My Favorite Half-Night Stand by Christina Lauren

chapter eight

reid

There’s a standard set of warnings I have to give Ed and Alex whenever we begin the final approach to my childhood home. First, do not hit on my little sister. Second, the downstairs toilet runs, so make sure to toggle the lever after you flush. And third, please don’t ask my dad if you can try on his prosthetic arm.

The first and third situations have happened each of the dozen or so times my friends have accompanied me home. Dad lost his arm in a machine accident out on the vineyard when he was seventeen; for whatever reason, the prosthetic fascinates Ed and Alex. It’s got a hook at the end that opens or closes depending on the angle, and the first few times they visited, Ed and Alex spent about three hours taking turns trying to pick up random things around the house. To be fair, Dad half pushes it on them because he thinks it’s hilarious—probably also because it drives Mom crazy.

And although she’s my sister, I am aware that Rayme is beautiful—it’s impossible to be unaware of this. At twenty-five, she’s six feet tall and could give Wonder Woman a run for her money in terms of both fitness and unguarded charm. Every guy friend—and a fair share of female friends, too—has had a crush on her at one point or another. Ed wants to marry her, Alex has far less honorable intentions, and even Millie has admitted that if she were a lesbian, she would one hundred percent hit on her. Only Chris seems unaffected by her dark hair and startling gold eyes—which I’m sure is directly related to why Rayme seems to try just a little harder to earn his attention.

There’s also the No Streaking reminder, but, honestly, you’d think by this point that one would be implied.

We hit the soft dirt road, and Millie jolts awake next to me. Dragging a forearm across her mouth, she mumbles, “Was I snoring?”

“Yes.” I glance briefly at her adorable just-waking-up face. Her eyes blink slowly, heavily over to me. Her mouth is a little swollen.

“And I drooled.” She turns, looking over her shoulder out the back window at the other three following us in Chris’s car. Because my car is in the shop, we decided to take Millie’s Mini Cooper, which meant that Chris is scowling behind the wheel of his Acura while Alex and Ed appear to be singing loudly with the windows down.

I can feel her looking at me, and flash her a quick smile before turning back to the road. “Good nap?”

She nods, stretching. “I haven’t slept well this week.”

I let out a sympathetic grunt. I haven’t, either. The last few nights, I’ve been up until one or two messaging Catherine and, less frequently, Daisy. It’s the sort of addictive rush I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like being a teenager again.

Millie lifts her chin when we pass the Pine Grove Road sign that signals we’re less than two miles from my house. “Almost there.” She runs a hand through her hair and it spills like a sunset over her shoulders. “Want me to call Chris?”

She knows the drill.

“Sure.”

Chris answers on the first ring through his Bluetooth, and it’s a few seconds before I hear his voice over the sound of John Waite singing “Missing You” with the loud accompaniment of Ed and Alex.

“Get me out of this hell,” he says by way of greeting.

Millie clears her throat. “Just calling with the reminders.”

“Rayme equals no-no!” Alex yells.

“Prosthetic arms aren’t toys!” Ed says.

And then Chris rounds it out: “Downstairs bathroom still broken—got it!”

Mom’s already out on the porch, pacing as she waits for us, and she jogs down when we come to a crunching, dusty stop in front of the wide, outstretched farmhouse. When I climb out from behind the driver’s seat, I know better than to expect a hug immediately—she goes to Millie first, then Chris, then me. Alex and Ed get the last hugs, the sort of Oh, fine, come here, you idiots embrace that I imagine most people give them.

Ed is notoriously awkward with all parents, but within three minutes Alex will have Mom charmed enough to forget why she was annoyed to begin with.

And in about eight hours, I’m sure he’ll do something to remind her.

“I’m making ribs,” Mom says, and grins at Millie, who pretends to swoon. A few visits back, Mom made ribs and Millie ate them so enthusiastically that she looked like the Joker when she finally came up for air. It’s the kind of culinary zeal my mom lives for.

“Sharon. Are you trying to make me move in here?” Millie asks her.

