My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren

chapter fifteen

millie

I shut off the TV and the house falls into silence. I couldn’t even tell you what I’ve been watching. A car goes by on the street outside, and for the first time since Reid left last night, I don’t bother to look out the window to see whether it’s him.

He said he was going to think about things, but I worked from home today, and kept my phone and laptop right next to me the entire time and looked for him every time I heard anything outside . . .

I’m pretty sure he isn’t coming back.

My legs are stiff by the time I straighten them to stand and walk to the kitchen. I scan the contents of my fridge unseeing, trying to convince myself that the niggling voice in the back of my head is wrong, and Reid wasn’t totally freaking out.

I think he knows.

I don’t know how, but I felt it. I saw it on his face, some dawning awareness and then: the struggle to hide his anger.

No matter how much I concentrate on breathing slowly and exhaling to the count of five—over and over again—the panic is still there, growing more insistent with every heavy slam of my heart. Reid has never been mad at me before. I’m pulling apart at the seams. The room is too hot. The scent of Reid’s soap hangs in the air and when I turn my head, I can smell him in the fabric of my shirt, too.

I push away on unsteady legs and search for my keys, and then I just drive.

The sun is barely hanging on by the time I make it to Hendry’s Beach. I hadn’t planned to come here; I got in my car with no real destination in mind, but when the little blue pickup in front of me with the surfboard in the back turned, I followed.

Even with the windows up I can smell the salt in the air. It feels heavy and humid, and chilly enough here in the parking lot that I know it will be even colder down by the water.

I climb out and reach for the sweater in the back seat. It’s hideous but warm, a ratty old thing I keep ready for over-air-conditioned stops at Cajé and spontaneous beach moments just like this. I’ve had it for years, but no matter how many times I wash it, it still smells faintly of coffee.

With my keys and phone in the oversize pockets, I cut through the lot and down past the dog-washing station and the restaurant with blue and yellow umbrellas. Clumps of grass stake their claim near rocks in the sand, and I cross the sidewalk to the small set of steps down to the beach.

On the left side of the lifeguard tower, where dogs are allowed to run off leash, a particularly hyper golden retriever races into the surf, pouncing on waves as they break the surface and chasing them as they roll out to sea again. I take a seat in the sand: close enough to watch the waves but far enough away to stay dry. At least for a while.

A look around reminds me that I was here with Reid once, shortly after Dad was diagnosed. The trip home had been rough—so bad that I’d made up an excuse about work and flown back to Santa Barbara a day early. It was like the cancer talk with Mom all over again, and I’d literally panicked, heart racing and unable to breathe as I sat on the twin bed in Elly’s tiny little guest room. I had to go. Reid didn’t know what was happening, but he could see something was wrong as soon as I knocked at his door. I told him I’d had a bad day, and he drove us here. To watch the dogs, he’d said, because who can have a bad day while watching puppies run free and frolic in the ocean?

He was right. We’d rolled up our pants and found a spot on the beach and spent the next two hours just sitting in silence. Eventually, we talked about work and life. He told me about a date he’d been on while I was away, and how they made out in his car for an hour after he dropped her off, too wound up to say goodbye, but not wound up enough to have sex on the first date. There was an imperceptible ringing in my ears, a low-level hum of annoyance that seemed to grow with every detail that he shared. I watched his lips as he talked, imagined him doing the things he was explaining, and sort of . . . hated it.

When I look back on moments like that, it’s hard to convince myself that things between us have ever been one hundred percent platonic. The glances, the casual touches in the car, the subtle flirting—I wrote it off as us being comfortable with each other, but, holy shit, I am an idiot. I’d spent that afternoon stretched out in the sand with my head on his stomach, eyes closed while I matched my breaths to his and listened to the ocean. Would I do that with Ed? With Chris? Alex?

Not a chance.

