My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren

chapter ten

reid

Millie has to walk past my bedroom to get to the stairs, and I hear her passing by around seven in the morning. I know it’s her because I hear her shushing Bailey and cleverly avoiding the squeakiest spots in the hallway—something Alex and Ed would never think to do.

It’s hot—Mom habitually overheats the house—too hot to stay under the covers, too hot to stay in my own skin with the cacophony of thoughts skidding around inside my head after last night with Millie.

Once was a fun accident.

Twice is two data points, and my brain scratches around trying to find a pattern.

Both times we were hanging out with friends.

Both times there was alcohol—although neither of us was drunk last night.

Both times there was—what? Mention of dates, other people, or the lack of partners in our lives?

And last night wasn’t even a single quickie, in and out, back to our respective rooms. It was a nighttogether. We went up around eleven and I snuck out around three—long after everyone else had gone to bed—tiptoeing down the hall, and leaving Millie naked and visibly comatose on her bed as if a storm had blown through.

Was leaving a bad idea? Or would it have been awkward to wake up in bed together? Especially if we had to explain it to anyone else. I feel faintly nauseous, like this could go very bad very quickly. I know conversations about relationships and feelings aren’t in Millie’s wheelhouse, but in this case I feel like we need to have one.

Downstairs, only Millie and Ed are up. I heard the murmur of voices, but they’ve since moved to the back patio, and when I join them I wish I could say I’m surprised to find Ed with a beer in his hand at seven thirty in the morning, but I’m not. Millie is staring out at the vineyards. Ed is so intensely engrossed in Dad’s morning delivery of the New York Times that he doesn’t even look up when I step out onto the back patio.

“Mills,” I say.

She turns her face to me, giving me a bright smile. “Morning, sunshine!”

I draw back reflexively, jarred. The greeting is too loud, too over-the-top. Especially considering that the last real sound I heard her make was a long, relieved exhale before she passed out face-first into the mattress.

Her eyes flicker over to Ed, and then back to me. “What’s up?”

“Wanna go for a walk?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate the tidy rows of vineyards that seem to stretch for an eternity.

She looks down at her bare feet, thinking it over for a few seconds, and then hops up. “Sure!” Again, too loud. “Just a sec. I’ll throw on some shoes.”

Ed still hasn’t looked up at me, and I bend, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, Ed.”

Eyes down, brow furrowed in deep concentration, he says a gruff “Hey.”

“Thirsty?” I ask, nodding to his beer. “Coffee wasn’t cutting it?”

“Uh-yup.” Very seriously, he turns the page of the newspaper, reaching the crossword puzzle and folding it up like he might actually start doing it.

“Don’t.” I hold my hand out. “My dad would murder you. He waits all week for the Sunday puzzle.”

Ed unfolds the paper and, instead of making conversation, starts reading an article on some new graffiti artist in Queens.

“What’s with you?” I sit at the edge of the chaise longue where Millie was lying before I came out. “Both of you, actually. She’s Merry Sunshine and you’re Very Monosyllabic.”

“Nothing.” He glances up at me, and then away. “Seriously just . . . readin’ the paper. Relaxin’. Drinkin’ some beer.”

“Okay then, Pauly Shore, keep on with your relaxin’ and drinkin’.”

Millie comes out and smiles more calmly at me this time, and I’m relieved Ed is acting so off it isn’t even weird for us to not invite him along with us.

I let her lead me down the back porch and through Mom’s garden, which transitions to vineyard after about thirty feet, allowing us to practically disappear into the foliage and the fog. But although we aren’t in view of the house any longer, the silence doesn’t immediately vanish.

After a minute or so of listening only to our footsteps tromping through dried leaves and soil, I say, “So, hey.”

Beside me, she laughs knowingly. “Yeah. Hey.” She glances at me. “I’m so sorry, Reid.”

This draws me up short emotionally; it’s an effort to keep my pace walking. “You’re sorry?”

