My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren
chapter sixteen
reid
Chris peeks his head in my office door. “You coming?”
I push away from my keyboard and rub my eyes. They’re burning, like they do when I haven’t looked up from my computer monitor or blinked in hours. I should have expected him: he comes at the same time every Monday.
“No,” I say. “I’m going to grab something later and eat in my office.”
This time he steps in, resting his hands on the back of a chair, and levels me with a disappointed look. “You know it’s been three weeks?”
I give him a flat I’m not talking about this now look, and reach for my coffee. I’m acutely aware of every hour that passes.
It’s killing me. I don’t know if she’s still joining them at lunch twice a week—I don’t ask, and Chris has never offered.
Until now: “She’s never there, man. Not since everything went down. It’s just us. The guys. In all our glory.”
I’m not sure what to do with the reaction I have—sadness—and how he seems to be telling me this not as a guilt trip, but as reassurance that I don’t have to see her. But I don’t like the idea that she’s alone, suffering, either.
“I’m serious.” Now he sits down. “Don’t even pretend like that isn’t the reason you’re avoiding all of us.”
“I’m not pretending,” I tell him. “That is exactly the reason I’m avoiding you guys. I’m also pissed that everyone knew—”
“I didn’t,” he reminds me, hands held up in defense.
“It feels like it became a game, and I think that’s the part that feels the most fucked up.”
Chris shakes his head. “It wasn’t a game, at least from what I can tell. Ed did not like having the secret. Alex . . . I mean, who knows. I’m sure he just didn’t want to get involved. But it sounds like everyone’s advice to her was, ‘Talk to Reid.’ ”
“Well, except when they helped her write the last letter. And anyway, she didn’t talk to me.”
He pauses, looking at my shelves. Finally, he agrees, “She didn’t. Until she knew she had to.”
“So how fucked up is it that I miss her?” I ask, and the admission pushes a sharp blade of discomfort through my sternum. I’ve turned this over a thousand times in my head. If it were Chris in this situation, not me, wouldn’t I be telling him to write the woman off for the rest of his life?
Chris turns back and looks at me evenly, and then nods. “I know, man. I miss her, too.”
Because it isn’t the woman. It’s Mills.
“Like, really fucking miss her. And I’m not sure how to get over her. There’s no one like her. No one makes me feel the way she does. And I know that she’s out there, waiting for me to figure out whether I’m going to forgive her. But how can we start something meaningful on that kind of betrayal?”
“Reid,” he says gently, “you know I’m on your side in all of this, but at some point, we all have to admit that Millie is just really bottled up. It’s part of the deal of being her friend, and if you’re going to be with her in a more serious way, and can’t deal with that aspect of her personality, you’re going to have to figure out how to get her to be more open.”
“This is what I’m struggling with, honestly.”
“We all knew there were secrets. I mean, come on, this is Millie we’re talking about. She likes to pretend she doesn’t have a past.”
“Yeah.” I pick up a paperclip, slowly straightening it. “And truthfully, I know with the Cat thing that her intentions weren’t malicious. I know that she was able to open up because it was me. I know all of this, but it is still so hard to reconcile that with how it felt to be in the dark and find out that everything I was telling Cat about my life, I was telling Millie. Even things about being messed up with Millie.” I pause. “And the guys knew. That’s fucked up, okay? They knew, and were loyal to her—not me—to the point of supporting her lie.”
We fall into silence, because there’s nothing else to say about this. I’ve gone around and around about it, nearly constantly: My life doesn’t feel complete without her in it; these past few weeks have felt like there was a death in my family. But every time I’m about to call her, embarrassment rises like smoke in my lungs and I put my phone back down. She had so many chances to tell me, and didn’t.
“All right,” Chris says, and his hands land on his thighs in a gentle slap before he stands. “I’m off to meet the guys for lunch. It’s weird, man. You two are the glue, you know?”
I think he’s going to say something more than that, but when I look back up, he’s on his way out of my office.
Work.
Focus on work. It’s the best way to cope, the most productive way to handle stress.
I blink over to my inbox before returning to the journal article I’m working on and see an email notification that I have a new contact request on IRL. The appearance of the site name in my inbox is jarring; I haven’t been on the app since the day Cat—Millie—told me she was moving.
I open the notification and my eyes instinctively drop past the logo to where I know I’ll find the information about who’s contacted me.
My pulse rockets. I have a new contact request from Millie M.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 12:45 pm, April 30
I’ve given you almost a month to process everything, and it’s killed me, but I know you needed space. Ignore these if you want or deny my contact request. But I miss you like crazy, Reid.
I’m giving you access to my full profile, which I updated just for you. I’m not trying to meet anyone else. I’ve already found the love of my life and I didn’t even need this website to do it. But I thought maybe this would be a good way to start getting to know each other again, if you’ll let me.