“Don’t tease me.” Mom pops a kiss to the side of Millie’s head, then walks ahead of her into the house, calling out, “James! They’re all here!”

Dad yells from upstairs, “You think I didn’t hear that crap music booming down the driveway?”

Chris grins up at Dad as he descends into the living room. “Alex and Ed chose the emo eighties theme for this drive.”

“Who was driving?” Dad asks, laughing knowingly. He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. “You are too goddamn nice, Chris.”

The two of them disappear immediately to do who knows what. Discuss the weather almanac or the biochemistry of grape fermentation, probably. Alex and Ed look around, hoping to find Rayme, I’m sure, and I smile proudly when Millie reaches out to either side of her and shoves each of them in the shoulder.

“She’s not going to be here until about five,” she says.

I start to agree before remembering that I didn’t know this. “Wait, what?”

“She texted me,” Millie says, all innocent round green eyes and flirting freckles.

“Rayme texted you?” She didn’t text me. Millie didn’t mention it, either.

“Uh, yeah.” Millie follows Mom into the kitchen and I’m left with Ed, whose hands are shoved deep into his pockets—safe, he won’t break anything this way—and Alex, who saunters over and sits on the couch, kicking his feet onto the coffee table.

“Alex,” I say.

He drops his feet.

“Want a beer?” At their nods, I turn and head into the kitchen. Mom and Millie are staring into the oven and moaning over the sight and smells of the roasting meat.

“Christ, that looks good.” Millie’s gravelly voice rockets a gallon of blood down my body and toward my groin, before I remember that she’s talking about my mother’s cooking.

Mom heads out the back door to pick vegetables for the salad, and Millie leans against the counter, smiling at me. It’s a quiet smile, a real one, where her mouth curves but doesn’t open, and her eyes move all over my face, cataloging, almost like she’s reading a news story for the latest update.

“Hey, you,” she says.

It feels like everything finally goes still. With the tenure party, the spontaneous sex, and this last week of cycling work/dating-app adrenaline/sleep/repeat, I realize we haven’t just been us in days. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but Millie is a fixture in my life. When I don’t get time with her . . . it’s weird.

“Hey, yourself.”

“What’s new?”

I shrug. “Work’s been bananas. How about you?”

“Same.” Millie pulls a hair tie off her wrist and bundles her hair on top of her head. “I got started on the book.”

“That’s awesome.” I reach for a high five. Her hand is a soft slap of warmth against mine. “How are things going on the dating front?”

“Meh.” She looks down to the floor. “There’s one guy I’m talking to a fair bit.”

“That’s awesome! See, I told you they weren’t all losers.” She shrugs noncommittally. “Is he cool?”

She nods. “What about you?”

Tension rises like steam in the room, and it feels like every other sound falls away. “Yeah. Same. Well, the two still, really. But Catherine and I stay up late messaging lately. It’s . . . nice.”

Millie gnaws at her lip for a few seconds, and I can’t read the reaction. Is it jealousy?

“Is this the one whose picture you didn’t like?” she asks.

I groan. “Come on, this again?”

She grins. “Tell me about her.”

There’s a flash of annoyance when I realize how easily she’s managed to turn the conversation back to me. She deflects before I realize she’s done it.

“Well,” I start, leaning back against the counter and choosing my words carefully, “I’m not sure what department she’s in, but it sounds like she’s faculty at UCSB. She’s funny—I told you that—and laid-back, but shares these amazing stories. Apparently in college she went to Africa for a month and got into a car with the wrong driver and ended up, like, two hundred miles away from the town she was supposed to be in, but she just got on a bus and went back.”

Millie smiles faintly. “Wow. How cool.”

“She has a sister and—like you—her mom died when she was younger.” I pause, looking at her closely. “You two would probably get along really well, actually. If things don’t work out with us, maybe I just found you a backup best friend for when I’m out of town.”

Millie bites her lower lip, looks at my mouth, and then takes a sharp, deep breath, turning away toward the sink. “Did you notice that neither of your parents have said happy birthday to you?”

