My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren
chapter four
reid
Millie Morris
Dude. You guys.
Christopher Hill
What?
Reid Campbell
What?
Millie Morris
Your dating profiles suuuuuuck.
Alex Ramirez
There were approximately six hundred questions!
Millie Morris
I’m aware. I filled them all out, too. I’m talking specifically about your essay/intro portion.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
I spent like two hours on it!
Millie Morris
Really Ed? Two hours?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Two . . .ish.
Millie Morris
I’m going to paste the best example in here, which was Chris’s.
Christopher Hill
That’s right, boys! Learn from the man.
Christopher Hill
Headed to a meeting so I’ll catch up then. Back in an hour.
[Christopher Hill has left the chat]
Millie Morris
He left before he realized that his also needs to be rewritten.
Reid Campbell
Hey, mine wasn’t terrible.
Millie Morris
Yes, Reid, it was T E R R I B L E. You essentially had the abstract from your most recent paper in there. Women don’t need to know about optic neuritis until, like, date four. Ok, here’s Chris’s: I am divorced, 29, six foot three, and a professor of Chemistry at UC Santa Barbara.I enjoy running, home-brewing, and Cal football.
Reid Campbell
He forgot to mention roosters.
Millie Morris
He forgot to mention, like, anything interesting about himself.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Wait why is that intro bad? I don’t get it
Reid Campbell
Ed, aren’t you supposed to be helping Shaylene transfect her cells?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Shit.
Alex Ramirez
lol the downside of IM’ing with your boss
Millie Morris
Chris took the less-is-more approach. Alex, you took the all-about-me approach. I can assure you that the execution is equally offensive for entirely different reasons. Ed, yours had like 700 typos.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
I hate to break it to you but so will 90% of the profiles out there. Most people are doing all this on their phones
Millie Morris
I am so old.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Maybe you should write them for us.
Millie Morris
Uh, PARDON?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
You’re good at this shit and you obviously care more that they’re well written.
Reid Campbell
Ed. Cells. NOW.
Millie Morris
I am not being the organized, well-spoken woman to your male chaos.
[Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio has left the chat]
Reid Campbell
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he has a point.
Millie Morris
UGGGGGGH
Reid Campbell
Please Mills? I’ll buy you lunch.
Millie Morris
You owe me lunch anyway.
Reid Campbell
Two lunches then. You can wear your elastic waist pants tomorrow.
Millie Morris
No
Alex Ramirez
Please Millie
Millie Morris
No
Alex Ramirez
It’s a good idea Mills
Millie Morris
No
I sense that victory is near—Millie is just about to break—but I’m called away from pressuring her when my phone rings. My smile fades at the picture of my mom lighting up the screen. In the photo, she’s standing on the wide front porch of my childhood home, wearing her worn denim shirt and rubber boots up to the knees of her khaki pants. Her long gray hair is tied back with ribbon. We’ve always had an easy relationship, my parents, Rayme, and I. But three months ago, at Christmas, Mom and I took a long walk through the family vineyards behind the house and—whether out of some strange mood or the impulsive decision that I was an adult and therefore ready to also be a confidant—she told me about nearly all of her marital woes. Not only did I have to hear her frustration that my parents barely have sex, and how Dad never tells her she’s pretty anymore, but I had to talk her off the ledge of panic when she started speculating that Dad was having an affair with the woman down the street, a forty-year-old artist named Marla who creates sculptures out of only things found in her yard: twigs, leaves . . . rodents.
So these days, unfortunately, a call from my mother triggers mild nausea.
“Hey, Mom.”
She doesn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk. “What night are you arriving for the party?”
I take a few moments to figure out what she’s referring to, vaguely staring at the still-scrolling chat screen on my computer. Finally: “What?”
“Your birthday,” she says. “I assume we’re celebrating it here?”
“I assumed I’d just have drinks out with friends, or whatever.”
“It may be just a go-out-for-drinks birthday for you, but thirty-two years ago,” my mother says, voice thin with emotion, “I pushed out the most—”
“Okay, Mom.”
“—beautiful baby boy—”
“Yup. Okay.”
“It took twenty-seven hours of hard labor,” she reminds me. “You were nine pounds, fourteen ounces! Do you have any idea how big that is? Oh, how I tore.”
