My Favorite Half-Night Stand(57)

“I’ve never had, like, deep friendships,” I say, and hate how I feel myself shrug defensively. “After my mom died, we just sort of . . . rallied. Dad’s motto was ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff. And it’s all small stuff.’ I guess to him, after Mom died, that saying was pretty accurate. Nothing felt big in comparison.” Realization unfolds as I let this all out. “If I made it through that, I can make it through anything, right? No sense making something bigger by dwelling on it.”

Ed struggles to hide his exasperation. “Sharing things doesn’t mean you’re dwelling.”

“I know, but—”

“It’s about us knowing who you are.” He holds up a hand to keep me from arguing. “Tell me five important things about Reid.”

This I can do. I give them both a knowing smile and Alex adds quickly, “Above the belt.”

“Okay,” I say. “One, he loves his work—like, genuinely loves doing research on optic neuritis in multiple sclerosis. See? I don’t know what any of that means, but I know that’s what Reid studies because he’s always so excited about it.”

Ed leans in like he’s going to start explaining all the science to me, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Two, he loves his parents to death, and even when he complains about his mom being crazy, he still loves being home second only to being in the lab.” I sit up, adjusting the beanbag beneath me. “He’s so proud of Rayme because she’s smart and beautiful and confident, but more than anything he’s secretly relieved that she’s taking on the family business so he doesn’t have to.”

“Good one,” Alex says.

“He wants to travel more,” I say. “And, um, he’s claustrophobic.”

“See?” Ed says. “Now if you asked me what five things I know about you, they’d mostly have to do with murder, belching, and Monopoly.”

I laugh, but it sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s body, because suddenly my brain is full of Reid.

He likes when I bite his neck, I think, and heat builds in my belly. He likes when I’m on top. He likes quiet afternoons watching tennis in the summer, likes his coffee extra hot. He doesn’t like strawberry pie, but loves cherry. His favorite band is the Pixies, although seeing Pink Floyd live is at the top of his bucket list. He didn’t think he liked brussels sprouts until I cooked them for him. He runs a six-minute mile, sleeps on his left side, usually forgets to eat breakfast. He loves my laugh, likes holding hands, hates when someone is looking at their phone while he’s talking.

I blink when Alex snaps in front of me. “Hello?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked what you want,” he says.

“Other than a Time-Turner or to be blackout drunk so that I don’t have to think about this anymore?”

He doesn’t even crack a smile.

Embarrassment feels like a tight band around my throat. “Okay, I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“With Reid,” Ed clarifies. “What do you want with Reid?”

The answer has been forming since I woke up this morning. I knew days ago that I didn’t want anyone else to have him, but that’s not exactly the same as wanting him for myself, is it?

Except in this case, it is.

But the idea of admitting this to Ed and Alex before I’ve said it to Reid feels . . . cowardly. “I’m figuring it out,” I tell them. “I just want to talk to him.”

Alex stands, tugging me up, and we make our way to Ed’s disaster of a kitchen. There are about six cereal bowls in the sink, brown bananas hanging from a banana hook and hovering above some wrinkly apples. The recycling is overflowing, and when Alex opens the fridge, the only things visible are a few six-packs of beer.

Before I can say anything, Ed is standing in front of me, frowning. “Don’t judge. I order takeout most nights.”

“I mean, if you ever manage to get a woman in here,” I begin, and then sweep my arm around the room, “she’ll be horrified.”

“My mom is coming to help me clean this week,” he says.

Alex smirks. “I don’t think that’s what she meant by ‘woman.’ ”

“Do you ever hear the words you’re saying?” I ask Ed, taking a beer when Alex hands it to me.

He sits at a barstool and takes down about a quarter of his beer. “Selma still hasn’t replied.”

Ugh, poor Ed. “Wait. You mean after like two weeks of amazing conversation, you asked her to meet, and she vanished?”

Ed nods, clearly bummed. “I’m getting some other matches, but . . .” He shrugs and lets out a long, rumbling burp. “Can we get back to fixing this mess you’ve created with Reid?”

“I’m definitely not helping you clean this kitchen,” I tell him, “so why not.”

“Maybe you should disappear like that,” Alex says. “Catherine, that is.”

I frown at him. “What? Just not reply?”

Ed stares at me and then shrugs again. “I mean, it’s effective. It’s not like I can go out and find her.” Pausing, he seems to hear the stalkery vibe to his words and adds, “Okay, not that I would try.”

My beer sits untouched in front of me, and I watch as tiny beads of condensation run down the sides of the bottle and form a puddle on the countertop. The idea of someone just disappearing on Reid—even if it’s me, and I’m still going to be here—makes me feel all twisty and protective. “I’d feel so bad, just pretending I don’t know everything. And what if someday we are together—”