I glance out over the horizon to where the sun is melting into the sea. The tide has come in, breaking against the shore and leaving clumps of seaweed behind as it recedes. I scrunch my toes, just out of reach of the foamy water as it inches closer and closer. I think I’ve always been jealous where Reid is concerned. Even then, I didn’t necessarily want to kiss him, but I didn’t really want him kissing someone else, either.

This makes me a really shitty person . . . a reoccurring theme as of late.

My friendship with Reid has been the easiest of my life. I’d never had a best friend before—never mind four of them—because I think I honestly don’t know how to do it. A summary of my last ten years would show a boring list of acquaintances and mild romantic serial monogamy. Nothing dramatic ever happens to me.

By design, I guess.

I didn’t even tell my sister when I moved in with Dustin. I wasn’t hiding it, exactly, but it didn’t seem like that big a change in our status. We were still together, not getting married. Living together sounds like such a huge leap, but it was still us, day to day. He still irritated me when he sucked his teeth after eating. I still irritated him by leaving my laundry on the floor. We weren’t ready to say forever; we were just being frugal and splitting rent.

I explained that to Reid once and he laughed for about fifteen minutes before kissing me on top of the head.

“What?” I said.

“You crack me up.”

“Because I’m smart about money?”

He shook his head. “Because you’re dumb about love.”

It didn’t even land in any aware spot in my brain. Like most of Reid’s teasing jabs, it just sort of rolled over me. I probably laughed and said, “I know, right?”

But I imagine living with Reid, and a small burst detonates in my belly. It would change everything, every first inhale and every last exhausted exhale of my day. It would influence every mood in between. I imagine shuffling sleepily around each other at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing. He’s wearing his soft, worn gray shirt and I can slide my hands up under it, warming them on his stomach. I imagine complaining about his morning breath, and him chasing me for a stinky kiss. I imagine grading papers on the couch together, my feet in his lap, him grumbling that I’m making it hard for him to work. I imagine the relief of sliding under the blankets with him—not just a warm body, but his warm body—every night.

I want every single one of these things flashing through my head.

I close my eyes, breathing in the salty air. I know people are more complicated than just good and bad, and that I can do something wrong and still be a good person—but it doesn’t feel that way right now. Shame claws its way up my throat when I think of how careless I’ve been with Reid’s feelings, and how I rationalized my way into hurting him. I think of how terrible I’ve been to my dad, and how I always assume Elly will be there to do the right thing when I inevitably drop the ball.

I love Reid but lied to him, and he knows it.

I love my sister and my dad, and haven’t been fair to either of them.

It’s time to grow up.

My hands are shaking by the time I ease to a stop in front of Reid’s house.

It’s after ten, but the TV is on in the living room, so I know he’s home. I sit in the dark, watching the shadows flicker across his front window until a man walking a dog stops and peers at me from the other side of the street.

I give him what I hope looks like an I’m a friend, not a crazy stalker! wave before pulling the keys from the ignition and climbing out.

I haven’t even stepped onto the porch when the light flips on and the front door slowly opens. He must have seen me pull up.

My heart jumps inside my chest when I get a look at him. His dark hair is messy, falling over his forehead. He looks tired, is barefoot and dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. When he steps into the pool of light on the porch, my body reacts almost on instinct. I start to move forward to hug him and have to force myself to stay still.

I give him an awkward wave instead. “Hi.”

Crickets chirp from a pair of bushes on either side of the porch, the sound amplified in the duration of his answering silence.

He shifts on his feet, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s late, Millie.”

I take a breath. “I know. I was wondering if we could talk.”

That’s not something I’d have needed to ask before. On a normal night, I would have just barged in and dropped my things by the door before collapsing in a heap on his fancy leather couch. Nothing’s been normal between us for weeks now.

Surprising me, Reid takes a step back and holds the door open enough so I can pass. The small light over the kitchen window is on, and I can see that the counters are clean, the sink empty. I follow when Reid crosses to the TV, muting the volume before tossing the remote on the couch.