I rub my temples. “Thank you for enduring that.”
“So, if you think you’re celebrating this day anywhere but with me?” She pauses, and when I don’t reply she says simply, “Think again.”
“Okay, let me check my calendar.” I minimize the chat window, catching only a gif Millie sent of Kristen Bell pretending her middle finger is a tube of lipstick, and peek at my calendar. “April second is a Monday,” I say.
“Come the weekend before. Bring Chris. And Millie.”
Her words snag the last shred of hope I see to avoid this. “But if I bring Chris and Millie, I have to bring Alex and Ed.” My mom gently tolerates Alex, who, among other things, somehow managed to turn half of her guest towels green, and Ed, whom my mom has accidentally seen naked on three separate occasions.
Mom sighs. “Fine. Just this time, no nude races in the vineyards.”
Exhaling slowly, I give in. “I’ll do what I can, but you know they’re hard to control.”
I think that’s all I’ll have to endure for today, until she says, “Hopefully your father has gotten his head out of his ass by then.”
At a loss, I can manage only an “Oh?”
“I bought new lingerie, but he still—”
My internal organs tangle and the words burst out of me. “Oh, crap, I’m late to a meeting, Mom.”
Untroubled by my abrupt departure, she kisses me through the phone. “Love you, Reidey.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. I do have a meeting . . . fifteen minutes after I end the call with my mom. Which affords me enough time to hit the coffee kiosk and swing by my lab to grab Ed.
He meets me in the hall, deliberately ignoring my pointed look as I catch him tossing his lab coat over the chair closest to the door.
“Shaylene all set?” I ask.
He nods. “They’re fucking HEK cells, Reid, and Shaylene is super smart. She didn’t really need help.”
She may be “super smart,” but Shaylene is a first-year graduate student in my lab, with minimal hands-on bench work experience under her belt. As someone who claims to aspire to be a career postdoc in my lab, Ed has taken on the role of mentoring the new graduate students. But he sometimes forgets that we aren’t all born knowing molecular biology.
“Besides,” he says, “I’ve got to work on this essay for Millie.”
It takes me a beat to get his meaning. “The dating profile?”
He runs a harried hand through his wild curls. I catch a glimpse of sweat forming right at his hairline. “Yeah.”
“Ed, I think you might be taking this a bit seriously.”
He stops near the water fountain and bends, slurping. Coming up, he swipes at the water running down his chin. “Chris has me all stressed out, man. And look at you guys! What if it’s just me who doesn’t get a date? It’s Chris—Mr. Deep-Voiced Chemist, and you—Mr. Lifeguard-Body Neuro-Geek, and Alex—the hot Latin lover who bangs women in that darkroom every fucking day. Then there’s me. Seth Rogen but Somehow Even Pastier.”
I start to reply that I think he’s actually more Zach Galifianakis but do a double take as we pass the darkroom in question, noting the IN USE sign lit up on the outside. “Wait, what did you say about Alex?”
“Dude, everyone knows that’s where he gets laid, like, all the fucking time.” Ed waves me off and stops me outside the department conference room. “But what if I agreed to this, and you all end up with dates for the banquet, and those dates turn into more, and where does that leave me?”
I have a flash of realization that this really matters to Ed, that deep down, this chubby science nerd really does want to meet someone and build something lasting. But since I don’t think he’d appreciate the condescending vibe of this new awareness of mine, I clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder and go for glib: “You’ll find someone. And if not, you’ve always got Cheetos and Madden NFL 18.”
“Man, fuck you.”
Thankfully, only one other person has arrived already to overhear this. Unfortunately, it’s the neurobiology department chair, Scott Ilian. He looks up, but noting that it’s just Ed, blinks back down to the journal article in front of him. “Gentlemen.”
The faculty meetings are so tedious that even I, an admitted workaholic, often want to slowly bleed myself to death at some point during the back-and-forth. Each week, emeritus professors return to continue to feel valuable—but mostly to hear themselves speak—most often on new department policies they know nothing about and which will not impact their retired lives in the slightest. New faculty want to be seen and heard and will fervently advocate for technology the department has either already considered and rejected, or can’t justify purchasing for use by only one or two labs. There will be a segment where a decision is being made, and everyone generally agrees but needs to make the point themselves, which results in ten people saying the same thing, just mildly rephrased each time.
