My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren

chapter five

millie

My phone is ringing before the sun is even up.

Well, ringing isn’t quite right; it’s buzzing incessantly from somewhere beneath my back. I try to roll away before realizing I’m tangled in the sheets and extracting myself feels like a lot of work—my arms are asleep, my head is foggy, and I’m not ready to leave this Chris Hemsworth dream.

Dream Me asked him to stay after class and he’d just stepped inside my office and closed the door. Normally I’d be horrified by that kind of student-teacher thing, but since Dream Me is dressed as Hot Teacher, and Dream Chris Hemsworth is dressed as Thor (short-hair Thor: Ragnarok, to be exact), I’m willing to overlook it.

I pity the person who has the balls to tear me away from this escape from reality at—I squint at the screen—five thirty, because I’m going to kill them.

With fumbling hands I manage to answer, eyes still closed as I croak out a groggy “Hello?”

“Hey, Millie.”

My sister. My sister who has six-month-old twins and assumes everyone is awake at the crack of dawn. “I wanted to get you before you left for class.”

With a little work, I manage to roll to my side. It’s not much of an improvement. “I don’t have class until nine, Elly.” I reach up and rub my eyes. “It’s not even six yet.”

“Oh, whoops,” she singsongs. In the background I can hear water running and the sound of what I assume are dishes clanking in the sink. Elly is always on the move, always doing at least two things at a time, which is why I know she didn’t call just to catch up. That’s not really our thing, anyway. “Sorry about that. I was checking to see if you’d looked at your schedule yet, or thought more about what I said.”

Guilt flares to life in my stomach.

Despite what I told Reid, Dad’s Parkinson’s disease has its claws dug in deep. Some days, he can barely get moving in the morning. His neurologist has mentioned he might need surgery to stimulate certain areas of his brain. With her two babies and a full life in Seattle, Elly needs help. She wants her single sister to do what she knows I can do: take the summer off and move home when Dad has the surgery, to give her a little break.

The problem is, moving home gives me this humid, panicky feeling in my chest, like I can’t breathe. I don’t want to go home.

Older than Elly by six years, I was always just a bit out of playmate range. I was Mom’s little wacky duck—on my good days, I was silly and playful; on my difficult days I was obstinate. Elly, on the other hand, was quiet and studious—the dependable one. I wanted to host an Unsolved Mysteriesreboot when I grew up; Elly wanted to be a nurse.

I was twelve when Mom died, Elly was only six, and suddenly I was the second-oldest in the house. Six years between us meant I was the babysitter, the cook, the maid, the big sister, the one Dad needed to step up. If I’d had Elly’s temperament, it would have been so much easier—I get that now.

But I was also frantic with pain. I remembered every detail about Mom, and her laugh and her smile and her tight hugs. Frankly, I didn’t know how to move about my space, my day, my life without a mother. Elly was almost too young to have such clarity, and it felt completely unfair that I should be expected to take care of her when I needed so much caretaking of my own. I could barely sort out my feelings, let alone help another child with hers.

Elly would ask questions about Mom—what happened, when was she coming back, did it hurt—and Dad would change the subject, so I’d try to answer as well as I could. I’d tell her that Mom got sick, that she wasn’t coming back but that I was here. I’d tell her that it didn’t hurt for long, and Mom loved us very much. Maybe Dad thought he was protecting us from the hard truth that Mom’s death was fast and painful, or maybe it was just too difficult for him to face it himself. Either way, there was no oxygen in the house without Mom there, and over the next few years Elly stopped asking questions, and we all got really, really quiet. It felt like Dad was just waiting for us to be old enough to leave.

I can’t explain it—that feeling of being so untethered to anyone. I used to dream that I was in the middle of an ocean and could see for miles in every direction, but there was no one else around me.

When I turned eighteen, I practically sprinted for the door.

Elly stayed in Seattle for school and got married, turning her loss into what she needed: an anchor and a family. Was it different for her with Dad because he was her primary parent for most of her life? Maybe. But now, after doing everything for the past twelve years, Elly, my patient, gentle sister, is losing her patience with me.

“I’m not saying you should move home permanently,” she says. “But you should at least come home more. Stay longer than for just a weekend. I think the summer could be really good—for all of us.”

