days.”
“They were glorious.” Brody’s voice has just the faintest edge. “But you should know by now that I am constantly improving, meaning there is no end to my peaking.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
Seeing the almost matching mulish expressions on Brody’s and Khloe’s faces, I decide to intercede.
“Brody insisted on bringing a telescope to worlds, with all of the padding and packaging that goes along with a telescope.” Though I’m the one speaking, Lucas’s eyes are also warm with the memory of the accessories, the additional night cameras and baggage Brody had insisted we check in under our names, since he was already at the limit.
“Do you know how amazing the astronomy programs in Azerbaijan are?”
“Yes,” Lucas replies.
I elaborate: “Considering you made us take an extra day to go to the Shamakhi Astrophysical Observatory and pay for a guided tour . . . I’m also going to go with yes.”
“Ungrateful plebeians,” Brody mutters, even as he gets into the driver’s seat.
When Lucas heads for the back, Khloe is quick to join him, leaving me in front with Brody, to hear all about the skin diving/snorkeling we’re starting our adventure-filled week with.
“I’m not a particularly strong swimmer,” I admit. Technically, I took two semesters in high school, because it was a seventh period elective and a graduation requirement.
It didn’t go well.
From the back, Lucas interrupts whatever story Khloe is telling to ask, “You never went with your fiancé?”
I take a deep breath before replying, the same way I might edit a text message before sending, so I’m certain of my words. “Tatum and I never quite found the time.”
Barely a beat passes before Khloe asks, “You were engaged?”
I’m not sure if she’s grumpy from the long plane ride or if she’s really just watched Mean Girls one time too many, but I’ve known her less than a day and I’m already over how every single comment has such bite.
“To the incoming CEO of the Huang-Lai Fund,” Brody supplies, with a smirk in Khloe’s direction, as if knowing this is the piece of information that will make Khloe take notice.
Her disbelief is palpable, and unfortunately for me, not the least bit satisfying. “Tatum Huang? The Olympic swimmer and hedge fund heir?”
It’s Lucas who confirms it for me, as I struggle to get my breathing under control. “For almost five years.”
There’s no point in correcting Lucas. But in actuality? It was exactly five years. That part of the contract had been fully met, something Tatum and I both agreed would be the path of least resistance. Neither of us wanted to marry. Neither of us had the strength to fight our parents directly.
So we ran out the clock.
Made all the appropriate appearances for the first four years before letting things seemingly fizzle in the fifth, to better develop the narrative that we’d drifted apart.
From the rearview mirror I can see Khloe sizing me up, trying to figure out how someone like me, a fifth-year graduate student with spray-painted hair and a scratched-up one-piece suitcase, ended up engaged to Tatum Huang.
No need to explain that there had been a time when everyone took for granted that the daughter of Beinan Zhao and the heir to Huang-Lai were a match made in heaven.
“Tatum hasn’t dated since.” Lucas’s tone is cold as he says this, and I can’t tell what, exactly, he’s implying.
“Not publicly,” I confirm.
“You’ve kept in touch, then? Was it amicable?” Khloe is clearly trying (and thoroughly failing) to hide her disbelief.
“We’re still friendly.” Tatum and I won’t ever be close, but I know exactly why he hasn’t been photographed moving on.
Before Khloe can press the issue, we pull into the Four Seasons’ porte cochere where the level of attention and service is almost laughable.
Multiple porters greet us. One takes Brody’s keys, another immediately begins unloading our luggage, there’s actually a guy playing a ukulele, and two more attendants arrive to offer us leis and platters of chocolate, a veritable buffet of options.
Old Lucas would have been wide-eyed. This Lucas?
He waves it away with a polite smile and a brief murmur of thanks.
I adjust the lei, thinking Wren and Harper would love something like this, before picking up a piece of chilled pineapple dipped in chocolate.
“Aren’t you glad you came?” Brody’s slung an arm around me, squeezing me toward him, and perhaps because I’ve been too distracted tracking Lucas (and Lucas in relation to Khloe), this is the first time I really look at my best friend of eight years.
“I’m glad I came.” It’s only a partial lie. It has been too long since I’ve seen Brody, and now that I’m up close, I can’t help but notice that though tanned, Brody looks a little less . . . healthy? Less vibrant?
Faded, maybe.
Though that doesn’t sound quite right either.
Brody peers down at me through his long lashes, his brown eyes crinkling as if hearing my unasked question. “I’m thrilled you and Lucas both made it.” His voice is earnest, almost apologetic.
“You could have warned me we’d be on the same flight.”
“Custody battles are always brutal, Red. Don’t make me choose sides.”
Brody gives my shoulder one last squeeze before jumping back into host mode, telling Khloe she’s in the suite next to the one he shares with Vi. We split into two groups at the elevator—Khloe is on the other side of the hotel with Brody and Vi, Lucas and I are apparently in the same wing.
Khloe rests a hand on Lucas’s arm again, a faint pout decorating her face, her makeup somehow still photo-perfect after a six-hour flight. I pull at my pajama bottoms, wishing I’d worn something a little classier.
“We have to catch up later.” Khloe blinks up at Lucas, all pout.
“Extreme snorkeling,” Lucas says shortly. Not encouraging her but . . . also not making any effort to remove her hand.
