My Favorite Half-Night Stand (Page 12)

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.

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 Mysteries reboot 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.”