“I have to turn my manuscript in by the end of the summer,” I tell her, “and need the summer to make a dent in it.” It’s true, but it’s also a very convenient excuse. Judging by her silence on the other end of the line, we both know it. “Let me see how much I can get done before then and figure out if it’ll work.”

“Thanks, Millie.”

I can tell my sister wants to be happy for me, but disappointment hovers in her voice.

“I’ll update you as soon as I know something.” I roll to my back again and look up at the ceiling, at the way the blue-gray light from the window creeps along the walls. The muted color matches my mood. “How is he?”

“He’s . . .” She shuts off the water and the silence grows while she formulates an answer. If I’m this anxious waiting to hear, what must it be like to live with it, day in and day out? “He’s good,” she says. “Slower now, and less independent. His balance is terrible, so we’re thinking of looking for a new house. Something without stairs.”

Jared and Elly bought their house right after they were married. Things must be getting bad if they’re considering selling it.

“I can help with that, too,” I tell her, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I’ll have part of my advance by then, and it’s all yours if you need it.”

Two Cocoa Krispies doughnuts improve my outlook dramatically by the time I get to school, but the call with Elly sticks like a cloudy film on a window. I know I did my best as a kid, but I can’t stop feeling like a selfish asshole now. Elly needs me. Dad needs me. But I would honestly rather walk across a beach of broken glass than spend the summer in my childhood home.

Instinct carries me here: with a coffee in each hand, I use my foot to push open the door to Reid’s office. He’s finishing up a call, phone wedged between chin and shoulder, pen scribbling away at something on his desk.

The polite thing would be to wait outside or tell him to find me later, but Reid and I have never been particularly good at boundaries—obviously—and so I set his cup down in front of him and take a seat while he wraps things up. I’m not really in the mood to talk, but locking myself in my office isn’t going to do anything but make me feel worse.

Given the fastidiousness of Reid’s brain, his desk is a surprising mess. There’s the usual detritus of files and assignments and books, but Reid is an obsessive note taker so there are Post-its and scraps of paper everywhere, notes tacked to the computer monitor, the window, the walls. A corkboard hangs just within arm’s reach and it’s so weighed down with bulletins and reports and random scribbles, I’m not even sure how it’s still hanging.

The one on the side of his computer is a drawing of a brain—not just a doodle, but an actual anatomically correct illustration—with arrows and words like limbic and superior colliculus. This is exactly why we no longer play Draw Something—Reid goes way too deep. The Post-it just beside the drawing has the name Lillie and a phone number written in bubbly, heart-embellished script.

Do I remember him mentioning a Lillie?

“Sorry about that. You okay?”

I startle, sloshing my coffee on his desk. I didn’t even hear him hang up the phone. “Shit. What?”

“You’re . . . pouting.” He sounds amazed.

My eyes flick to the tacked-up phone number, and back to where I’m using my only napkin to sop up some of the mess. “Yeah. Totally. Just zoning out.”

Reid eyes me with a curious grin before handing me a few tissues to help. He picks up his own cup. “Thanks for this. I meant to grab some before I started this morning but got called away.”

“Of course.”

He takes a sip, sucking in a breath when he burns himself.

“PS, it’s hot,” I say, and drop the tissues into the trash can next to his feet. “Long morning?”

“You could say that. I came in to get some papers graded and was cornered by a couple students begging for extensions. But, I’m glad you came.” He looks at me again and then does a double take. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Reid.”

“You look . . . haggard.”

“Wow. Seduce me, why don’t you.”

“Seriously, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing, I swear.”

He stares at me with flat skepticism for one, two, three seconds, before shaking his head to clear it. “Okay, whatever. I wanted to show you something.” Reaching for his phone, he swipes the screen before turning it to face me.

I lean in. “Good God, Reid. You have ninety-eight updates to install? Amazon, OpenTable, Facebook . . . What is wrong with you?”

“Focus, Millie.” He taps on a bright blue icon with a red notification bubble. “The IRL app. I woke up to eighteen notifications.”

“Notifications for . . . ?”

He clearly thinks I’m going to figure it out because he pauses for a few lingering seconds before giving up. “Didn’t you go through the app intro when you downloaded it?”

I spread my hands like he should know the answer to this. “Obviously not?”

Laughing, he says, “Okay, this means eighteen women shared their profile with me.”

