My Favorite Half-Night Stand(45)
I nod carefully and she continues, “I don’t want to put a wrinkle in that with our . . . friends-with-benefits thing.”
I study her face as she squints out into the vineyard, trying to read between the lines here. A twist of guilt works its way through my torso, and I’m immeasurably glad that she doesn’t know I wrote Cat after leaving her bed last night. If she did, I’m sure a simple “I couldn’t sleep” explanation wouldn’t cut it.
“Do you,” I begin, unsure of what I want her answer to be, “want me to stop . . . talking to these other women?”
“I mean, only if you want to.”
“To be fair, you have someone you’re calling ‘my guy,’ ” I remind her.
She doesn’t move. “Yeah.”
I laugh, feeling my chest start to tighten with unexpected disappointment. Last night was fun. Something new and a little scary is expanding in my chest, and it’s hooked to the memory of Millie above me, her eyes closed, neck arched. If she’d asked me to stay, would I have? “I have no idea what is going on right now, Mills.”
“Nothing is going on.” She says it more calmly, back in control. She returns her focus to me and puts a warm hand on my arm. “Really, Reid. At least, not with me. I’m good.”
Without asking me anything in return, she pushes on ahead, her pace picking up. A flock of sparrows pass overhead, and she looks up to the sky. “Man, it is so beautiful out here.”
With that, the conversation about last night seems left behind us and I feel . . . slightly untethered.
“It really is,” I say quietly.
Millie starts talking about the weather, which leads into a story about this time she was hiking with a friend in Yosemite and her friend almost died trying to take a picture of a sign that described the risk of death on the trail. I listen, hopefully making noises at the appropriate moments to let her know that I’m still paying attention, but inside I’m sort of shredded. The truth is, I’m curious whether I’ll have better in-person chemistry with Daisy than I do over messages, and I’m interested in the possibility that I’ll have just as good chemistry with Catherine in person as I do over messages. But after last night, I think my heart got ahead of my brain a little. If the twist in my chest is any indication, I think I wanted things with Millie to grow deeper.
Watching her in superficial storytelling mode, I honestly begin to wonder whether she’s capable of that. As a friend, she’s fun, and loyal, observant, and thoughtful. Her quiet depth comes out as humor, and reveals how unbelievably brilliant she is. She’s wild in the best ways while still keeping her life drama-free—all great things in a friend. But I don’t want a buddy for a lover—I want a lover who goes deeper than Millie ever seems to want to go, and the realization that this isn’t ever going to evolve makes me oddly—surprisingly—sad. Odd, that is, given that until this morning, it wasn’t even a conscious goal to get us there.
She stops, staring out at the rolling hills, and I give it one last chance. “Tell me about this guy you’re talking to.”
Blinking over to me, she gives me an easy grin. “Maybe there’s more than one.”
Ouch. “Okay, then, tell me about the one you’re calling ‘my guy.’ ”
Millie takes a deep breath, pulling her shoulders up to her ears. “He’s pretty great. You know how you just get a good vibe from someone in writing?”
I nod. I know exactly what she means. Cat’s black-and-white profile photo swims through my thoughts.
“He’s funny and . . . open about things,” she says carefully, and that part stabs a bolt of pain through me because, honestly, I’d be more open with her in person if she ever took the bait and engaged in that kind of conversation with me. It’s depressing to realize that the last time we talked about anything very deep was at the beach, nearly two years ago, after she left Dustin, and told me in simple, bare terms how hard he was to live with. But after a few minutes, she went quiet and then started talking about how much she loves watching the waves crash on the surf.
“Are you going to meet him?” I ask.
“It’s weird because I feel like I know him already,” she says, still not looking at me. “What if I do? What if we know each other from somewhere? Would that be awkward? I think so. So, part of me is like, ‘Yeah! Let’s set up a date!’ and part of me is like, ‘Um, that’s the worst idea ever.’ ”
“But you haven’t really met him,” I say. “I mean, wouldn’t you know if you had? What’s his name?”
She waves a hand. “Just . . . Guy.”
“His name is Guy?” I stare at her, my smile slowly breaking wide. “You’re going to go from dating a Dustin to dating a Guy?”
“Maybe it’s not his real name,” she says, flustered. “Who knows. Maybe it’s Dougal or Alfred, and Guy is just a nickname.”
“You’re so weird,” I say, pinching her cheek.
She looks up at me, glowing in obvious relief. “You are.”
Mom has made her famous lemon-ricotta pancakes by the time we get back, and Millie and I fall into our chairs at the table with a sort of desperate, haven’t-eaten-in-ten-years vigor. Breakfast is a loud, mimosa-filled affair, with a sticky syrup bottle winding its way up and down the table, a giant bowl of fat berries with cream passed from hand to hand, and a huge platter of bacon slowly emptying until we are all groaning, hands clutched over our too-full stomachs.