My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren
chapter seven
millie
I’m in a dramatic huff by the time I get back to my office. Seriously. Copy and paste? What the fuck, Reid?
Dropping into my chair, I reach for the bag of peanut butter M&M’s I keep in my bottom drawer. No, it’s not the greatest coping mechanism, but since I already finished the bottle of scotch I used to keep there, M&M’s will have to do.
Shallowisn’t a word I’d have used to describe Reid before today. Manipulative? Maybe. I mean, aren’t we all a little? Even a tiny bit self-absorbed? Sure, I’m guilty of that one, too. But shallow? No. Which is why this feels like such a big thing, because more than angry about how quickly Reid prioritized his response to Daisy over Catherine, I feel disappointed.
It’s not an emotion I’m used to where Reid is concerned. He’s the one I called when I got a flat tire halfway to Monterey, the friend who will bring us each a smoothie the morning after a night of particularly heavy drinking, the person who refuses to speak badly about anyone, especially behind their back. He’s unerringly thoughtful.
Disappointment in Reid feels a lot like indigestion.
Pulling up the app again, I don’t even check my Millie profile, but stay logged into Catherine’s. She has two new requests, one of which looks like a reasonably normal guy, and one I instantly delete.
Eric is a twenty-six-year-old makeup artist, and according to the app we’re an 84 percent match. I’m not going to lie, the idea of dating someone who can do my makeup better than I can is pretty damn appealing, and so I click ALLOW to let him view the rest of my information.
Moving on, I open the profile page and click her—my—photo. It’s a picture my sister took on my last trip home, and I picked it not only because you couldn’t clearly make out my face, but because no one here has seen it before. I’d been watching the rain as it puddled outside the window, and I look thoughtful, almost serene. It’s no Daisy on a beach with her smile and her boobs, but it isn’t a bad photo. Certainly not one that warrants a copied and pasted reply.
The messages Reid received from Daisy and Catherine were both brief, and the differences in our matches were pretty big—98 percent versus 82 percent! I’m starting to think Reid is a fake scientist who doesn’t care about numbers. Any preference he has for Daisy at this point is purely visual. What a dick!
Is it crazy that I’m suddenly determined to make Catherine the winner here? To teach them a lesson? Not just for my own vindication, but for like . . . all of womankind?
If I asked the guys, I’m sure they’d tell me my—Catherine’s—first step should be to choose a new photo. Unfortunately, I can’t show my face, and a close-up down the front of my shirt wouldn’t be all that impressive, either, so I’ll just have to make Catherine more interesting. This would be easier if I could be creative and tell a lot of stories, taking snippets I’ve heard from other people or gleaned from books, spinning them into details I could share with Reid. But since I’m being semishady as it is, I can’t lie. Catherine’s stories have to be my stories, which means I can’t show him the easy, superficial stuff I’ve let him see before. I’ll have to actually work for this and dig deep.
But first, Reid will need to reply.
He’s already forwarded me the messages from Daisy and Catherine. It only takes a few minutes to write something he can paste into each of their boxes—I am now literally writing letters to myself but why the fuck not?—and so I ping him in a separate window.
Millie Morris
I have your replies. Do you want them here or email?
Reid Campbell
You are a goddess. And here is good
Millie Morris
HUGE SIGH
Millie Morris
For Daisy An 82% match? Not too bad! You’ve read my profile, so you know I grew up in California. If I’m not mistaken, your profile photo was taken at Ledbetter Beach? I’m an Associate Professor at UCSB, just down the road from there. I’ve gone to a couple parties at the park, just off the beach, and even attempted a few surfing lessons there. It didn’t go well. Let me just say that my pride, and my favorite board shorts, are still floating around there somewhere. I also see from your profile photo that you have giant knockers, which must mean that your fertility, and quality of life, are higher than those around you.
Reid Campbell
I may leave that last sentence out . . .
Millie Morris
As you wish.
Reid Campbell
Mills, this is so great of you. THANK YOU.
Millie Morris
For Catherine I assume a 98% match basically only leaves our preferences for Coke vs Pepsi (Coke FTW), our favorite of The Chrises (I’m secure enough in my masculinity to admit that bearded Chris Evans is a 10/10), and whether Star Wars episodes I, II, and III can be skipped entirely (the correct answer is always yes). To see if we are in fact the same person: favorite funny movie?
Dots appear in the chat window as Reid types, before disappearing again.