“Ohhhh.” I fumble for my bag on the back of the chair and pull out my own phone. I hadn’t even thought to look. “I filled everything out on the laptop.” I turn the screen to him. “Oh, hey look, I didn’t even download the app yet.”

“According to Ed, you’ll want to use your phone for everything else.” He lifts his chin. “Search for it in the App Store.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down with this technical speak.” My eyes are wide in faux-confusion. “Write that down for me, mansplainer.”

“Jesus Christ, Millie.”

“I do know how an iPhone works, Reid.”

He leans back with a patient sigh and continues scrolling through his own messages. “One of them speaks French and is a scuba instructor,” he says proudly, eyes widening as he zooms in on a photo.

Once the app has downloaded, I enter in the username and password I’d set up on my computer. “How does this work, exactly?” I ask. “There’s no swipe right or whatever, is there? That sounds terrible.”

“You know you were in the room when we talked about this.”

I smile at him over the top of my coffee. “I probably wasn’t listening. I do that sometimes when you speak.”

“As I mentioned before, men can only see your basic info and summary, along with a thumbnail of your photo. They can’t see the entire profile until you approve them. In which case you’ll probably have some requests wanting to see more.”

“But not eighteen . . .”

Reid ignores me and sure enough, an alert pops up signaling that I have unread messages. I’m surprised by the rush the little red bubble brings. “I have twelve requests pending.”

Reid’s brows climb up his forehead, impressed. “Not bad, Mills. Ed had four.”

“You’re comparing me to Ed now? Wait, what profile pic did he use? Did he use the one of him in the bathrobe doing the Captain Morgan pose?”

Ed, who wanted to wear an Animal House toga for his faculty photo.

“Yes.”

“And you’re surprised I have more than him? Reid. Come on.”

“I’m saying that with such limited information and only a thumbnail to see your pretty face, twelve isn’t bad.”

“What profile picture did you use?” I ask. “Were you wearing the FBI shirt?” I let out a short bursting cackle. I will never get over Reid having to borrow a shirt from Alex’s trunk when his own disappeared from the beach, and all Alex had was one that said FBI: Female Body Inspector. We went right out for drinks that night, and, oh boy, Reid got some shit.

“Sadly, Ed spilled red wine on that one. I won’t be able to wear it again.”

“Well, that solves the problem of future commentary.”

He leans forward, redirecting my attention to my screen. “The little percentage in the blue bubble at the top of the request shows—”

“Our compatibility, I know, I know. Seriously, how do you think I feed and bathe myself every day?”

“Just read through them and see who you want to share with.”

With an odd mixture of dread and anticipation, I open the first message, wincing a little at the photo. I don’t want to seem completely superficial, so I don’t comment on the backward baseball cap or puka shell necklace, and start to read.

“ ‘I might be the man your looking for. I’ve been a plumber for fifteen years and know a thing or two about cleaning pipes ;) I like to spend my weekends on the lake or at the barbecue, and am looking for a special lady to stand at my side. If you think your up to the challenge, drop me a line. I just might bite.’ ”

My eye roll must be audible because Reid looks up with a questioning glance.

“There’s just so much here,” I say. “Where do I even begin? ‘Cleaning pipes’?”

“Virility is a sign of health.”

“He wants someone to stand by him at the barbecue.”

“I think that’s kind of sweet—Don’t look at me like that.”

“Reid, he misspelled ‘you’re.’ ”

“You’re always typing ‘tit’ instead of ‘it.’ It could have been an accident.”

“Twice?”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s look at the next one.”

“‘My name is Greg and I’m thirty-two. I’m a structural engineer because I live to figure things out. They say travel is good for the soul, and I firmly believe that. I studied abroad during college, and consider myself lucky enough to have seen the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Colosseum, the Scottish Highlands, and the Parthenon all before I graduated. If you think you could be my next adventure, I’d love to hear from you.’”

This sounds too good to be true and so I pull up his photo. He’s . . . wow, not terrible. Blond hair, tan, and leaning against a surfboard in the sand. I turn the phone to face Reid.

He leans in for a closer look. “Hmmm. He might—” He stops; his eyes narrow. “Is that a ring?”

“What?” I turn the phone back and zoom in. There’s definitely something there. “Could it be a shadow?”