A breath comes out of me as a laugh. “It’s not my birthday yet.”

She turns back around to face me. “But isn’t that why we’re here?”

“Only sort of,” I say. “Mom just wanted everyone here so she could brag that I spent my birthday with her.”

My mother has three sisters, and they are notoriously competitive about how great their kids are. Some children have pressure to go to an Ivy League school, some are pressured to become physicians. Rayme and I are pressured to do all the things specifically that Aunt Janice’s kids won’t do, like visit regularly, send thank-you notes, and celebrate Mother’s Day.

“Do you know what I was thinking earlier?”

She’s looking at her feet when she says this, so I can’t read her face to see why the tone has shifted. “I have no idea,” I say.

“That we had sex only three weeks ago.”

This sometimes happens with Millie. She’s not exactly forthcoming about her thought process, and the sudden change in topic is so disorienting that for a breath I think I’ve misheard her. But I haven’t, because she blushes.

“We did,” I agree, wondering how she got from birthdays to here.

She lets out this strange, breathy laugh. “What were we thinking?”

“Probably that we were drunk and sex would be fun?”

“You weren’t drunk,” she says.

“No.”

“I was.” She considers this. “A little.”

“Are you sure you aren’t drunk now?” I smile and walk to the fridge, less to get a beer out and more to cool down the entire front half of my body. We haven’t talked about this again since the next morning, at Cajé—and it’s pretty daring to do it here when Alex and Ed are only a room away. I realize, too, that she’s wearing the same dress she wore that night. Is that what made her think of it?

I can’t help but wonder if she’s wearing the same thing underneath, too.

“Not yet, unfortunately. What I’m saying is, I could totally write you a letter of recommendation for one of your . . . lady friends. You know, if you need it.”

I give her a smarmy bow. “I genuinely appreciate that.”

Kicking off the counter, she walks to the fridge, opening it with comfort and pulling out a bottle of white wine. I don’t even need to tell her where the glasses are; she finds one in the cabinet near the stove, fills it unselfconsciously, and then returns the bottle to the fridge.

It trips an old memory, one of how Isla came here again and again with me, but even on her tenth visit, needed Mom’s permission or prompting for nearly everything.

Come on in.

Make yourself comfortable.

Would you like something to drink? Water? Wine?

Here, honey, sit next to Reid.

You two’ll be sleeping in the room down the hall.

Yes, honey, you can stay with Reid, you’re adults.

She never felt at home.

That isn’t Millie. It’s not that she’s presumptuous or callous in any way, it’s that she heeded the cues from her first visit here—the unspoken communication from Mom and Dad that my friends should all genuinely make themselves feel at home (except for racing naked in the vineyards). And here she is. She stretches, one arm over her head, then switches the hand holding the wineglass. Her torso elongates, breasts press forward.

Here she fucking is.

She’s watching me watching her now, leaning back against the counter and sipping her wine. “What’re you thinking?”

She knows what I’m thinking. She knows I’m thinking about the sex we had.

“Just watching you.” I know her so well, and yet in some ways she’s such a mystery to me. Even though what happened between us was fun, and hot as hell—in my opinion—I realize I still can’t really know how she views it. As something fun we did, or as a mistake we made but managed to smooth over without incident. But since it’s Millie, it occurs to me that she could be full of horrified regret, and I might never know it, because she’s shoved it so far below the surface.

On instinct, I scratch at her surface a little, digging: “Get any new messages today?”

Millie tilts her head from side to side. “I got one from my guy last night. I haven’t replied yet.”

My guy. The reference makes my stomach shrink about two sizes, my heart balloon about three until it is this envious, thundering beast in my chest. How weird is it that it didn’t occur to me until we were standing right here that if Millie meets someone, I won’t have free, unlimited access to her anymore? Without entirely realizing it, I’ve become the most important man in her life . . . and I like it.

“You’re all pinched,” she says, “like some new lab tech messed up the hematoxylin stain.” She grins at me. “That’s the easy one, right? See how I pay attention?”