She rises onto tiptoes to kiss his cheek, leaving a faint smear of lipstick while Brody rolls his eyes. “Wrong tree.”
Khloe glances over, flicking her blonde hair so violently it brushes past my face.
“Barking. You. Up the.” Their relationship is clearly more adversarial than not, but at least some of the spark has come back into Brody’s face.
“I can’t believe my sister is marrying you.”
Brody smiles, finally, one of his broad, all-encompassing grins. “I aim to please.”
Khloe walks past him to the elevator, taking it for granted Brody will follow, while Lucas and I walk toward the other set of lifts.
I look down at my room information before glancing at Lucas’s.
“Serendipity,” Lucas says, catching my glance. Because unless the number system is logarithmic, Lucas and I are either next-door or across-the-hall neighbors.
“Happenstance,” I agree, wondering how much of this trip Lucas has paid for, reminding myself that I really might need to kill Brody.
Since the porters are taking our luggage directly to our rooms, it’s just me and Lucas in the elevator, the classic music straining through the speakers. I finger the little X-wing in the pocket of my pajamas, hoping Lucas doesn’t notice.
“Extreme snorkeling feels so Brody it’s almost cliché, don’t you think?”
But Lucas isn’t here for my attempts to distract him. “It doesn’t make sense, where you live.”
“It’s close to campus.”
“Even if you’re no longer engaged to—” Lucas stops himself, and some of the old, less assured Lucas resurfaces as he pulls at the back of his neck. “You’re still next in line for your father’s company.”
“Yes.” I even have the business classes to prove it, a stipulation my father added last minute.
“Your closet was nearly bare. None of the dresses or jewelry you wore while with Tatum.”
I don’t ask the obvious: You snooped in my closet?
Nor do I explain: The clothes were provided by stylists, who coordinated directly with publicists, to ensure Tatum and I would photograph well.
“What the hell have you been doing these past six years?”
The doors open. I have no choice but to walk with him down the too-long hallway. “If I tell you my father’s company isn’t doing as well as it used to, would that satisfy your curiosity?”
“Not even remotely.” He stops in front of my room, which is right next to his, and waits for me to open it before following me in, uninvited.
The suite is gorgeous and expansive. I have my own sitting area, a large couch with a couple of extra chairs and several unique (as in numbered as opposed to mass-produced) pieces of art.
There’s also a balcony overlooking the Pacific.
The glass doors have already been opened to let in the slight breeze.
“Tell me you didn’t pay for this.”
But Lucas doesn’t bother denying my not-a-question. His hazel eyes are focused in that way he gets when trying to hunt out a bug or work through a tricky solution. “You aren’t grieving the end of your engagement.”
It’s not a question, and I see no need to lie about this part. “You knew it was arranged.”
“You looked . . . close in the pictures. I couldn’t tell if you were acting.”
“No need to act. Tatum and I were friends. We’re still friends.”
Lucas’s jaw clenches, but there’s no other sign he’s heard me. In that clever head of his, I’m sure he’s busy connecting the dots: That I needed to block him, because it had just been too much, but that after a five-year engagement to Tatum, we’re still able to remain friends.
“You can’t take over from your father until you graduate. And yet you’re in no rush to graduate.”
“Perhaps I’m struggling to write my dissertation.”
A glimmer of amusement as he shakes his head. “Doubtful.” As usual, Lucas’s trust in me is absolute. The seconds tick by until he asks, his voice low, “Think you’ll tell me what really happened one day?”
He’s standing so close to me that it would take two steps, maybe three, to find myself back in his embrace.
It would be so easy to confess. I’d meant well.
I hadn’t seen another way out. Brody’s Ivy League–educated mother, Brody, and I combined could not think of a better solution for the specific predicament I’d found myself in.
But what would that fix, ultimately?
The past is unchangeable, unfixable.
The future, or at least my future, with the surgery and my sisters, my father and his company, is murky at best. Tangled and complicated and as always, burdensome.
“Nothing to be gained from rehashing the past.” My voice is shockingly steady.
“You don’t dwell on hypotheticals, right?”
I lick my lips because he’s right: I don’t let myself wallow, not usually. But I’ve slipped these past few years, under the weight of it all. And I’m sick of it, truly. Sick of myself.
My voice is just a shade overbright when I ask, “What if we just agree to move forward?”
Lucas crosses his too-large forearms, clearly waiting for me to continue.
I gesture between us, Lucas in his somehow unwrinkled finery, me in my fleece pajamas.
“We’ve both clearly changed, and I get that there’s a lot of messy history between us, but all that really matters, at least over the next eight days, is Brody. ”
I hold my breath while Lucas composes his reply. “And what does a truce mean to you?”
“No more paying for things as some weird thank-you. No more questions, digging into things that can’t be changed. We just . . . focus on supporting Brody.” I try to make my voice light. “It’s what any good parents would do in a divorce, right? Show up for the kid.”
There’s the briefest of pauses before Lucas nods. “Sure.”
My head jerks back as I open my eyes wide and my glasses slide down a little. I definitely hadn’t expected him to give in so readily, to let go of the puzzle.
“I’ve already waited almost six years. What are another eight days?”