She stops, turning to grin guiltily up at me. “I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.”

There’s an obvious joke to make there, but I ignore it, in part because I’m immediately irked by her flippant tone. “You didn’t exactly have to drag me upstairs last night, you know. Clearly you were going somewhere I was willing to go as well.”

“But should we go there?” she asks, wincing. “I mean, you’re talking to all these women online and at some point that will turn into something and we’ll need to stop anyway.”

I pull us farther back in her sentence, hung up on the phrasing. “ ‘All these women’?”

She shrugs, and I swear there’s a weird curl to it, something defensive beneath her nonchalant exterior. “Yeah.”

“There are two.”

“Well, both Daisy and Catherine seem sort of serious, right?”

Is she digging?

“How serious can it be if I’ve never met them in person?”

“You seem, I don’t know. Invested. That’s all I’m saying. You’re writing them frequently, right? And recently?”

I nod carefully and she continues, “I don’t want to put a wrinkle in that with our . . . friends-with-benefits thing.”

I study her face as she squints out into the vineyard, trying to read between the lines here. A twist of guilt works its way through my torso, and I’m immeasurably glad that she doesn’t know I wrote Cat after leaving her bed last night. If she did, I’m sure a simple “I couldn’t sleep” explanation wouldn’t cut it.

“Do you,” I begin, unsure of what I want her answer to be, “want me to stop . . . talking to these other women?”

“I mean, only if you want to.”

“To be fair, you have someone you’re calling ‘my guy,’ ” I remind her.

She doesn’t move. “Yeah.”

I laugh, feeling my chest start to tighten with unexpected disappointment. Last night was fun. Something new and a little scary is expanding in my chest, and it’s hooked to the memory of Millie above me, her eyes closed, neck arched. If she’d asked me to stay, would I have? “I have no idea what is going on right now, Mills.”

“Nothing is going on.” She says it more calmly, back in control. She returns her focus to me and puts a warm hand on my arm. “Really, Reid. At least, not with me. I’m good.”

Without asking me anything in return, she pushes on ahead, her pace picking up. A flock of sparrows pass overhead, and she looks up to the sky. “Man, it is so beautiful out here.”

With that, the conversation about last night seems left behind us and I feel . . . slightly untethered.

“It really is,” I say quietly.

Millie starts talking about the weather, which leads into a story about this time she was hiking with a friend in Yosemite and her friend almost died trying to take a picture of a sign that described the risk of death on the trail. I listen, hopefully making noises at the appropriate moments to let her know that I’m still paying attention, but inside I’m sort of shredded. The truth is, I’m curious whether I’ll have better in-person chemistry with Daisy than I do over messages, and I’m interested in the possibility that I’ll have just as good chemistry with Catherine in person as I do over messages. But after last night, I think my heart got ahead of my brain a little. If the twist in my chest is any indication, I think I wanted things with Millie to grow deeper.

Watching her in superficial storytelling mode, I honestly begin to wonder whether she’s capable of that. As a friend, she’s fun, and loyal, observant, and thoughtful. Her quiet depth comes out as humor, and reveals how unbelievably brilliant she is. She’s wild in the best ways while still keeping her life drama-free—all great things in a friend. But I don’t want a buddy for a lover—I want a lover who goes deeper than Millie ever seems to want to go, and the realization that this isn’t ever going to evolve makes me oddly—surprisingly—sad. Odd, that is, given that until this morning, it wasn’t even a conscious goal to get us there.

She stops, staring out at the rolling hills, and I give it one last chance. “Tell me about this guy you’re talking to.”

Blinking over to me, she gives me an easy grin. “Maybe there’s more than one.”

Ouch. “Okay, then, tell me about the one you’re calling ‘my guy.’ ”

Millie takes a deep breath, pulling her shoulders up to her ears. “He’s pretty great. You know how you just get a good vibe from someone in writing?”