His mood is unfamiliar and solemn. Things were clearly strained when he left my house yesterday, but there’s something else in the closed-off look of his eyes, the way he holds his body, stiff, like there’s a wall around him and he’s being careful to keep everything tucked safely behind it.

He motions to the couch and I sit, relieved when he takes the spot next to me.

“I know I’m supposed to be letting you think,” I say.

I’ve never been scared in front of Reid, but the half inch of space that separates where our hands rest on the couch is terrifying. The act of simply not touching is intentional. I want to cling to his hand and feel its solid, reassuring weight. I want to hear that his love for me is unconditional, even though I know I don’t deserve it.

Reid clears his throat and I know I’ve been quiet too long. I’m sweating, hyperaware of how warm the night is and that I’m still wrapped in my giant sweater. When I look down at our hands again, I see tiny grains of sand that still cling to the sleeve.

“I should tell you something,” I say, wincing because of course I wanted to tell him something. That’s why I’m here, and we both know it. “Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

Reid’s finger twitches where it rests against the cushion. His hands are large, skin tan, tendons visible. I’ve seen those hands in the lab, calibrating the most sensitive pieces of equipment, and then in bed, holding me down, inside of me. He can tell I’m nervous—that I’m stalling—but for once he doesn’t reach out, doesn’t offer comfort.

“Go on.”

I tug on my sleeves, pulling them down over my fingers despite the heat. I feel like I need a force field around me, some mental armor. “I lied to you—have been lying to you. For a few weeks now.”

Reid leans forward, away from me, to rest his elbows on his knees. “Okay.”

I’m not sure how to say it, so I blurt it out to get us both out of this miserable tension. “I’m Cat. I wrote the letters.” A heavy silence rolls through the room. He’s staring straight ahead to where Jimmy Kimmel is giving a monologue on the muted TV. “I never meant for it to get this far, and I don’t even know why I did it. Actually, I do, I guess. But those are excuses and—”

“I know.”

His voice is quiet. So why does it feel like a lead weight has just swung from a crane into my torso?

Reid straightens, rubs his palms on the front of his pants, and then stands to face me. He stares down at me, and he doesn’t have to say anything else for our entire conversation to echo in my memory.

“She was really great, and I thought maybe we had something. She talked to me about things. It felt like we were really becoming friends. And—I’ll admit—I maybe wanted more. She’s moving and it’s sort of a bummer that I’m not going to meet her.”

“That is a bummer. Do you think your feelings for her will affect . . . ?”

“I’m not sure. I liked our dynamic of straightforward honesty. I want that in a partner.”

Straightforward honesty.

He prompted me, gave me chance after chance to come clean, and I lied, right to his face.

I can feel the pressure of his attention, but I keep my eyes on the carpet, too humiliated to look anywhere else. “I think I realized when you figured it out.”

I hear his exhale. “I noticed your scar. Plus Monopoly, Girls Trip, the mentions of your dad, of a sister. Then I think it really clicked when the typo in one of your messages suddenly jumped out at me.”

“I’m so sorry, Reid.”

His silence seems to morph in front of me, and it’s in this moment I realize I’ve never really seen him angry before. I’ve seen him yell at someone on the freeway, watched him rebuke a careless intern for doing something unsafe in the lab. But I’ve never seen this. A frown pulls at the corners of his mouth and contorts it into an expression that seems almost perverse on his perpetually patient face. It’s disappointment, anger. The house is so quiet around us I can practically hear it rolling off him in waves.

He turns away, reaching for an empty beer bottle to take to the kitchen, but he stops halfway there. “What the hell were you thinking, Millie? Was it a joke?”

I choke on the words. “No! Of course not. I didn’t really think it through. I just— You guys were right about my profile, and so I changed it without telling anyone.”

“Why the name Catherine?”

