My Favorite Half-Night Stand(48)

The swing squeaks, a gentle reminder of when Reid helped me hang it. Dustin and I had just broken up, and I’d mentioned needing an extra set of hands. He’d volunteered before it had even occurred to me to ask. He helped lay the pavers that wind their way to the garage and replaced the smoke detector after an unfortunate Thanksgiving incident. And when I wanted to release a paper lantern on New Year’s Eve—somehow lighting the fringe of my scarf aflame in the process—he was there to put out that fire, too.

But if things go well with Daisy . . . will he still be?

I glower at my laptop and don’t bother listening to the tiny professional voice in my head—it’s immediately overshadowed by the possessive one telling me to ignore the manuscript I’m supposed to be working on and open up the IRL app to reply to his last letter.

From: Catherine M.

Sent: 6:48 pm, April 6

Reid,

Wow this is becoming a regular occurrence. Do we officially qualify as pen pals now? I’d always wanted one when I was a kid, but never went anywhere or did anything—what would I possibly have to say?

Thank you for your last letter. It was so honest and sincere, and I want to tell you how much it meant that you shared it with me. Do me a favor and give your mom a big hug when you see her next. She won’t know exactly why, but something tells me it will make her day. Fingers crossed that there was no late-night streaking in the vineyard.

So, as pen pals we’re supposed to be honest and tell each other things we might not otherwise say, right? I know the goal here is to find people we like. I like you, Reid. I know that means that I should put my best foot forward, but I’m in an odd mood and I seem to have lost my filter. Besides, wouldn’t it be better to be brutally honest? I feel like we meet people in life and want so much for them to like us that we suck in our stomachs and pretend we don’t fart and tell them a bunch of things we think they want to know. If it works they fall for the person we want to be, and not for the person we are.

First, my dad is sick. He’s sick and I haven’t told anyone because I’m sad enough about it without making everyone else around me miserable, too. Isn’t that insane? I have the most kind and understanding friends in the world, all of whom would do anything to help, and I’ve kept this from them because I don’t want to be a drag.

Which leads me to my next bout of emotional diarrhea (and if you write me back I promise not to ever use that term again). I’m lonely. I’m lonely because I don’t tell people what I need or what I want, and then get hurt when they don’t figure it out on their own.

Is it possible to be a highly functioning adult with a successful career, awesome friends and a lovely family, and still be a Level Five Hot Mess? I may be living proof.

And because I can’t leave with the phrase “emotional diarrhea” this close to the end (okay, NOW I’ll never use that term again), here’s an embarrassing little tidbit about myself to cap off this dumpster fire of a reply. When I was sixteen, I had such a crush on a guy named Leslie. Rather than—I don’t know—actually talk to him, I came up with elaborate reasons to pass his locker at least six times a day, and would covertly just happen to show up wherever he was going to be.

One weekend in October, I heard a bunch of his friends were going to the local corn maze and haunted house. I love all things scary, but for some reason can’t stand the idea of ghosts. Still, my lust for this boy had clearly clouded my judgment because I threw together a costume and dragged my best friend along with me.

Everything was fine at first, I managed to make tit halfway through the attraction without peeing my pants or otherwise embarrassing myself, but I still hadn’t seen him. Unfortunately, my best friend had, and she wanted to make sure he saw me. Her brilliant plan involved telling one of the workers that it was okay to scare me and grab me from behind. I’m sure in her head I would scream in this really adorable way, Leslie would see me, and we would slip off to make out and probably end up engaged. What happened was slightly different.

The guy did grab me, and I definitely screamed, but while attempting to flee, I ran into a faux–serial killer with a prop chainsaw and somehow managed to slice my left shoulder open pretty bad. SIX STITCHES. Leslie did see me, but covered in my own blood and only as I was being carried out on a stretcher.

Funnily enough he stopped by my house a few days later, and we did actually make out.

He was a terrible kisser.

C.



My Uber drops me off a few buildings down from the Sandbar.

With a giant smile, I walk to where Ed is waiting. Strangely, after sending that insane note to Reid, I feel better. Maybe the best strategy here is to scare him off Catherine with boatloads of honesty, and hope that Daisy is a dud . . . oh, and also figure out my own shit.

Like, what does my jealousy mean, and are these spasms in my stomach what most normal people describe as love? Or is it the Indian food I had for lunch staging a mild gastrointestinal coup?

“Your smile is weird,” Ed says when I reach him. “Like you’re farting.”

“Trying not to.”

He rolls with this easily. I love Ed. “Do you want to sit inside or outside?” He points to my stomach. “Maybe outside, better air circulation?”

Downtown Santa Barbara is lively this time of night, with bars and restaurants that line the sidewalks, and brightly lit patios with seating that spills out toward the street.