Forty-five minutes in, and in the depths of the Rephrasing Phase, I take a deep, steadying breath and glance around the room.
Norm McMaster, our oldest faculty member, with ears the size of shoes, is asleep with his chin to his chest. Annika Stark, the department’s only neuroendocrinologist, is staring daggers at her nemesis/fuck buddy, Isaac Helm, who is currently rewording Scott’s point about the need for more stringent admissions criteria. Deborah recently had to kick a student out of her lab for failing classes two terms in a row, and Isaac is clearly just poking the bear, hoping for a fight that may or may not end up as sex later.
Sitting in his normal spot toward the back of the room, Ed is surreptitiously playing Clash of Clans on his phone. My own screen lights up with a text from Alex, sent only to me and the other guys.
Dude, did you guys see what Millie sent?
Chris replies a moment later.
These profiles are good.
I slide my phone onto the table, resisting the urge to check my email right now. Did Millie end up rewriting our dating profiles after all? And if she did mine . . . is that weird? What would she say? My name is Reid Campbell, I’m 31, six foot two, and when I’m not being a workaholic idiot, I enjoy running, manning the barbecue, and having astonishing sex with my best friend?
When I return to my office, I see that, in fact, it’s far, far better than that.
From: Morris, Millie
To: Campbell, Reid
Subject: FINE.
I wrote this because yours came into my head, and then I realized I had to write all of them because I am an enabler and way too nice to all four of you. If you don’t like it, don’t tell me. I just wasted like an hour on these.
-Mills
I was raised on a vineyard and live near the ocean, yet I know neither how to make wine nor surf. But I do love to be outdoors: hiking, sailing, even hanging on the beach with friends. My travel bucket list is a mile long. I have weekends where I’m kicking back at home, catching up on Netflix, and weekends where I take off on a road trip with friends to find the newest, greatest brewpub. I’ve run a few marathons, but can never resist cookies, or barbecue. I’m probably considered old-fashioned when it comes to dating—I think a first date is dinner, not just drinks—but I was raised by a woman who thinks a man needs to take his time and earn respect, and I agree. I absolutely love what I do for work, but am looking for someone to help me find adventure elsewhere, too. If you think we might be a good fit, I’d love to hear from you.
I reread it once, and then again. It’s simple but . . . better than anything I’d come up with on my own.
I’m reminded of the day I showed up at Millie’s last summer, in the impulsive mood to tear down the highway with the windows down and music turned up loud. We drove toward San Luis Obispo, and found a tiny new brewery there, had a lunch of messy burgers and tangy IPAs, and then drove home, quieter on the way back, with full bellies and the sound of flapping air and Tom Petty in the car. It was the perfect day with the perfect person.
And I remember when all five of us tried to surf, and only Chris managed to get up on the board while the rest of us gave up and watched from the warm sand of the shore. Millie was beside me, wearing a blue two-piece. She didn’t bother to spread out her towel; her stomach and legs were dusted with coarse sand, her eyes closed and face tilted up to the sky. We were new friends; she’d only been out of the relationship with Dustin for a matter of weeks at that point, and it was the first time we’d really talked about it—after a decent amount of prodding on my end: about how distracted Dustin was, about how weird it felt to be single, about how relieved she was to no longer be living with someone with such a hot temper.
I see our moments in every line of this profile, except one: I don’t know how she knows that I can’t imagine going on a date with only drinks, that a first date over coffee seems odd to me. I wonder whether she sees deeper, too, to a place even I can’t really access, and which understands better than my conscious mind does the ache I feel at the thought of Millie also writing a profile for herself, for others out there to read.
I’m unprepared for the way this hits me. The train of thought gives me a lurching nausea that resembles what I felt earlier, talking to Mom—the sense of something being all wrong. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, and then open the IM thread with the guys.
Reid Campbell
Ok Millie’s attempt at my profile is pretty good.
Christopher Hill
Let’s see it.
Reid Campbell
You, too. Here’s mine . . .
I paste it in, and then read theirs as they pop up on the screen.