I nod. I know exactly what she means. Cat’s black-and-white profile photo swims through my thoughts.

“He’s funny and . . . open about things,” she says carefully, and that part stabs a bolt of pain through me because, honestly, I’d be more open with her in person if she ever took the bait and engaged in that kind of conversation with me. It’s depressing to realize that the last time we talked about anything very deep was at the beach, nearly two years ago, after she left Dustin, and told me in simple, bare terms how hard he was to live with. But after a few minutes, she went quiet and then started talking about how much she loves watching the waves crash on the surf.

“Are you going to meet him?” I ask.

“It’s weird because I feel like I know him already,” she says, still not looking at me. “What if I do? What if we know each other from somewhere? Would that be awkward? I think so. So, part of me is like, ‘Yeah! Let’s set up a date!’ and part of me is like, ‘Um, that’s the worst idea ever.’ ”

“But you haven’t really met him,” I say. “I mean, wouldn’t you know if you had? What’s his name?”

She waves a hand. “Just . . . Guy.”

“His name is Guy?” I stare at her, my smile slowly breaking wide. “You’re going to go from dating a Dustin to dating a Guy?”

“Maybe it’s not his real name,” she says, flustered. “Who knows. Maybe it’s Dougal or Alfred, and Guy is just a nickname.”

“You’re so weird,” I say, pinching her cheek.

She looks up at me, glowing in obvious relief. “You are.”

Mom has made her famous lemon-ricotta pancakes by the time we get back, and Millie and I fall into our chairs at the table with a sort of desperate, haven’t-eaten-in-ten-years vigor. Breakfast is a loud, mimosa-filled affair, with a sticky syrup bottle winding its way up and down the table, a giant bowl of fat berries with cream passed from hand to hand, and a huge platter of bacon slowly emptying until we are all groaning, hands clutched over our too-full stomachs.

Alex eyes the couch in the other room like he’s desperate for it to sprout legs and walk in here to pick him up, but before he can muster the energy to go there, Dad stands, shuffles to the couch, and falls onto it. Rayme works up the nerve to lean against Chris’s shoulder, and I watch it happen in slow motion—from the decision she seems to make as she leans to her left and the gradual tilting until she makes contact with him. Chris may finally be aware of her: his eyes go very wide, and he goes very, very still.

Ed, to my surprise, stands and begins clearing everyone’s plates before starting the dishes in the kitchen. Mom watches him go with something like fondness in her eyes. Apparently no one ended up naked in the vineyards last night, and Ed has figured out how to please my parents: simply by keeping his pants on.

I feel the soft pressure of a foot over mine, and look across the table at Millie, whose eyes are closed and whose head is tilted back, relaxing after what was, without hyperbole, the best breakfast ever cooked. It seems like an accident at first, but then she nestles her feet more firmly against mine, like she’s trying to get warm. Opening one eye, she peeks at me, stifling a grin, and then feigns sleep again.

An ache—desire—is tempered with a flush of irritation. I don’t want to be the safe friend she can touch and flirt with if she’s only going to erect a new boundary every time something intimate happens. No matter what she or I have said before, we’re in a weird limbo, and we need to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible, or risk ruining what is without question one of the best friendships of my life.

Breaking Mom’s house rule, I pull my phone from my pocket, and open the IRL app at the table. I’m a little disappointed to see that Cat hasn’t written back . . . but at least Daisy has.

From: Daisy D.

Sent: 10:29 am, April 1

Hey Reid,

I hope you’re having an awesome time at home! My weekend ended up being pretty dull—a friend who was supposed to be in town flaked last minute, so I’ve basically been in my pajamas all weekend, bingeing old seasons of Big Brother.

I’m not sure what you’re up to this week, but do you think you’d be willing to meet in person? For dinner? See! I remembered you don’t do first dates over coffee or drinks. I sort of like that a lot about you.

Let me know if you’re up for it.