Love,
Mills
I stare at the green and red button options at the bottom.
Allow or deny?
With my hand on the mouse, I slide to the left, clicking ALLOW.
Her new profile opens in front of me. There’s a photo I took of her standing in Chris’s yard, wearing a lobster oven mitt on one hand, holding a tray of salmon aloft with the other, and grinning like an idiot. She once told me it’s the only photo taken of her that she absolutely adores. “Most of the time I look like either a bitch or a stoner,” she said.
I remember that day like it happened a week ago. Ed thought he would make us all dinner, and decided to grill duck, which resulted in Chris’s grill catching fire and Ed nearly losing his eyebrows. Millie saved the day by running to the store and grabbing some salmon, which she barbecued to perfection. I snapped the photo just as she turned to present it to us, proudly.
Beneath the photo are a few new paragraphs where her old profile used to be.
Hi. We both know the generals: Born in Bellingham, always a quirky kid. Mother died too young, sister needed too much, dad was a quiet mess. The sad specifics aren’t a secret—they’re just sad. It’s the quiet specifics that are hard to explain, the years and years where it feels like nothing of interest happened to me.
I realize I’m a late bloomer, socially. If I went home, I’d run into people who would be perfectly pleasant to me, but would never say, “Oh, Millie and I were super close in high school.” I was easygoing, upbeat, nice to everyone. Maybe I got sick of being nice. Maybe that’s why I’m so mean to Ed.
That’s my only joke, I promise.
Did I become fascinated with murder because, in comparison, female psychopaths make me look well-adjusted? Maybe. I don’t know if it’s because of my mother dying, or just the way my life would have unfolded regardless, but I think I managed to roam through life until my late twenties not really knowing how to take care of people. I want to do better.
That’s it. That’s all there is, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I sit back and stare at my screen. Millie’s new profile feels like a beginning, a warning maybe, that what comes next might be messy, but at least it’ll be intentional.
There’s a brightness in me, something blooming warm and tight. I worry that it’s hope.
Putting my phone facedown, I turn back to my computer and find where I’ve left off in my article.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 1:39 am, May 1
You haven’t written me back, but you did let me write you, so I’m going to limit myself to one a day. If I’m bugging you, at least you can be comforted knowing that the Block button is really simple. Trust me, I used it a few times in the early days with Mr. Dick Profile Pic and Mr. Show Me Your Rack.
Anyway, here’s something I don’t think you knew: I lost my virginity to a guy named Phil. PHIL! I know, right! It’s the least sexy name I can imagine. Sometimes when I’m alone and feeling glum, I think of the name and say it in sort of a breathless sexy voice, and I can’t stop laughing. Maybe it’s slightly sexier than Ernest or Norman. But only slightly. Philip? Now that’s sexy. But Philllll.
Bottom line, I was fifteen, he was seventeen, and we had no idea what we were doing. I remember it being messy and being more embarrassed about that than anything. I ruined my sheets, and Dad found me trying to shove them in the washer, and I’m sure he was furious but per usual, he didn’t say anything and so I didn’t either.
It’s always sort of been that way, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 3:14 pm, May 2
I’m afraid of the following things: vans with no windows, confined spaces, moths on my front porch, crows, dust bunnies, and giant boats like cruise ships.
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 9:23 am, May 3
I never said “I love you” to Dustin. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever said it to anyone except you, and my mom. Looking back, I realize I probably should have said it to Elly every day. For someone who grew up the way she did—with two people mourning a ghost, and who never figured out how to say the right words—she’s pretty amazing. You should meet her sometime.
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 11:59 am, May 4
We had a faculty meeting today and I so badly wanted to tell every man in there to shut the hell up for fifteen minutes and let the TWO WOMEN OUT OF THE SIXTEEN FACULTY speak.
I wish that I’d had lunch with you afterwards, but I’m sure you’re relieved you didn’t have to listen to me rail about the patriarchy for an hour over a shitty Cobb salad. (It’s Friday, and Friday always feel like Reid days—Mondays/Wednesdays too—but we always seemed to make Friday nights happen. It’s probably why I’m a little blue.) Anyway, late in the meeting, Dustin said something too asinine for me to let slide, and I just blew up at him in front of everyone. He approached me afterward and suggested that I was bringing our past into the faculty meetings.
I actually laughed. I mean, I laughed for like ten solid minutes in his office, and once I got myself together I reminded him that he and I broke up over two years ago, that I’m in love with you (though it’s most likely unreciprocated), and that my frustration was primarily about his inability to hire women and people of color. Of course, being Dustin, he focused on the thing I’d said about you.
So, apologies in advance if it’s awkward the next time you see him on campus.
