My Favorite Half-Night Stand(17)

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

“Then you know there’s nothing wrong with the two of us making jokes about what happened. Maybe it’ll even bring us closer.”

“Maybe.” I tap his computer. “But if our goal is to meet other people, you need to finish this tonight and send it to me in the morning for approval.”

He looks down at me with a goofy smile. Reid Campbell really is fucking cute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I open the door and push him out. “And make sure the guys do it, too. I’m looking forward to judging you all.”

“As you wish,” he calls out. When he disappears out the front gate, I am free to disappear into my bedroom.





chapter four


        reid


Millie Morris Dude. You guys.


Christopher Hill What?


Reid Campbell What?


Millie Morris Your dating profiles suuuuuuck.


Alex Ramirez There were approximately six hundred questions!


Millie Morris I’m aware. I filled them all out, too. I’m talking specifically about your essay/intro portion.


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio I spent like two hours on it!


Millie Morris Really Ed? Two hours?


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio Two . . .ish.


Millie Morris I’m going to paste the best example in here, which was Chris’s.


Christopher Hill That’s right, boys! Learn from the man.


Christopher Hill Headed to a meeting so I’ll catch up then. Back in an hour.

[Christopher Hill has left the chat]


Millie Morris He left before he realized that his also needs to be rewritten.


Reid Campbell Hey, mine wasn’t terrible.


Millie Morris Yes, Reid, it was T E R R I B L E. You essentially had the abstract from your most recent paper in there. Women don’t need to know about optic neuritis until, like, date four. Ok, here’s Chris’s: I am divorced, 29, six foot three, and a professor of Chemistry at UC Santa Barbara.I enjoy running, home-brewing, and Cal football.


Reid Campbell He forgot to mention roosters.


Millie Morris He forgot to mention, like, anything interesting about himself.


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio Wait why is that intro bad? I don’t get it Reid Campbell Ed, aren’t you supposed to be helping Shaylene transfect her cells?


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio Shit.


Alex Ramirez lol the downside of IM’ing with your boss Millie Morris Chris took the less-is-more approach. Alex, you took the all-about-me approach. I can assure you that the execution is equally offensive for entirely different reasons. Ed, yours had like 700 typos.


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio I hate to break it to you but so will 90% of the profiles out there. Most people are doing all this on their phones Millie Morris I am so old.


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio Maybe you should write them for us.


Millie Morris Uh, PARDON?


Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio You’re good at this shit and you obviously care more that they’re well written.


Reid Campbell Ed. Cells. NOW.


Millie Morris I am not being the organized, well-spoken woman to your male chaos.

[Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio has left the chat]


Reid Campbell I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he has a point.


Millie Morris UGGGGGGH


Reid Campbell Please Mills? I’ll buy you lunch.


Millie Morris You owe me lunch anyway.


Reid Campbell Two lunches then. You can wear your elastic waist pants tomorrow.


Millie Morris No


Alex Ramirez Please Millie


Millie Morris No


Alex Ramirez It’s a good idea Mills


Millie Morris No

I sense that victory is near—Millie is just about to break—but I’m called away from pressuring her when my phone rings. My smile fades at the picture of my mom lighting up the screen. In the photo, she’s standing on the wide front porch of my childhood home, wearing her worn denim shirt and rubber boots up to the knees of her khaki pants. Her long gray hair is tied back with ribbon. We’ve always had an easy relationship, my parents, Rayme, and I. But three months ago, at Christmas, Mom and I took a long walk through the family vineyards behind the house and—whether out of some strange mood or the impulsive decision that I was an adult and therefore ready to also be a confidant—she told me about nearly all of her marital woes. Not only did I have to hear her frustration that my parents barely have sex, and how Dad never tells her she’s pretty anymore, but I had to talk her off the ledge of panic when she started speculating that Dad was having an affair with the woman down the street, a forty-year-old artist named Marla who creates sculptures out of only things found in her yard: twigs, leaves . . . rodents.

So these days, unfortunately, a call from my mother triggers mild nausea.

“Hey, Mom.”

She doesn’t seem to be in the mood for small talk. “What night are you arriving for the party?”

I take a few moments to figure out what she’s referring to, vaguely staring at the still-scrolling chat screen on my computer. Finally: “What?”