Millie Morris
Hello?
Reid Campbell
Sorry, I’m here. Daisy’s seems a bit . . . idk, stiffer than Catherine’s?
Millie Morris
Oh right, right. I know how you can fix that.
Reid Campbell
How?
Millie Morris
WRITE THEM YOURSELF
Reid Campbell
I’m sorry, Mills. Thank you. Who knew I was so charming?
Millie Morris
And humble!
Reid Campbell
Seriously, these are great. Do you want my login and you can just send?
Millie Morris
Am I going to be the one having sex with one of these women for you, too?
Reid Campbell
If you’re into that, sure.
Millie Morris
I do not want your login. I also think you should write your own letters. This is weird, even for us.
Reid Campbell
Milllliiiiieeeeeeeee. You’re better at this than I am. This is clearly your thing.
Millie Morris
You’ll get the hang of tit. Gotta run, class
[Millie Morris has left the chat]
It’s almost nine by the time I finish up at the office and pull into my driveway. Just like every night, the neighbor’s cat is waiting on my porch. I reach down and scratch behind her ears, wondering for the hundredth time if I should get a pet. I love living alone but can imagine it would be nice to have someone or something waiting when I walk in the door, too.
Alas, I’m never home. I’m never here, and—Elly’s voice reminds me—I’m certainly never in Seattle.
I set down my things, order dinner, pour a giant glass of wine, and power up my laptop. I told her I’d firm up dates for a visit, and I’m going to do it before anything else drags my attention away.
How convenient, then, that there’s an email from my new editor with a suggestion for deadlines, and some questions about my outline. I text Elly with a very loose window of dates for me to come visit, but I know one week—whether in June, July, or August, her choice—won’t appease her.
The red bubble in the IRL tab drags my attention away from my email inbox, and with a little grunt of irritation, I open it up, knowing exactly what it is.
A letter from myself, how exciting.
But my competitive fire reignites, and I hammer out my reply as fast as I should probably be writing the book I have due in four months.
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 7:39 pm, March 28
Reid,
I can’t believe you went for The Chrises this early in our email relationship. It is both genius and brave. I was lucky enough to see Chris Evans at Comic-Con a few years ago, and you won’t believe this, but he’s actually better looking in person. I approve of your bearded Captain America man love.
Also approve of skipping Episodes I-III, aka The Emo Awakening of Anakin Skywalker. The others are non-negotiable, though. I’m a little freaked out about our compatibility, however: Both Pepsi and Coke taste like sugar gone to die. Who hurt you, Reid? If I’m going to have that many calories, there’d better at least be alcohol involved.
And funniest movie . . . let’s see. I’m not sure I can narrow it down to just one. A few of my favorites (and in no particular order): Tommy Boy, Anchorman, National Lampoon’s Vacation, Superbad, 9 to 5, Blues Brothers . . . I could do this all day. Revenge of the Nerds gets a special mention because my parents took us to an 80’s night at a drive-in once, and expected us to sleep in the back seat during the show. Ok, Mom. I saw my first movie boobs in that drive-in.
And I’ll stop now so I don’t get too chatty. You’re up: favorite movie and favorite quote? I’ll go with one from Girls Trip. “Girl, you can’t get no infection in your booty hole. It’s a booty hole.”
Did I just break some sort of online dating code by bringing up butts in the first message? I’m gambling that it’s both genius and brave.
Bye, Reid.
Cat
I mean, for fuck’s sake. If he doesn’t get that it’s me from the butt reference/anal sex joke, there’s no hope for this boy. Plus, I made him see that movie with me three times—in the theater! Come on, Reid!
The doorbell rings and I stand from my laptop, pressing SEND before heading to the door, wallet in hand and salivary glands standing up and anticipating pizza.
It’s not pizza.
It’s Reid, on my porch, and he brushes past me before I have a chance to stop him.
“Do you have any food?” he says, already halfway to the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
“Then you should have more than a salad for lunch.”
“I like salads!”
Oh, he’s hangry.
He steps into the kitchen and holy fuck my laptop is still on the counter with the dating site up.
“Reid!” I call out, and thank God, he turns: he’s standing directly in front of Cat’s profile and her “artsy” black-and-white photo on the screen.
“What?”
In my socks, I skate gracelessly across the room and nearly fall onto my ass at the transition from wood floor to kitchen tile. “Pizza is on its way!” I lunge past him and slam the computer shut.