I give her a proud smile, but my mind is turning this around, distracted. How honest should I be here? Millie isn’t the most touchy-feely friend, but we’ve also never been here: no longer just friends, but never going to be more, either. “It just occurred to me that one or both of us could be in a relationship at some point soon.”

She lets out her trademark husky laugh. “That just occurred to you?”

“Yeah. I know what I said the other night, but I don’t think it felt real yet.”

“If we were just doing this for the gala, you and I would still be going together. You were right. But Obama wouldn’t want that. Obama would want us to have sex lives, Reid.” I laugh, and she continues, “At some point, if we kept going the way we were going, we’d all be seventy and doing crosswords together in Chris’s backyard.”

“I mean, that doesn’t sound completely terrible,” I say.

“Come on,” she says, shrugging and then taking a sip of her wine. “We both like sex.” The whole lower half of my body explodes into heat when she says this. “I’m not entirely optimistic, but it might be nice to have someone that I’m close to, and who wants sex with me on a regular basis. And kids, maybe. Someday. And, like, a shared life of adventure.”

“You know,” I tell her, “if there was a way to translate that kind of openness and sincerity to your profile, you might get more legitimate interest and fewer dick pics.”

“Why you gotta be a hater?”

“Why you gotta be such a secret?”

She twists her mouth a little at this, narrowing her eyes at me. “Hitting me where it hurts.”

So she knows she’s bottled up. Interesting. “Seriously, Mills,” I say. “You keep everything so close to your chest. Are you secretly a spy?”

She absorbs this with a smile. “You got me.”

“Okay, no more jokes.” And suddenly sincere curiosity burns through me and out: “Why? Why don’t you tell me more?”

She opens her mouth to say something, and for a beat it feels like a revelation is going to pour down over me. Something about how it felt to lose her mother so young, or how she wishes her relationship with Elly were different. Something bare-wire honest about me, or her, or—fuck—even Dustin. But she presses her lips together again and just smiles at me.

“There,” I say, pointing at her, “right there. What were you going to say?”

Alex steps in, swiping my beer from my hand. “She was going to say that Benedict Cumberbatch looks like an uncircumcised penis.”

“I thought you were getting beers?” Ed looks forlornly at me, and then Alex, and then the fridge.

“Shit. I forgot.”

Ed frowns like I’ve genuinely let him down.

“Ed,” I say, “there are two six-packs in there. Just grab one.”

He peeks around the corner like a guilty teenager, as if he’s making sure that my parents aren’t going to catch him stealing alcohol, and then does an open-grab-slam maneuver so fast that the condiment bottles rattle in the fridge door when it rockets shut.

“Is Chris still out with your dad?” Alex asks.

“Yeah.” I grab a new beer for myself. “I swear he won’t leave Mom for the younger woman down the road; he’ll leave her for Chris.”

“I don’t think Chris is into dudes,” Ed tells me, helpfully.

“He was joking, Eddie,” Mills says with a gentle fist to his shoulder.

Ed downs about half of his beer and then burps. “Clearly I’m not firing on all cylinders. I need more beer.”

Alex tilts his head to the side, indicating the living room. “Ed just got a message from Selma.”

“The hot one?” I ask.

Ed nods, trying to look breezy about it. “It’s going pretty well. I asked her if she wants to meet up next week.”

“Already?” Millie asks.

“Millie,” Alex says, laughing, “people on Tinder meet the same day they match.”

Millie shrugs. “I know, but I guess IRL seems to emphasize taking things slow.” She glances to me and quickly away. “Which I like.”

“I’ll meet her whenever she wants.” Ed shrugs and then studies the beer in his hand. “I should cut down to, like, three beers a day. I need to lose weight. I’m tired of being brave at the beach.”

“Isn’t that why we get into relationships?” Millie asks. “To start eating again?”

Alex laughs again, and then points his beer bottle at me. “What about you, Reid? What’s up with your ladies?”

“I still really like them both.”

“We need to think of a tiebreaker,” Alex says.