“I mean . . . it’s gold.”

I look again and he’s right; there’s a gold band on his ring finger.

“Maybe it’s an old picture?” Reid says. “Does he say he’s divorced?”

It takes a second to get back to his profile. Under relationship status, it says single. Under previously married it says never.

“Please tell me a person couldn’t possibly be that stupid,” I say. “Or gross. Why don’t I expect people to be liars more often? I study criminology, for Christ’s sake.”

Disappointed, Reid holds out his hand. “Let me see your phone.”

I slide it across the desk and let the full skepticism about this endeavor take root again. “I’m not one to say I told you so, but . . .”

He opens the next message. “Okay, this guy . . .” He stops, a scowl shaping his face. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“He just . . . He had the word ‘tits’ in his bio, and I don’t think it was your charming typo.”

I wrinkle my nose.

“No, no. Let’s keep going, they can’t all be that bad.” He opens one, and then another, and with each message his smile wilts further.

“I think this guy might be Dustin.”

I groan. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m kidding?” he says, and looks up at me.

He is clearly not kidding.

“That’s depressing,” I tell him. “How much faith can I put in an app that matches me with my ex? Good lord.”

“I mean, maybe that means it’s good?” Reid tries to be optimistic. “At one point you and Dustin—oh. God. This next guy has his penis as his profile picture. His actual penis. I mean, I hope it’s his.”

“Reid, you are too pure for this world.” I take back my phone and go through the rest. One message simply says Hey. One assures me his dick is huge; one wants a full-body photo before he’ll request access to my profile; and two want to know how much I weigh.

“This is it?” I wave my phone. “You got a French-speaking scuba diver and I got this? These are the kind of guys I matched with?”

There’s a quick knock at the door before Ed is pushing it open.

“Here’s the most recent FACS data,” he says, and drops a few pages with scatterplots on Reid’s desk. There are three strips of duct tape holding Ed’s lab coat together, but I don’t even bother to ask.

He considers the way I’m slumped in the chair, arms folded across my chest, and takes a bite of an apple he’s pulled out of his lab coat pocket. I’m not even a scientist and I know that’s disgusting.

“Hey there, sunshine.”

I let out a growl.

He nods in Reid’s direction. “Loverboy showing you his matches?”

I swing my eyes over to Reid. “He did.”

Another noisy bite of apple, and Ed pulls out the chair next to me. “What about you?” He points to my phone.

“She has twelve,” Reid answers for me.

Ed’s eyes brighten. “Oh yeah? Any good?”

I open my mouth and then close it again. There’s no great way to answer that.

“She got a bunch of weirdos,” Reid explains for me.

Ed takes my phone and begins to scroll. “Maybe if you didn’t mention you were into serial killers.”

I should probably be concerned that he enters my passcode without prompting, but defending myself takes priority here. “First of all, I didn’t mention anything about my job. Second of all, I’m not into serial killers.”

“Yeah, but you said you’re drawn to the eccentric, the eerie, and mayhem. Mayhem? Really? You used an Eleanor Roosevelt quote, Mills. Of course you got weirdos.”

“What, I’m so boring that I need to lie?”

“You wrote a three-hundred page dissertation on the ‘Jolly Jane’ Toppan murders and can’t write a single interesting paragraph about yourself. Be more creative. You’re not boring, your profile is. A friend should have told you,” he says, pointedly in Reid’s direction.

I glance between them before deciding I really don’t care. “Thanks for the clarification.”

Reid stands and walks around the desk, leaning back against the edge of it. He’s wearing the pants I like, flat front and tapered. I’ve actually seen students check out his ass in these pants as he walks down the hall. Going on record that the front isn’t too bad, either . . .

I probably shouldn’t be thinking about this right now.

“You know I love you,” he starts gently. I lift a single brow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but Ed has a point. Your profile said nothing about you.”

“It said I like the beach.”

Ed helps himself to my coffee. “Who doesn’t like the beach?”

With a gentle finger under my chin, Reid turns my attention toward him. “Be honest, Mills. Do you think your profile was interesting? You wrote us these great, unique bios that said a lot with just a handful of words. I mean, you made Ed seem charming and interesting. You did that!”

Ed nods vigorously, if mockingly.