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 4:34 pm, May 5
I watched Rudy today and fuck that movie! I’m not even that invested in college football but was still crying like a baby at the end. Then I ate that pint of Cherry Garcia I found in my freezer that you left here probably a decade ago, and felt gross. Why do you like that stuff? Chunky Monkey 4 lyfe.
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 11:11 am, May 6
It’s 11:11, Reid. Make a wish.
I miss you.
Mills.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 10:41 am, May 7
I swear to god, Reid, I’m trying to make these interesting but today was probably the most uneventful day on record. I worked all day, went to Cajé about seventeen times because I kept nodding off at my desk, and then left early and got measured for all new bras. Turns out I’m a 34C, and I don’t know why that makes me so proud but my whole life I thought I was a B cup and I’m not! I wanted to gloat to someone, but Elly and I don’t really have that relationship and turns out, I don’t have that relationship with anyone else who has boobs! So, working on that. But for now, I’m gloating to you, Reid. My boobs are bigger than yours! And they’re in a nice, new, silky red bra.
Love,
Millie
From: Millie M.
Sent: 7:57 pm, May 8
I barely slept last night. I’ve been working on the book, and it’s going really well, but I miss you, and you know how things always feel worse at night? Last night was one of those where I just lay in bed, thinking over every shitty thing I’ve done, and feeling terrible. I’m so sorry about Catherine, and not telling you. I wish I’d been strong enough to do the right thing from the very beginning, but I wasn’t. I feel like such a cliché even saying this, but the reason I lied wasn’t at all about you or anything you did. The secrecy was about me, and how terrifying and exhilarating it was to be so open with you in a way that felt safe. Unfortunately, that safety came from the fact that you weren’t aware it was me, and that’s shitty. You’re honestly too good for me, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want you anyway.
I’ve seen so many movies where one person in a couple says, “I was fine before you came along!” and is that supposed to mean that they were fine before and will be fine again, but don’t want to be fine alone?
I’m not sure. Because I don’t think I was “fine” before I met you. I was lame. I was limited. I want to be better for you.
Oh, my God, I’m becoming Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets.
(Can we agree by the way that Helen Hunt was way too hot for him? My god. Ew!)
Love,
Mills
From: Millie M.
Sent: 9:14 pm, May 9
I ran into Alex today while getting lunch, and I swear we both had the guiltiest looks on our faces after we hugged, like I’m not supposed to get the guy friends in this divorce—and we both know it. So, I wanted to tell you that I saw Alex, but I promise not to make plans with any of them without your permission.
It was so good to see him, though. I miss you, of course, but I miss them, too. I’ve never had friends like this, and I swear I am this close to getting a cat because I am so fucking lonely.
I want you to know that Ed and Alex really wanted no part of the secret Catherine situation. Ed was a basket case, and Alex seemed mostly perplexed by the whole thing. If you’re mad at anyone, of course, be mad at me. Those guys are good, and you deserve good.
I’m sorry I ever let you believe otherwise.
Love,
Mills
Usually she writes at night. I’ve come to expect it, and I wonder what will happen if, one day, I check the IRL app when I head to bed, or when I first wake up in the morning, and there isn’t a note there.
I look forward to them, even if I’m not sure how I want to reply yet. I find that by around four in the afternoon, my stomach feels like it’s risen to my chest, my hands are restless, and I feel the same way I used to feel before starting a race: excited, but also a little queasy.
Millie’s honesty is refreshing, but it’s also disorienting. It makes me feel famished—I want more—and it’s also frustrating to continue to read it, knowing that it’s so much harder for her to do it in person.
But she is trying. Maybe it’s a start.
I read last night’s message again, and then get to work early to help Shaylene practice a presentation she’s giving to the department at eleven. Since she’s finishing up her first year of graduate studies, she has to present the work she’s done so far. It’s a big milestone for the first-year students, and Shaylene—who is much like my father, which is to say not a natural orator—has been dreading this for weeks.
So it is both nice and surprising to find Ed already there, going through it with her. It looks like they’ve been here for some time already: notes are scattered across the conference room table, the slide projector is on, and Shaylene is bent over her laptop, editing a slide.
Perhaps not surprisingly, things are still weird with Ed. Mostly what’s weird is treating him like any other employee in the lab, rather than my right hand and one of my best friends. He’s been nothing but professional since all the crap with Millie and Cat went down, but it stings a little when we both go to make an old inside joke then abruptly stop. Or when I see him leaving to go meet Chris and Alex for lunch and he no longer asks if I want to come.
Ed looks up when I come into the conference room, and with a quiet “Hey, Reid,” he bends to collect his notebook and pen, like he’s going to gather his things and leave me to help Shaylene prep solo.
“Stay, Ed,” I say. “I was just coming to make sure everything was going okay.”
We’ve spoken; it’s not like there’s a complete silent treatment happening in the lab, but I’m sure everyone notices that something has changed. Shaylene looks back and forth between the two of us, concerned.