Millie steps forward, slightly flushed as she looks at him with genuine scorn. “Has it occurred to you guys that Daisy and Catherine are probably talking to multiple men, too?”

I blink. I am such an asshole—and realize it the second she says this. “Is it terrible if my answer is no?”

Ed and Alex say, “No,” at the same time Millie shouts, “Yes!”

I give a tiny apologetic wince. “It just seems crazy that Cat would be having this kind of interaction with someone else.”

“But aren’t you?” Millie asks, genuinely annoyed. “With Daisy?”

Conceding this with a nod, I say, “I mean, yes, though I probably talk to Cat more frequently, and openly.” When silence stretches for a beat, I say, “So when should I ask to meet them?”

“Maybe ask for more pictures first?” Alex says.

Millie gasps. “Don’t do that, that’s douchey!”

We fall into a contemplative silence.

Millie is normally unflappable, and can hold her own against us in every way. Is she worried she’ll lose me to another woman? That the friendship we have will suffer?

“Okay,” I say, “it’s someone else’s turn to be in the spotlight. It’s not like I’m the only one who is on this app.”

“Chris matched with one of his old TAs the other day,” Alex says, and we all turn to look at him in shock. “I was giving him shit about it, but then I got on the app and saw that I’d matched with my sister.” Our shock deepens into horror, and Alex shivers violently. “I feel like she’s seen me naked now, okay? Maybe you can understand why we’re hoping your story goes more smoothly, Reid.”

We marinate in this for a few more silent beats, and then everyone turns their optimistic attention back to me.

“Well, I like them both,” I say, “but I feel weird about dating them both in person because I’ve never really worked that way.”

“So just ask Daisy out already,” Millie says with vinegar on her lips.

“I like Catherine a lot, though,” I say. “She’s funny and we interact a lot more. It’s hard to find funny.”

Millie gapes at me, offended. “Excuse you! I am hilarious, you dark stain on humanity.”

“I am forever calling my brother that, from this day forward.”

All attention sweeps to the door to the living room, and a hush falls over the group as we all take in Rayme in unison. My little sister has always had a flair for exotic outfits, but right now she’s wearing a loose-fitting sequined tank top and . . . I’m not even sure whether the bottom half qualifies as a skirt.

“Rayme, what on earth? It’s forty degrees outside,” I say, probably too loudly.

My sister is trying to kill Ed and Alex.

Or win over Chris.

“Wow,” Alex says, tongue rolled out all the way to the floor.

“Alex, close your face,” I say. “Rayme, go put some clothes on.”

I think she’s coming in for a hug, but she veers over to Millie instead, throwing an annoyed “Excuse me?” over her shoulder.

“Are you trying to murder them?” I point to Drooling Thing 1 and Drooling Thing 2.

She hugs Ed next and the contact turns him into a bright red statue, his arms stiff at his sides.

Millie gives me a reproachful glare but doesn’t say anything. We both know my sister can fight her own battles.

“They are grown-ass men,” Rayme says. “If they can’t handle a skirt, they shouldn’t be out in public.”

In response, Alex throws his arms wide for her, and gives her the Latin-lover dimpled smile. Rayme approaches with understandable caution.

“Where the hell is Mom?” I ask. She would have my back here.

Millie twists, glancing out the kitchen window overlooking the expansive backyard. “Talking to your dad and Chris. She went out for a few tomatoes, and I think caught them on their way back.” Squinting, she adds, “I think they were smoking pipes.”

My parents, everyone: pipe-smoking hippies.

“Like hookah?” Ed comes alive.

“Like Sherlock Holmes,” Rayme says with a laugh, and he goes still again under her attention.

Everyone from outside comes in, and indeed the cool air that blows in carries the warm spice of pipe tobacco. All smiles, and without taking a break in their conversation, Dad and Chris each grab a beer, walk toward the dining room, and don’t spare any of us a glance. Rayme pouts, and Millie catches my eye. I try to think back on my sister’s interactions with Chris from more than a year ago, but I swear even when she was nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, I didn’t see Rayme as a human who would go on dates. Just like I’ll always be twenty in my head, she’ll always be fourteen and gangly, a young horse that hasn’t grown into her limbs yet.