Reid turns to me slowly, wearing a puzzled grin. “What . . . was that?”
“Porn.”
His eyes light up with scandal and he reaches for the laptop. “Let me see.”
I slap his hand. “No! It’s sick porn.”
Oh my God, Millie.
Of course, now he’s really interested.
“For work.” I wave what is supposed to be a nonchalant hand. “You know.”
Reid doesn’t look very convinced. “I hope the FBI never has reason to check your search history.” God, me too. “Your job is super weird, Mills.”
“Hey, I’m not the one dissecting cow eyeballs, okay?”
To my immense relief, he seems to move on and takes a seat on the stool right in front of my laptop. “So, hey,” he says more quietly. “Are we okay?”
A new kind of unease trickles through me. “Yep, all good. Listen, I was about to head to bed.”
“Didn’t you just say you had pizza coming?”
“Right.” Shit. “I mean, I’m going to bed right after pizza. And the porn.” I offer an encouraging nudge toward the door. “So maybe we can talk tomorrow?”
“But if there’s pizza, I want some.” He gives me a winning grin. “I’m hungry, remember?”
“Then take some to go?”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, and there’s the tiniest tilt of his head. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You were annoyed with us today.”
“I—what?” I’m having a moment where I register how natural Reid is in situations like this—situations where friends are having a conversation about emotions and conflict—and how, by contrast, in those same situations I turn all jerky and monosyllabic.
“Mills.”
“Okay, I was a little annoyed,” I hedge.
He rests his chin in his hand, listening attentively. This is a huge admission for me—that I’m feeling something negative—and his blue eyes crinkle with an encouraging smile.
“But I got over it,” I say, pointing to the counter like my emotions were dropped there with my keys when I got home. “I mean, obviously. I sent you the messages for your women. I wouldn’t do that if I was pissed.”
That . . . might be a lie.
Reid sits up a little, and with him sitting on a stool and me standing, he’s just slightly shorter than I am. It’s a distracting angle for many reasons. He could pull his knees apart and bring me between his legs. He could lean forward and kiss my throat. I could straddle his lap.
Shut up, sex brain.
“Well, I’m glad you got over it,” he says, “but if you hadn’t, it would’ve been fair. I was being a dick, and you called me out. Thank you.”
I’m listening to his words, but I’m thinking of his lemongrass soap and the way it smelled on his neck and chest and stomach.
I clear my throat. “Well, you know I’m always happy to help your moral development.”
“By the way, I sent the messages you gave me,” he says.
“Oh?” Stepping away, I take in a huge lungful of Reid-free air and move to the fridge to grab him a beer. I’m torn between wanting to extract more information and needing to change the subject entirely. No good can come from us chitchatting about my not-totally-fake profile.
“Yeah. I haven’t heard back from them yet.”
I pause, and then glance over my shoulder at him. “Huh.”
After accepting the bottle with a quiet “Thanks,” Reid pulls out his phone and swipes to the home screen. “Yeah, I—oh.” He looks up, beaming. “I got one.”
The doorbell rings, and I make a beeline for it, throwing money at the pizza guy and carrying the box of heaven into the kitchen. I need a change in topic. I want to talk about whether he also notices how into all of this Ed seems to be, or listen to Reid babble about scienceness, or gossip about Dustin also being on a dating site and whether we agree he wants to have a significant other specifically to help his chances of becoming dean.
Basically, I need Reid out of my space. Not because I want him out of my space, exactly, but because I’m feeling the same way I felt the night of his tenure party—like it might not be such a terrible idea to invite Reid into my bed, and I’m thinking these things while he’s reading a message from another woman.
Who is actually me . . .
Hello, twenty-first-century predicaments.
But maybe when he reads Cat’s last message, he’ll figure it out and we’ll laugh and I can stop thinking about this entirely. That would fix all of this.
Right?
I hold my breath as I watch him scan it, and then his eyes light up and he turns the screen to face me as he bursts out laughing. “Catherine—Cat—just quoted Girls Trip. She’s your twin, Mills!”
I let out a jarring guffaw that makes him do a bemused double take, but then I can’t think of a single thing to say to look less like a shrill maniac.
When he turns his phone back to read it again, I ask lamely, “Sooo, nothing unusual?”