“She’s good,” Ed says. “I pretended to be Scott and grilled her about all the experimental minutiae, and she seems pretty firm on everything.”
Shaylene confirms this with a nod. “He was really helpful.” She glances at Ed and gives him a shy flash of a smile. “Thanks, Ed.”
“Good; good job.” I hesitate, unsure whether either of them needs me there. I am increasingly aware of having become The Boss in the past year or so—especially after procuring tenure. With that awareness comes the next one—that I am somewhat scary, and therefore not always a grad student’s first choice to work out practice talks. “Okay, I’ll be down in my office if anyone needs me.”
I turn to leave, but Shaylene stops me. “Dr. Campbell? Would you like to go get coffee with us?”
She looks at Ed and nods, like she’s prompting him. He wordlessly scrutinizes her for a few beats before quickly nodding, too.
“Yes. Coffee,” he says. “Right.”
I check my watch. I’ve generally avoided spending much time with Ed if I don’t need to, but right now I don’t have any good reason to decline. “Sure.”
But as soon as we get out in the hall, Shaylene pulls up short. “You know what? I think I want to go tinker with my transition slides a little. You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch you in a bit.”
Ed and I stand there, aware that we’ve been set up by a wily twenty-two-year-old. We watch her walk down the hall toward the stairwell leading to our lab.
Ed growls, and then silence descends. I feel him turn to look at me. “We don’t have to go grab coffee, you know.”
“Did Shaylene really just set us up?” I ask.
“Yup.” He reaches up, and his fingers disappear in his mop of hair as he scratches his scalp. “The joke in the lab is that Mom and Dad are fighting.”
I stare at him, somewhat speechless.
“I think I’m the mom,” he clarifies. “Which is pretty rad.”
And I don’t know what it is about this in particular, but I just burst out laughing. At first unsure, Ed finally grins. And then he throws his arms around me, pressing his face to my shoulder. “I missed you so much. I’ve felt like complete shit. I’m so, so sorry, man.”
I reach up and pat his back. Forgiveness is so fucking freeing. I feel immediately like I can relax my shoulders for the first time in weeks. I feel the tiniest bit closer to not only the freedom of forgiving Millie, but the relief of being near her again, too.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 1:11 am, May 10
I guess you need an update on the Elly/Dad situation if you’re going to understand the rest of this ramble, so here goes.
Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease about a year and a half ago. I should have told you, I know. We hadn’t known each other long, and diseased parents turn conversations serious, real fast. I’m shitty at talking about personal stuff not only because I feel awkward talking about myself, but also because I don’t like turning a conversation into a downer.
Anyway. From the start, they started Dad on a medication called Sinemet, which I’m sure you know all about. So, for a while it was okay—it helped.
But as the dopamine cells in his brain continue to die, the Sinemet is less effective, right? Because it relies on the remaining healthy cells in order to work? I’m trying to understand the science behind all of it. Anyway, his neurologist is recommending deep brain stimulation, and he’s resisting, even though Elly really wants him to try it.
Elly has been managing whatever he needs help with, but with the twins she’s exhausted. She’s asked me to come home a few times, and I have—for a weekend here and there—but she wants me home for a good month so that she and Jared can take a vacation, and probably also just so that Dad has some time with me.
I’d been resisting because I hate being home. Do you remember that time we went to Hendry’s Beach to watch the dogs in the water? You knew something was off, and you didn’t push me to tell you what was going on, but I’d just found out about the diagnosis. I lasted maybe four hours after I found out, and then flew back here. I felt so guilty, but I hate being there, and hearing that Dad was sick was like getting Mom’s diagnosis all over again.
So, there are two things I’m telling you. One, I started therapy two weeks ago. I’m going twice a week and so far it’s been really great. I’m actually talking. Her name is Anna, and she’s funny and seems to get me, and is helping me fix my stupid emotional brain.
Two, I’m going home for three and a half weeks in July. Dad’s having the surgery on June 22, and I’ll be there when he gets out of the physical rehabilitation facility on July 2 until the 25th.
I don’t even know what else to say. I’m dreading the trip, but I feel relieved, too, like I’m finally doing the things I should have been doing all along. It feels really good to tell you this.
I love you,
Millie
For eleven days I’ve read her messages and let them sink in, let them carefully smooth over the jagged damage her betrayal caused, but I can’t stay away anymore. I slam my laptop shut and grab my keys as I jog past the counter. If I was asked to recount the drive from my place to hers, I would describe only a blur of scenery punctuated at the end by the high-pitched squeal of my tires coming to a stop in her driveway.
I can barely pull in a deep breath, and when she opens the door in her pajamas, with her hair messy, and eyes red from crying, I think I stop breathing entirely.
She doesn’t say anything before she bursts into tears, and melts into me when I wrap my arms around her.