“But yours was just, I don’t know . . . meh.”

Back in my own office, I stare at the new profile on the screen.

Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead. ~ Charles Bukowski.

You know that friend who’s always planning something, and gets a little too enthusiastic? That would probably be me. I love birthday parties because there’s cake, any excuse to wear a costume, and movies that I can’t guess the end to. I’m looking for someone who lives to laugh, who wants the wild, chaotic mess that comes with falling in love, and someone who could sit on the cliffs at Hendry’s Beach and listen to the crashing surf until the sun has slipped into the ocean.

Not bad.

Call me a quitter, but rather than wade through the penis-dense marsh that is my old profile, I decide to start a new one.

I even give myself a new name: Catherine M. I would worry that I’m engaging in some sort of catfishing, but one, aside from the name—which is actually my middle name, and last initial—there are no lies in my bio; two, my photo is from the side and a little artsier than your typical profile pic, but it’s definitely me; and three, I don’t have any nefarious intentions. To double down on this, I make a solemn promise to the universe that if any rich, elderly gentlemen should happen to fall in love with me, I just won’t respond. Easy.

It’s a study of human behavior, I think, scrolling through the rest of my information. Market research, but for dating—and no different than restaurants using red or yellow color schemes to create the perfect setting that would entice a person to stop and eat. In this case I’ve put out a few stimuli meant to elicit a response. I’m still me—just secret me. I give my state rather than my city. I say late twenties rather than twenty-nine. I say academics rather than criminology. I may not be precise in this new profile, but I’m authentic.

This is good. This feels safe.

Without overthinking, I click SUBMIT and head for class.

My Research Methods in Criminology course meets at the end of the day, and by four o’clock the students are a squirrely bunch. It can be a fascinating course, focusing on crime mapping and analysis, but it can also be tedious. Aside from a looming research project, never-ending lectures, and countless stats and procedures to memorize, the students themselves can be their own worst enemy.

Like most faculty members these days, I’m in constant competition with cell phones and laptops and all forms of social media for the attention of my class. Reid has explained that the ability to stay focused depends entirely on two neural processes: directing our attention to goal-related activities, and blocking out irrelevant distractions. Which I think in the simplest of terms means The goal is to graduate, so turn off your damn Instagram. It should be easy enough—but apparently there are days where even I am not immune.

With just five minutes left of my last class of the day, I hear a buzzing from inside the lectern. Everyone is mostly working, quietly cleaning up lecture notes and jotting down project timelines from the PowerPoint still on the screen behind me. When the buzzing comes a second time, I pause.

I’ve been mildly on edge since loading my new profile a few hours ago, ignoring most of the group chat messages and avoiding the coffee kiosk and the guys altogether. I realize they were right and my Millie profile really did suck. But what if it isn’t just the profile—it’s actually me—and even with a more genuine version of myself out there, I still don’t get any good matches? Am I even going to tell them about Catherine—whom I’ve nicknamed Cat, and whom I absolutely plan to make much more emotionally healthy than Millie, and who easily discusses things like feelings and fears and long-term goals?

Surely I can do that much, even if it’s anonymous.

Thankfully no one lingers after class and I’m able to jog-walk back to my office and solitude. It takes a moment for the app to load, but when it does, a red bubble with a number six appears on the screen. Six matches, and a couple of the guys have already requested access to see my profile. Just like that, a mixture of adrenaline and dread trickles into my bloodstream. I check the first one: an aspiring writer from San Francisco.

Pass. Writers are crazy.

The next is a pediatrician who recently moved to Santa Barbara. His bio is funny, his photo is great, and there’s no wedding ring or wife accidentally snapped in the background. I press yes and share my profile with him.

But I never make it to the rest.

I’m not prepared for the next photo that fills the screen.

You have a new match. Would you like to show Reid C. your profile?

It takes a second for this to sink in. I matched with Reid? Well, Catherine matched with Reid, but since her profile is more genuinely me than Millie’s was . . .

I debate just ignoring the notification, but come on, this is actually pretty funny. According to the match notification, Reid and I are 98 percent compatible. He will love this.

Decision made, I click ALLOW and type up a short message before I can change my mind. I guess the guys will find out about Catherine after all. Reid gets me like nobody else. A Monopoly joke? I mean, come on. It’s so obvious.