Christopher Hill
My friends would call me the calmest member of our group, and although I think it’s true, I sometimes feel like I have so much strident curiosity burning inside me that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to retire. I have a silver Labrador named Maisie, and she is the current love of my life, but there’s absolutely room in there for more. Having married—and later divorced—my high school sweetheart, I learned not that relationships are treacherous, but that finding the right one isn’t easy, and we are all constantly growing with the world around us. I am a devoted fan of Cal football, roosters in any form, road biking, and will drive a hundred miles to find the best doughnut.
Christopher Hill
That rooster line is going, but otherwise—it’s pretty good.
Alex Ramirez
I love her so hard for slipping that in. Here’s mine: I see so many people around here emphasizing how laid-back they are, and I’ll be honest: that’s not me at all—I love to get out there and make some noise. I grew up racing dirt bikes in Huntington Beach, and now spend as much free time as I can mountain biking in the hills around Santa Barbara. I love to cook, I love to eat, and I love to dance my face off at weddings. But don’t worry—I don’t need to find someone who loves all the things I do, I want to find someone who knows who she is, is happy with who I am, and is ready to get out there and have some fun.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
And by fun, you mean sex.
Alex Ramirez
100%
Reid Campbell
Ed, where’s yours?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
I live in one of the most active places in California, but I admit to being a bit of a homebody. Don’t get me wrong—I love being outdoors, but I prefer the quiet version: the beach at night, the shaggy coastline, the hills at dusk. Some people are happiest out and about—me, I’m happiest when I’m in the lab or with my circle of friends, enjoying a good meal, and cracking jokes. I may never be the first across the finish line, but I will be laughing the entire trip no matter what. Honestly, I’m just looking for someone who wants to be there, laughing right next to me.
Reid Campbell
Wow. These are good.
Christopher Hill
Has anyone seen Millie’s?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
No.
Christopher Hill
I mean, if we’re loading these now, we’ll see hers soon right?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Not necessarily because even if she posts it online, men can’t see women’s full profiles unless they’re granted access to them. So, you’d have to like her photo and basic profile and hope that she gives you access.
Reid Campbell
But wouldn’t she? With us?
Christopher Hill
I mean we’re not planning to date Mills, so maybe not.
Alex Ramirez
Why not just ask her to send it to you dumbass
Reid Campbell
Ok, I will. Let me add her.
[Millie Morris has joined the chat]
Millie Morris
What up losers
Reid Campbell
These profiles are awesome
Millie Morris
I know! I’m really good at this.
Alex Ramirez
Let’s see yours
Millie Morris
Alex, please. At least buy me dinner first.
Alex Ramirez
Oh, girl, I would buy you dinner AND dessert if you catch my drift
Millie Morris
Well that escalated quickly.
Reid Campbell
In the darkroom, right Alex?
Alex Ramirez
What?
Millie Morris
What?
Reid Campbell
Never mind. Mills—show us your profile.
Millie Morris
Okay hang on. Then I’ve got to jet to class . . .
Millie Morris
Here tit is. Enjoy. “It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt. I’ve always been drawn to the eccentric, the eerie, the unbelievable. I’m a lover of books and beaches, movies and mayhem. If you want to know more, just ask!
[Millie Morris has left the chat]
Christopher Hill
. . . An Eleanor Roosevelt quote? Is Millie a lesbian?
Reid Campbell
Not that I know of, but now I’m questioning everything.
Alex Ramirez
Huh. I feel like that last sentence could take Millie’s inbox to a lot of interesting places.
Reid Campbell
So I’m not the only one who was underwhelmed by this?
Christopher Hill
Are any of us surprised that it says nothing about her?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Maybe she’s anticipating guys being sort of gross so she’s sharing less?
Christopher Hill
Maybe.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Someone should tell her that sucked. NOT IT
Christopher Hill
Not it
Alex Ramirez
NOT IT
Reid Campbell
W O W.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
What? She likes you the most
Reid Campbell
Who doesn’t?
Reid Campbell
So are we doing this? I have to get back to work.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Mine is ready to go. I’m using that pic Chris took of me last summer.
Christopher Hill
The one where you’re dressed as Grimace? I think that’s a bad choice.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
No, the one of me on your back deck, you dick.
Christopher Hill
Marginally better.
Alex Ramirez
Clicking submit in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
Reid Campbell
Here we go.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Oh, and “tits.” Everyone notice she typed tits again?
Alex Ramirez
Classic Millie. Loves tits. Maybe she is a lesbian.
Reid Campbell
Focus.
