My Favorite Half-Night Stand(27)
“I mean, that’s not a bad point . . .” I look to Alex, hoping for once he keeps his mouth shut, and when it seems like he will, I turn back to Millie. “Will you help me reply to her, Mills?”
“To Catherine?” she asks.
“To Daisy,” I say, then amend, “Well, both, I guess. Maybe I could copy and paste what I write to Daisy into Catherine’s box, for now.”
Millie stares at me for a long, flat second, and then stands. “Sure, Reid. Send along their messages and I’ll help you.”
We all go very still.
“Are you sure?” I point to her narrow eyes and stiff posture, something we’ve never seen on her, other than the time we were playing cornhole at Chris’s and Millie—the reigning, undisputed champion of cornhole—was briefly losing to Alex. “You look like you’re going to kill me via decapitation.”
She laughs but it’s a weird ha-ha-ha laugh. A movie villain laugh. “I’m not going to kill you.” Millie slides her messenger bag across her chest, hooking a thumb beneath the strap.
“I don’t feel reassured,” I admit.
“I just think you’re being shallow.”
The unfamiliar disappointment in her voice is cutting, and beyond that . . . another type of unease starts to worm its way through me. Is there something going on here? With Millie . . . and the prospect of me dating?
“Why do you care who I reply to?” I ask as carefully as I can. I’m a little out of my depth here because Is she angry? And what does it mean that I’m not really sure what angry Millie looks like?
“It’s just a female solidarity thing,” she says. “Why are we always expected to share the picture of us with our boobs out on the beach, but dudes can share the candid one with their slobbery dog?”
“I want to remind you,” Ed says, “that this same group has had strong opinions about what photos I share, too.”
“You’re tripping because I didn’t want you to look like a McDonald’s ad?” Chris asks him.
“I wasn’t going to wear the fucking Grimace costume!” Ed yells, and about fourteen people around us turn to look.
When I turn back to answer Millie, to tell her she’s right, that I need to give Catherine more of a chance, she’s gone.
chapter seven
millie
I’m in a dramatic huff by the time I get back to my office. Seriously. Copy and paste? What the fuck, Reid?
Dropping into my chair, I reach for the bag of peanut butter M&M’s I keep in my bottom drawer. No, it’s not the greatest coping mechanism, but since I already finished the bottle of scotch I used to keep there, M&M’s will have to do.
Shallow isn’t a word I’d have used to describe Reid before today. Manipulative? Maybe. I mean, aren’t we all a little? Even a tiny bit self-absorbed? Sure, I’m guilty of that one, too. But shallow? No. Which is why this feels like such a big thing, because more than angry about how quickly Reid prioritized his response to Daisy over Catherine, I feel disappointed.
It’s not an emotion I’m used to where Reid is concerned. He’s the one I called when I got a flat tire halfway to Monterey, the friend who will bring us each a smoothie the morning after a night of particularly heavy drinking, the person who refuses to speak badly about anyone, especially behind their back. He’s unerringly thoughtful.
Disappointment in Reid feels a lot like indigestion.
Pulling up the app again, I don’t even check my Millie profile, but stay logged into Catherine’s. She has two new requests, one of which looks like a reasonably normal guy, and one I instantly delete.
Eric is a twenty-six-year-old makeup artist, and according to the app we’re an 84 percent match. I’m not going to lie, the idea of dating someone who can do my makeup better than I can is pretty damn appealing, and so I click ALLOW to let him view the rest of my information.
Moving on, I open the profile page and click her—my—photo. It’s a picture my sister took on my last trip home, and I picked it not only because you couldn’t clearly make out my face, but because no one here has seen it before. I’d been watching the rain as it puddled outside the window, and I look thoughtful, almost serene. It’s no Daisy on a beach with her smile and her boobs, but it isn’t a bad photo. Certainly not one that warrants a copied and pasted reply.
The messages Reid received from Daisy and Catherine were both brief, and the differences in our matches were pretty big—98 percent versus 82 percent! I’m starting to think Reid is a fake scientist who doesn’t care about numbers. Any preference he has for Daisy at this point is purely visual. What a dick!
Is it crazy that I’m suddenly determined to make Catherine the winner here? To teach them a lesson? Not just for my own vindication, but for like . . . all of womankind?
If I asked the guys, I’m sure they’d tell me my—Catherine’s—first step should be to choose a new photo. Unfortunately, I can’t show my face, and a close-up down the front of my shirt wouldn’t be all that impressive, either, so I’ll just have to make Catherine more interesting. This would be easier if I could be creative and tell a lot of stories, taking snippets I’ve heard from other people or gleaned from books, spinning them into details I could share with Reid. But since I’m being semishady as it is, I can’t lie. Catherine’s stories have to be my stories, which means I can’t show him the easy, superficial stuff I’ve let him see before. I’ll have to actually work for this and dig deep.