She follows Dad and Chris, Alex and Ed follow Rayme, and Millie helps Mom get dinner onto the table. I try to help, but they eventually shoo me away because apparently stealing bites of food isn’t helpful.

My parents have an enormous farm table stretching most of the length of the dining room. The room, which is far longer than it is wide, has an expansive window overlooking the rolling hills of our family vineyard, and is easily the most spectacular view in the house, other than the one from their bedroom, which has the same view, just from higher up. Tonight, Mom has decorated the length of the table with a garland of flowers snaking around and between simple white candles. Ed sits down in front of his full place setting like he’s at the White House: eyes wide, hands unsure where to land.

“Ed,” Millie says, noticing it, too. “What’s with you? It’s like you’ve never seen flatware before.”

Ed picks up a salad fork. “Growing up, we felt fancy if we put the plates on the TV trays.”

Thankfully, Mom manages to swallow her sympathetic gasp. Instead, she says, “We’re just here celebrating Reid’s birthday this weekend, nothing too fancy for us. James, would you like to say a few words?”

We all swing our eyes to Dad, who looks at her like she’s suggested he stand up and break-dance for us. “Sure. Uh, happy birthday, Reid. Thirty-one is . . . a good age.”

“He’s turning thirty-two,” Millie says with a grin.

Dad lifts his wineglass to her in thanks. “Also a good age. And . . . let’s hope for more rain, and that we can pull those soil nitrogen levels back up this spring, eh?” With that, Dad reaches for the platter of ribs.

“There’s your birthday wish,” my sister says with an amusing tilt of her head.

To be fair, my father is not the most gifted orator. He does much better when he’s coaxing miracles out of the earth.

“So tell me about this dating app thing,” my mom says.

Rayme is visibly delighted. “Dating app? What? I definitely need to hear this.”

“It’s not that Grind Up I read about, is it?” Mom adds.

My eyes go wide as I look at them both from across the table. “First of all, Grindr is for gay men. So, no. And which of my dear friends here told you about any of this so I may properly thank them later . . . ?”

Chris, Millie, and Alex all swing their gazes to Ed, and I’d punch him if he weren’t so far away, and also holding a butter knife.

“What?” he says, mouth already full. He swallows around a bite, and at least has the decency to look remotely apologetic. “Your mom asked if I was seeing anyone”—he aims a smile in Rayme’s direction—“which I’m not, if anyone was wondering. I didn’t know our Find a Date for Commencement plan was a secret.”

At my side, Millie drains half of her wine, but doesn’t come to my assistance.

“It’s just for fun,” I assure them with a small wave. “The administration is going all out for the Obama visit, and we thought it might be a good reason to find dates. Simple.”

My mom shakes her head. “It certainly doesn’t sound simple. In my day, we actually went out and met people. Dances, blind dates, drinks. For God’s sake, you could be talking to one of Millie’s serial killers online.”

“I don’t actually know any serial killers,” Millie clarifies.

“Here’s the thing,” Rayme says, motioning to Chris, Ed, Alex, and me. “I get why they’re doing it. It’s like a conveyor belt of ladies they can scroll through while they play Overwatch or circle jerk or whatever it is they do. But Millie? Ugh. Dating sites are like the second circle of hell for women.”

Millie lifts her glass again. “Not wrong.”

“It hasn’t been too bad,” Ed says with a shrug. “I’ve had a good match. So has Reid. He’s talking to two, actually.”

Wow. Ed is really getting his ass kicked later.

“Reid,” Mom says, tone disapproving. “I do not want you out there stringing anyone along.”

Rayme pipes up next to her. “Yeah, Reid.”

“It’s not like that,” I assure them, stepping on Rayme’s foot beneath the table. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

“I don’t understand what computers have to do with sex,” my dad says. “Why not just go down to Rita’s—it’s that little place just off the highway. You remember that, Reid? Thursday night is ladies’ night and beers are only two dollars. Place is full of women.”