“It’s my middle name. It made it feel less—”

“Deceitful?” He spits out a sharp laugh, and I wince.

Of course he didn’t know my middle name.

“I never set out to be dishonest. I was as surprised as you were when I got the message saying we’d matched.”

“So, you couldn’t have said, ‘Oh, funny thing, best friend. Even a computer program figured out that we’re sort of perfect for each other. Maybe we should give it a shot?’ ”

He stares at me as I stand and walk toward him, his gaze cold and unyielding. “I swear I thought you’d figure it out,” I say. “The Monopoly thing was meant to clue you in. But then it didn’t, and—”

“And you decided just to roll with it, have some fun?”

“No! I was going to tell you! But then you guys were making cracks about how the girl in the photograph must have been ugly, and how hot Daisy was . . .” I stop, swiping away hot tears with the sleeve of my sweater. “I got a little competitive and—”

“Jealous?” he finishes.

I look up at him. Something in me gets a little angry, too, at this being acknowledged out loud. But I really can’t justify that feeling, so I just nod. “Yeah. I was super jealous, Reid. I didn’t want you with her, even if I didn’t exactly know why yet. But it changed after that.” I move another step toward him and take a chance, reaching out to grip his arm. “Everything I wrote was true, every word of it. I said those things, that was me.”

He pulls away, and I crumble.

“But it wasn’t you. I love being with you, Millie. You’re smart and funny and I want you more than anyone I’ve ever known . . . but you never tell me anything. What’s missing—what’s always been missing between us—is the honesty I got in those letters. And you expect me to give you credit for being honest, in disguise, on some stupid dating app—after the fact?”

“I know, and you’re right. It’s hard for me to be like that in person, to talk about feelings and emotion. I’m just . . . I’m not good at it.”

“Maybe you’re just not good at being honest.”

It lands like a physical blow. I imagine a missile launched with pinpoint precision, crashing through my ribs to obliterate the hidden places I rarely examine myself, never mind share with anyone else.

“Is there—is there anyone you’re totally honest with?” he adds, and I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but somehow, this is worse. Because it’s not just anger or hurt in his voice anymore, it’s pity.

I shake my head, because what else can I say? Reid was that person for me—my first, true best friend—and it’s hard to hear how much I’ve hurt him. Disappointed him. I blink around the room; my eyes are hot and burning with tears, and it really hits me what a mess I’ve made of things.

“I think—” Reid says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I think you should probably go. It’s clear we both have some things to work out, and I don’t think we can do it with the other around. I get why you did what you did, Millie. And maybe if it hadn’t gone on so long, maybe I’d be able to overlook it. But—”

I step forward, reaching for him. “Reid, the only way I was able to be that open was because I knew it was you. I can do this. I promise.”

He takes my hands and cradles them in his. “Listen to me, okay? I love you, Millie. I do. But I think you’re worth more than just the easy parts.” He lets my hands fall to my sides. “And I need someone who thinks I’m worth it, too.”

The tires scrape as I turn into my driveway and shut off the car. Most of the houses on the block are dark, so I climb out, careful not to slam the door. A weird numbness has taken over. My head is full of static; my limbs are stiff and heavy with exhaustion. My head hurts. But I’m not tired, not really.

The chair out back is still where I left it, pulled away from the table at sort of a haphazard angle, and I sit, staring at the tree in the yard. My computer is nearby, but I don’t need to reach for it, knowing what I’d find there wouldn’t matter anyway. I know what I need to do and that calendars and schedules are the last thing I care about right now.

My fingers slip into the pocket of my sweater and wrap around my phone. It’s too late to be calling, but I know it can’t wait. I search for the name and open a new window.

Hey. I know it’s late so call me when you’re up. I’ll make all the arrangements as soon as I hear from you, but I wanted you to know that I’ll be home this summer to help. Tell Dad that I love him, and I can’t wait to spend some time at home. Hug each other for me. I love you both. I miss you.