My Favorite Half-Night Stand (Page 29)

Alex leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “Maybe?”

I sigh. “Fine. Twice.”

“So far,” Alex suggests, and Ed takes a break from shoveling in chips and salsa by the handful to bark out a laugh.

I glare at them both. “There’s no so far about it. It was a weird little accident. It won’t happen again.”

Alex laughs now and his eyes are devilishly bright in the light from the fire. “Do you know what an accident is, Mills? Spilling a glass of water is an accident. Cutting someone off in traffic—that can be an accident. As much as I would personally enjoy using it as an excuse, I don’t know how person one would accidentally put their penis into person two.”

“Well, theoretically, depending on the circumstances, the angle of your fall, and the velocity—” Ed stops and looks around the table. “Carry on.”

Alex clears his throat before turning his attention back to me. “Not even getting into the fact that you confided in Ed about this and not me. Does Chris know?”

“Hell no, Chris doesn’t. And I didn’t confide in anyone.” I poke at my drink with the straw, glaring at Ed. “I only admitted it to him because he basically caught me.”

“And let me tell you,” Ed says, straightening, “I don’t think the amount of insulation they have in those walls is up to code. I might as well have been in the same room for the things I heard. I almost took a shower myself.”

“If you don’t plan on doing it again,” Alex begins, “then why are we here? Why did you need to talk to Ed? I mean, I’m surprised to hear about the Catherine thing, but not really the rest. You and Reid are . . . different with each other. I’m frankly surprised you haven’t banged long before now.”

Ed narrows his eyes, and I swear it’s like watching a cartoon lightbulb go on above his head. I’m already wincing when he says, “He’s out with Daisy, isn’t he?”

I push my drink away, unsure whether my stomach can tolerate any more black booze. “He is. But what I wanted to tell you is that I don’t think we need to worry about the Catherine thing anymore.”

“Why?” Ed asks, shifting when the waitress arrives with our food and another round of drinks.

I gladly trade my Blackout Beach for a water, thanking her before she steps away again. “I did my best to scare him off.”

Alex is already shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Trust me,” I say, and unroll my napkin to place it in my lap. “If he hasn’t blocked me by tonight, he’ll definitely do it by morning. I was sort of having a moment, and did an emotional purge in his inbox.”

Ed pauses with a taco halfway to his mouth. “I’d kind of like to see that.”

Alex seems to be similarly surprised, and I look at each of them in turn. “See what?”

Ed sets down his food, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Come on, Mills. We all know you keep your cards close. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but it would be cool to know more about what you’re thinking, you know? I could always be wrong, but . . . I’ve known Reid for a long time. If your plan was to scare him off by letting him get to know you—or Catherine—you might want to think of a plan B. Reid is an emotionally intuitive dude. He likes feelings.”

The problem is that I know, and it’s one of the things I love about him. He’s sensitive and able to express himself in a way I’ve never been able to. Reid moving on from Cat would be the easiest conclusion to this mess, but that’s sort of the problem. I can’t deny how good it felt to unload all that today. It felt good to tell him some more about my past, and how I’m lonely, and how that loneliness is almost entirely my own fault.

“You look like you’re going to fart again,” Ed says.

Alex wrinkles his nose. “Millie, drop it on the other side of the patio.”

“I’m not going to fart, you jackass. I’m thinking about how many chances I’ve had to tell Reid the truth, and how I’m selfish, and never do.”

“Not to oversimplify things,” Alex says, “but we’re all sort of selfish. I’m letting you pay for my dinner—”

“Wha—”

He holds up a hand before I can correct him. “Reid is talking to two women at once, and thinks neither of them knows it. Not to mention the fact that Reid isn’t exactly the most casual guy. If sex is involved, I’m guessing he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with you.”

Alex winces a little before this next part: “And if sex with Daisy happens tonight, I’m guessing he’ll need to rethink some things, too.”