“Dad—”

“Oh my God, Jim,” Mom cuts in, delighted, “do you remember when Reid was seventeen and tried to sneak in?”

“Got picked up by the sheriff for a fake ID!” Dad barks out a laugh and slaps his prosthetic arm on the table, causing the silverware and glasses to jump with the impact. Of course, every Campbell, as well as Chris and Millie, is used to it, but Ed and Alex both visibly startle in their seats.

“Point is,” Dad says, “you should give it a try while you’re here.”

After I promise my parents that I’ll give Rita’s a shot, the rest of dinner is fine for the most part. Dad and Chris continue to speak quietly about phosphates and calcium concentrations in the area. Rayme joins in, and for the first time, I see Chris’s eyes light up when she mentions a new cover crop they’re going to try to bring up the pH of the soil. Alex and Ed give up on trying to lure Rayme into a conversation and end up listening as Mom loudly shares stories about the woman who makes weird art down the road, every now and then looking up to check Dad’s reaction when she loudly enunciates the name Marla. The subject of my dating life is thankfully dropped.

To my right, Millie nudges me with an elbow. “You get enough to eat?”

I nod. This is the semiquiet part of the evening. Once the wine is really flowing, all hell breaks loose around here. “Just enjoying the calm before the storm. And by storm I of course mean board games and drunk nudity.”

She stretches, and in a very un-Millie-like action, kisses my cheek. “Thanks for always including me.”

True to form, shit really does hit the fan after dinner and cake. Alex and Rayme pull out a deck of cards and get swept up in a rousing game of Kings. Mom joins in, and at least three glasses of wine are spilled, but four bottles are consumed, so I’m not sure anyone notices.

Twister is brought out, and only then does Mom put her drunken foot down and suggest that Rayme put on shorts, at least. After I nearly break my leg trying to keep my right foot on red and my right hand on green, the other six drunken adults gather around the coffee table to play Bullshit with six sticky decks of cards, and I go in search of Millie, who disappeared about a half hour ago.

I find her bundled up on the back deck, changed into a sweater and jeans, reading on her iPad. She has the thick comforter from her bed wrapped around her, and has found one of Dad’s wool caps to pull over her mess of hair. It’s chilly out, but not freezing, and as soon as the door inside closes, the quiet falls like a hush over the deck. The vineyards stretching out ahead of us are an invisible sea of black.

“Hey, you.” I sit in the lounge chair to her right, facing her. “You’re missing Ed’s recounting to Mom the time he was nearly run over by his ex-girlfriend, the fire breather from the carnival.”

She grins up at me, joking, “You can only hear that story so many times before it’s just another story, you know?”

“What’re you reading?”

Millie tilts her iPad toward me. “I’ll Be Gone in the Dark.”

“My adorable true crime fanatic.”

She nods. “It’s so good.”

I want to talk to her a bit about the conversation we had before dinner, but feel like I should leave her to the book. She turns back to the iPad and I stretch out on the chaise, crossing my feet at the ankle. I like it out here—it’s quiet and crisp . . . and relaxing. Millie is so calm all the time—being near her is a little like sitting in front of the fireplace. I pull out my phone, checking my work email before habitually opening the IRL app to see whether I have any new messages. In fact, I have two. One from Daisy, and another from Cat, to whom I’d mentioned my ambivalence about a weekend at home with my parents.

From: Catherine M.

Sent: 11:43 pm, March 31

When I was in the fifth grade, I had about seventy pounds of hardware in my mouth and could never get over the lisp from it. I mean, it was a terrible, cartoon-level bad lisp.

There was a girl, Tessa, who was an enormous asshole about it. She would raise her hand in class to answer a question, and do it with a lisp, and the entire class would fall apart laughing. It finally bothered me enough that I went to talk to my dad about it, and he gave me these “replies” I could use when she was mean.

Let me be frank right away: They were terrible. They were, like, “Tessa, I really don’t appreciate it when you make fun of me this way,” or “Tessa, you might think it’s funny to make fun of my lisp, but it hurts my feelings.” I mean, not only would saying both of these sentences with a lisp just send her into further hysterics, but these comebacks would not make any ten-year-old feel remorseful.