Talk soon,

Daisy

I glance up at Millie, who is still resting with her eyes closed. It’s time to push past this uneasiness in my gut and just . . . get out of this weird friend-lover zone with Mills.

Gently pulling my feet out from under hers, I sit up a little straighter, opening our text box. She sits up, too, looking groggy as I type out a message to her.

Sleepy?

When her phone vibrates in her back pocket, she leans to the side to pull it out. I watch her read my text, and grin as she replies.

Someone kept me up late.

I wipe a hand down my face. Enough with these mixed messages.

I just got a note from Daisy.

She wants to go out.

I watch Millie absorb this and nothing in her expression shifts—not a single muscle.

Are you going to?

Would it be weird?

For me, or for you?

For you.

Her eyes meet mine over the table, and she gives me a tiny frown before looking at her phone, typing.

I told you, Reid, I’m fine.

I’m beginning to hate the word fine.

Cool.

If Millie is okay with this, then I’ll just have to work on being okay with it, too.

I pocket my phone and stand, following Ed into the kitchen to help him clean up. He frowns as he slides the plates into the sink to begin rinsing them, and his weird silent treatment is starting to annoy me.

“What’s with you?”

Startling, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Nothing. Just full.”

“Of beer and pancakes?”

Finally, he gives me a real smile. “And mimosas and bacon.”

We start to work in tandem as I bring in dishes and he rinses them and slides them into the dishwasher.

“Everything okay with you and Mills?” he asks.

“Yeah, we’re good. Just catching each other up on the dating stuff.”

Ed looks at me with interest. “Yeah?”

“Did you know the guy she’s talking to is named Guy?” I laugh. “Is that even a real name?”

His expression droops strangely. “Huh. No, I didn’t know that.”

“What about you?” I ask. “How’s sexy Selma?”

“She hasn’t responded yet.” He pushes his sleeves up and digs his hands into soapy water. “I asked her to meet, and she never replied. Usually she responds within a couple hours.”

A feeling like heavy clouds rolling in passes through me. I want this experiment to go well for Ed, and if he’s chatting with someone who is dishonest, or vanishes without explanation, I’m going to be pissed.

“Maybe she’s just swamped at work,” I offer.

“She’s a bartender.”

Yeah, I’ve got nothing.

I look up, relieved to see Chris coming in, carrying the mostly empty platter of bacon. “I think I might die of pork overdose,” he says.

“What about you?” I ask him, then give him more context. “You’re being extremely tight-lipped about your dating adventures.”

He slides the platter onto the counter, then leans back. “I don’t know, man. I know it’s working for you, but it might not be my vibe.”

“You could just ask Rayme out,” Ed says without turning away from the sink.

A heavy curtain of silence falls, and Chris’s eyes meet mine. Instead of looking away, he holds my gaze as if he’s reading me. When I met Chris, he was married to Amalia; they divorced a couple of years later. I’ve seen him with a few women since then, but he’s never been particularly effusive when it comes to sharing details about his love life. So it takes me a few beats to register that he’s reading my reaction to see whether I’m horrified by what Ed has said. Strangely, I am not.

“You could, you know,” I tell him quietly.

Chris scowls, but I know him well enough to know he’s covering. “Man, she was fifteen when I met you.”

I shrug. “Yeah. Ten years ago.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the appearance of Rayme and Mills next him.

“What was ten years ago?” Rayme asks.

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly, sounding extremely suspicious.

Millie slides her knowing eyes around the room, landing eventually on me. “What’s going on, weirdos?”

“They were talking about us,” Rayme guesses in a dramatic stage whisper, and the two of them turn and saunter out of the room.

This has all become officially too much for me. It feels like we’re in a van, teetering atop a cliff. If we lean one way, we slide back to safety. If we lean the other way, we catapult headfirst into a canyon.

The problem is, I have no idea which direction to lean to get us safely to the ground.