Chapter twelve

reid

The minute I see Daisy in the restaurant, all coherent thought slips out of my head. Her photos don’t lie: even from across the room there’s something almost magnetic about her. She’s beachy-casual in a sleeveless shirt and skirt; she seems cut from the pages of a catalog. Even so, Daisy shrinks a little under the focused attention of the number of men who turn and watch her while she searches for me. I told her I’d be wearing a blue-checked dress shirt, and I’m relieved to see her eyes light up when she spots me.

I get a slight sour tang in my mouth because as she approaches, I feel that ever-present shadow of Millie in my thoughts—and the sex we had only three nights ago—and the twin shadow of Cat and the authenticity I find in those messages that I can’t honestly find anywhere else.

I’m not a juggler—I’ve never been a juggler—but the easy attraction and fun I have with Millie seems to crumble when we try to talk about real things. I can’t tell if Cat and I would have the same level of chemistry in person, even if our conversations feel infinitely deeper.

And then there’s Daisy. Sweet, beautiful . . . and right here.

I reach to shake her hand but she embraces me instead, pulling me in for a tight hug. Her breath is warm on my neck, her blond hair tickling across my cheek. “I’ve been so nervous!”

“Absolutely no need to be nervous,” I say, stepping back.

“I know.” She pulls out her chair. “I guess I’m just so glad you were telling the truth and you’re not, like, eighty and enormous.”

This bounces around inside my cranium. I can only say, “No . . .”

The waiter approaches, and Daisy orders a rosé, I order a scotch, neat, and my stomach slowly climbs into my throat while I wait for all my opening questions to come back into my head. But all I can hear is the mental peanut gallery of Ed protesting Daisy’s fat phobia and Alex reminding Ed that Daisy has nice stems, and Chris ignoring all of it. Mental Millie is gone; she must have disappeared as soon as I registered my own relief that Daisy was indeed beautiful.

We start speaking at the same time: “I hope traffic wasn’t too bad,” I say, just when Daisy says, “I heard this place is so good.”

And then we do it again. “It is really good,” I say, just as she says, “No, it was fine.”

“Oh,” she says, “go ahead.”

I clear my throat awkwardly. “No, no, I was just saying that they do have good food here.”

She nods, smiling around at the maritime décor. “Cool.” Daisy unrolls her napkin and puts it in her lap. “I used to have a beach theme in my bedroom, like shells and stuff.”

“Oh?” I take an enormous gulp of water, cooling down the path from tongue to stomach as it begins to dawn on me that Daisy and I have zero chemistry whatsoever.

“Like, when I was a kid. Some fish nets, shells—I already said that, oh my God—and, like, everything was painted blue. Blue walls, blue bed.” She pauses, looking at me like it’s my turn to speak. I have no idea what to say. Finally, she adds, “Blue dresser. I wanted to be a mermaid.”

“Oh.” I nod, smiling as I struggle to shush the part of my brain that wants to point out that a mermaid probably wouldn’t surround herself with nets. Or a dresser. I mean, if mermaids were real. I clear my throat. “I bet that was . . . fun. I had the same boring red comforter from when I was seven until . . . well, it’s still in our guest room at home.” I try to ease the tension with a joke. “Maybe I wanted to be a fireman.”

Okay, that didn’t work.

Silence stretches a mile in every direction. Mental Millie returns, lifting up her cocktail for a sardonic toast and letting out a long, throaty laugh. She says saucily, Oh, I’m familiar with that comforter.

“So.” I desperately tread water. “You’re a student at UCSB?”

“Early childhood education,” she tells me, and then thanks the waitress when our drinks are delivered. “I’m almost finished and will work at the Bellridge Preschool Academy starting in the fall.”

I have questions about a “preschool academy” but let them go for now. I mean, at least she seems focused, directed. “You’ve already got a job lined up?”

Daisy nods. “I know the owner, she’s really great. Tons of hot dads there, too,” she says, and then laughs.

“Oh . . . that’s . . .” I lift my scotch, take a slow sip. “That’s good.”