“Unusual? No. She’s super funny.” Now I’m torn between insult that he didn’t realize that I’m super funny, and swooning that he’s talking about me and doesn’t even know it. Holy shit, this is both incredibly sweet and incredibly fucking stupid.
I open my mouth to tell him It’s me, you idiot, but then he looks up at me with this goofy smile, and my heart does a weird swan dive in my chest. He seems genuinely excited.
“What should I say?” he asks.
I shrug because I’m not supposed to know what Cat said, so he reads the message out loud. I don’t really have to listen because I reread it about seven times before sending—not to mention I have a terrible poker face—so I busy myself instead with putting pizza on plates.
“Not bad, right?” he asks once he’s done.
“You’re right, she sounds amazing.”
He stands, finally, taking a plate of pizza. I watch him lift a slice, fold it in half, and take about a foot of it into his mouth in one bite. He wasn’t kidding about being hungry. After he swallows, he says, “I’m really glad we did this. The whole dating thing. Feels promising.”
I nod as I chew, silently encouraging him to go on.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said that night”—he takes a meaningful pause before adding—“on the way to your place . . .”
Oh. Another nod.
“I wonder if maybe you were right.”
I pick up my pizza and bring it to my mouth. “I mean, you’ll have to narrow it down a little. I’m right all the time.”
“About the five of us enabling each other. I don’t know, maybe we were getting too comfortable. Maybe we did need to shake things up.”
I take a bite, and nod again.
“Work has always been my priority, and for the first time in my life I’m seeing that there should be more. Dating someone was an obstacle I had to work around—it meant having to explain my hours and my time away, and just never seemed worth it.”
“And now?”
He picks at his pizza and shrugs. “I think for the first time in my life, I feel like something is missing. I want both.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. You might just be growing up, Peter Pan.”
Reid smiles at me from across the counter. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I know you haven’t had the same . . . experience so far with the app. But—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m serious.”
I straighten and wipe my hands on a napkin. “So am I. I thought about getting a cat today. That’s a solid step into the commitment zone.”
Reid reaches for another slice and I pick up my wineglass, taking a long gulp. We eat in silence, and only the occasional sounds of Reid’s chewing and my wine chugging fill the silence. Finally, Reid places each of his elbows on the counter. “I hate when you’re upset with me. Even if you won’t admit it. And especially if we’re going to be trapped together all weekend at my parents’ place. You’re still good with that?”
A weekend with Reid? SOS.
“One, I’m not upset with you. Two, you know I wouldn’t miss a weekend with your mom’s cooking.”
He tugs on a piece of hair that’s escaped my bun. “Or someone’s birthday cake.”
“It’s your mom’s birthday?”
Reid rolls his eyes before leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead. “All right. I’m out.” He lifts a third slice of pizza to indicate he’ll take it with him, and turns for the door, stopping just short. “I know you’re tired of talking about this, but did you ever change your profile?”
Panic stabs me in the chest. “My profile?”
He gives me another few seconds before saying slowly, “On IRL.”
Ah. The account he knows about, full of boob requests and popped collars.
“Oh! Millie. Right. No.” Each of these words is quacked out abruptly.
“You should,” he says. “It sucks.”
“Thanks.”
“Thanks for listening to me. You’re so fucking great.” He turns for the door again. “I envy the man who gets you.”
I have the feeling I should respond to this in some way, but my brain has become a solid brick of Styrofoam. Even if I were emotionally mature enough to have a good reply, he’s already halfway down the front steps. So, I suppose the only thing to do is loudly yell, “Same!” to his retreating form.
Reid’s wave over his shoulder—he doesn’t even turn around—tells me exactly how stupid that was.
Five minutes after he’s gone, the words You are perhaps the best man alive and deserve more than any of us to be happy swim into my head. But I don’t know what to do with them, so I flop down on the couch and turn on the television, wishing I had that cat.
Midway through my inexplicable Grey’s Anatomy binge, my phone pings on the coffee table. I practically roll off the couch in my lunge to get to it.
From: Reid C.
Sent: 11:15 pm, March 28
Cat,
Coke tastes like sugar gone to die? And we could have been so perfect! You remind me of my best friend. She hates soda because it’s too sweet, but then orders the most sugary cocktails I’ve ever seen.
