My Favorite Half-Night Stand(13)

“No,” Chris interjects, “No Tinders or Grindrs or any other hookup apps. We need dates, not sex.”

I don’t miss the way Reid’s eyes flicker my way.

Ed pulls out his phone, swiping through his apps before turning the screen to face us. “We use it to find matches. We meet them, hook up, have fun—whatever, and then we ask if they want to go to the banquet.”

“I love that the sex comes before the date,” Reid says dryly.

Ed nods sagely. “Sex is just the bonus.”

Chris’s chin comes to an amused landing in his cupped hand. “Boy, in what universe is sex with you a bonus?”

“I have an IQ of one hundred and forty-eight,” Ed says. “I’ll let you connect the dots.”

“Actually, being smart means you’re probably having less sex,” Reid tells him. “A 2007 study showed intelligence is negatively associated with sex frequency. In fact, only sixty-five percent of MIT graduates have even had sex.”

“Pull up the plane, Reid,” I say.

He laughs. “Okay, I guess what I’m saying is maybe Chris and Ed are right. Chris’s sister is happy. I know a few people who’ve met their significant other online. Hell, I know lots of people who’ve met some of their best friends online. Maybe a dating site isn’t the worst idea.”

I slide my notebook back and point him to my neatly arranged columns. “I have a whole list of maybes. I don’t need someone else to find me a date.”

Reid gently takes it from me. “I think ‘maybes’ might be a tad optimistic.”

“What if we don’t all find matches?” Chris asks. “Then what?”

“Whoever doesn’t have a date takes Millie,” Ed suggests.

My voice tears out in a playful screech: “Why are we assuming I’m also not finding a date?”

Just over Reid’s shoulder, I spot Avery Henderson waiting at the counter for her coffee and I stifle a whimper. Now a professor in the English department at UCSB, Avery was my little sister’s college roommate at the University of Washington and, quite frankly, has always been in better touch with Elly than I have. Avery picked up on this about nine months ago, too, when she realized I hadn’t heard that my sister was expecting twins, and since then, she loves to lord it over me when we run into each other at Saturday Pilates. But here, at lunch with my guys, I am unprepared for the ambush and try to duck into Reid’s shoulder, hoping she won’t see me.

Unfortunately, when the barista hands over her coffee, Avery catches my eye. I smell Reid’s shirt to make it look like that’s what I was doing all along.

“Can I help you with something?” Reid mumbles.

“I was—never mind, just be cool. Be cool.”

“Oh my God. Millie!” Avery shuffle-runs over to us. “I was going to call you this week to see how you’re doing.”

I smile up at her with as much easy calm as I can muster. “I’m doing well, how are you and Doug?”

She waves this away like I knew she might, indicating that she and Doug should be the least of my worries. Her voice drops. “I mean . . . with your dad.”

I lift my chin, mentally sweating under the weight of Reid, Chris, and Ed staring at me with loud questions in their expressions. “I’m good. We’re all great.”

Avery falters. “But Elly mentioned—”

Abruptly, I stand and give her an awkward hug. “I appreciate you asking,” I say. “I’ll tell Elly you said hi!”

“Yes, please!” Thankfully, she looks at her watch. “Oh man. I’d love to catch up more, but I have a deposition at two. You’ll call me with any news?”

“Of course!”

She shuffle-runs out with her coffee in hand and I take as much time as is reasonably possible to sit back down, lift my napkin, shake it out, and slide it back onto my lap.

“So.” I look around the silent table. “Where were we? Tinder no, but another app . . . maybe?”

Reid shakes his head. “What was that about? Something with your dad?”

I shift a little under the scrutiny of his gaze. “It’s nothing bad.” It’s terrible. “Just . . . parents getting older.”

Just fathers getting diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

I uncap my water and take a long drink, trying to push the worry and sadness back into place, where they won’t bubble up easily.

Ed pulls out a sandwich he’s had tucked away . . . somewhere and takes a bite. “My mom had her gallbladder out last week and bitched at me for an hour last night on the phone because she can’t have McDonald’s anymore.”

I give a sympathetic wince, internally relieved that I might escape this grilling. “Yikes.”

But per usual, Reid is undeterred. “Wait, Mills. Is he sick?”

Here’s where I’m stuck.

I don’t share much about my family. I don’t do it in part because I don’t see them much, but also because my mom died when I was twelve and it sucked, and it’s made me really hate talking about things that suck.

But I also don’t lie, and I especially don’t lie to my friends. Threading the needle here, I tell them simply, “He hasn’t been feeling great, but he’ll be okay.” I hope my tone puts Reid’s antennae back down.