I figured my dad was just terrible at comebacks, and added that to the list of things that Mom Would Have Done Better, but then one day I came home crying, and went straight to my room, and about an hour later I heard his voice downstairs, and it got louder and louder until I finally heard him yell, “Look, I don’t know if you feed her sand, or you make her sleep in a small, dark closet, but just keep your dumb bitch of a bully away from my daughter from now on or I’ll come say it again in person.”

Needless to say, Tessa never bugged me again.

I’m not really sure what my point is, but sometimes we think our parents are lame and then they totally surprise us by being awesome. I hope that this weekend is like that for you.

C.

I read it again, laughing, and then type a quick reply:

From: Reid C.

Sent: 12:02 am, April 1

OK, I just laughed out loud reading this. We’re actually having a pretty good time. Mom made ribs and mashed potatoes, and only mentioned The Woman Down The Street about seven hundred times, but I don’t think Dad noticed. My friends got her drunk so that she won’t be mad when they run naked in the vineyards later. It’s chaos in the house, but I’m outside with my best friend, which always makes me . . . calmer. It’s quiet and nice and I’m glad I came home. You were right.

I hope it doesn’t sound too forward for me to say that I’m really glad you wrote me tonight.

More soon.

R.

I open the message from Daisy.

From: Daisy D.

Sent: 9:15 pm, April 1

Hi Reid!

Omg I bet it’s so pretty up there! Happy birthday! Mine is in July. It always sucked to have birthdays in the summer because no one was around! Let’s definitely plan a time to get together when you’re back! Have the most fun!

Daisy

I read this one again, struggling to find a thread of anything I can reply to here. Granted, I tend to overthink things, but having conversations with Daisy online is a little like playing Candy Land. I know some people are better in person, and I thankfully get that sense from her. I type out something, and then delete it. Honestly, I could just decide to not reply, right?

I look over at Millie, whose screen looks like she’s also reading a message on IRL, and with a faint smile on her face. That odd surge of jealousy is back, but I press in on it, forcing it to collapse into nothing.

Finally, I settle on a simple note to Daisy—Thanks! Have a great weekend!—and hit SEND just when Millie stands and moves so that she’s hovering over me, with the comforter cocooned around her shoulders, cap low on her head.

“What are you up to?” she asks quietly.

“Was just replying to Daisy.”

She goes quiet, and I look up at her face. It’s lit with the warm light coming through the windows behind us, her head is tilted to the side, and she’s frowning a little—the way she does when she’s working out something in her head.

“You okay?” I ask. I feel like I’ve asked her that a lot in the last few days, but I suppose that’s why it’s inadvisable to have sex with your beautiful-but-closed-off best friend.

“Yeah.” She reaches down, takes my hand. “Want to go upstairs?”

“Good call, I’m beat.”

“I mean,” she says even quieter now, “upstairs.”

Her fingers tighten around mine meaningfully.

Holy shit.

“Upstairs upstairs?” I ask, leaning on the innuendo.

“Yeah.”

Any intelligent thought process falls away, and I am wiped clean of any reaction but lust; after only one night she has me trained to alternate from concerned friend to eager lover with just the tone of her voice. “Like for sex?”

She laughs, a low rumble, and hesitates for only a moment before gifting me with a shaky “Yeah.”

I stand, and we’re so close I can feel the heat emanating from her body. I have a wild urge to kiss her, like I need to confirm that she’s serious. It’s short, just a brush of my mouth over hers, but she chases it a little, eyes heavy. Anyone inside would only have to turn and look out the window to see us, so it isn’t smart to do this here, but I’m too thunderstruck to be cautious.

The first time was the last time, at least that’s what I thought. But has she been wanting this again, and only just worked up the nerve? It doesn’t sound like Millie. Or is it an impulsive thing, to be hosed down tomorrow and put away in storage inside of us again?

Right now I’m not sure I care.