We’ve got another thing in common with favorite funny movies, or maybe all intelligent people love Blues Brothers? I’m also adding Caddyshack to that list because it’s hilarious, but also for the nostalgic factor. I was a caddy for a few months when I was sixteen, though I’d say my time following old rich golfers around was a lot less entertaining than in the movie. There were no raunchy sexcapades that I was aware of, and no rich businessman ever offered me beer from a secret tap in his high-tech golf bag. I did see somebody streak across the driving range one day, but it was more Cocoon, less Animal House than you’re probably imagining.
I’m not sure if I mentioned it or not, but I’ll be out of town this weekend. You know I grew up on a vineyard, and a couple of my friends are driving up for a few days. I’m already imagining what kind of craziness I’m in for, especially with copious amounts of alcohol around.
I don’t come home as often as I should, and I’m not really sure why. The vineyard is great, everything is blooming and it’s this peaceful place where you can unplug from the world, but I always get a little anxious about bringing everyone there. My parents are . . . well, parents. I guess that pretty much sums it up. Lately it seems my mom is always ranting about this artist woman that lives down the road, or attempting to tell me something that will scar me for life. I’m not sure at what age moms start to feel like their son/daughter is old enough to become their new bestie/confidant, but I’ve definitely reached it. Your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time are appreciated.
And don’t ever worry about being chatty, that’s the point of all this, right? I didn’t realize I’d enjoy it so much, but it’s sort of nice getting to know someone this way.
Favorite movie quote . . . all I can think of right now is from Zoolander: “What’s this? A school for ants?”
Reid
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 11:37 pm, March 28
Zoolander. See, I’ve never seen that movie because my ex-boyfriend, who had promised to wait until I got back from a trip to see it with me, saw it with his dude friends and told me it was sooooooo funny he never laughed so hard in his entire life omg. Obviously I never watched it ON PRINCIPLE.
~Cat
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 11:43 pm, March 28
I can see how that last message looked a touch vindictive and I should probably dial it back since we’re so new to each other, but this is one instance when I’m pretty content living up in my Petty Castle on the hill.
~Cat
From: Reid C.
Sent: 12:04 am, March 29
I will never judge you for your petty grudges. I’m still pissed off at my track coach in high school for putting Tucker Ames—the biggest asshole on the team—in the anchor spot on our 4x400 relay against Pacific Beach High.
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 12:21 am, March 29
Please tell me you called him Fucker Ames behind his back for this unforgiveable offense.
From: Reid C.
Sent: 12:26 am, March 29
You know, I didn’t, but that’s because when I was 16, I was 6’2” and weighed approximately 70 lbs. I feared that if I even thought something shitty about Tucker he’d know and the fear alone of him hitting me would break my legs like toothpicks.
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 12:29 am, March 29
My dad never gave me the birds and bees talk, but he did pull me aside when I was thirteen and show me how and where to throw a punch. I didn’t use this knowledge until an unfortunate night (one which we shall not discuss again) where I had a bit too much to drink and throat-punched a guy for cutting in front of me at the shuffleboard table at a bar. Which is why I’m banned for life at the Goat Hill Tavern in Costa Mesa.
From: Reid C.
Sent: 12:36 am, March 29
It’s hard these days to find a woman who takes her shuffleboarding seriously.
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 12:43 am, March 29
I’m selling myself pretty hard tonight. Does this explain why I’m on a dating app? Maybe.
From: Reid C.
Sent: 12:59 am, March 29
No, look. Back when I was in grad school, there were a million single people my age. Now that we’re settling into our careers, our worlds are getting so much smaller. Throughout the day, I see maybe a handful of the same people, and unless I do something like this, or join an intramural softball team, or take sailing lessons, I’m unlikely to meet someone new. Dating apps don’t make us lame, they make us modern and technologically savvy. Right?
From: Catherine M.
Sent: 1:04 am, March 29
Right! And I didn’t mean it like that. But I think it is fair to say that I tend to focus on, shall we say, the low-hanging life-fruit: getting my turn at shuffleboard, grading this stack of assignments, meeting friends for beers. Rather than, say, doing the emotional heavy lifting that I know I should be doing on a daily basis.
I wonder whether I’m single not because I haven’t met the right person yet, but because I’m not the right person yet. The other night, I had the most terrifying thought: Who would I be a good match for? Like, I honestly can’t imagine who that man is. Someone who likes to watch television from 2004 and drink beer and make fun of each other? Okay, sure. But is that the stuff that lifelong relationships are made of? I honestly don’t think so, but I don’t even have a cat to ask for input.
