My Favorite Half-Night Stand(68)
“This is what I’m struggling with, honestly.”
“We all knew there were secrets. I mean, come on, this is Millie we’re talking about. She likes to pretend she doesn’t have a past.”
“Yeah.” I pick up a paperclip, slowly straightening it. “And truthfully, I know with the Cat thing that her intentions weren’t malicious. I know that she was able to open up because it was me. I know all of this, but it is still so hard to reconcile that with how it felt to be in the dark and find out that everything I was telling Cat about my life, I was telling Millie. Even things about being messed up with Millie.” I pause. “And the guys knew. That’s fucked up, okay? They knew, and were loyal to her—not me—to the point of supporting her lie.”
We fall into silence, because there’s nothing else to say about this. I’ve gone around and around about it, nearly constantly: My life doesn’t feel complete without her in it; these past few weeks have felt like there was a death in my family. But every time I’m about to call her, embarrassment rises like smoke in my lungs and I put my phone back down. She had so many chances to tell me, and didn’t.
“All right,” Chris says, and his hands land on his thighs in a gentle slap before he stands. “I’m off to meet the guys for lunch. It’s weird, man. You two are the glue, you know?”
I think he’s going to say something more than that, but when I look back up, he’s on his way out of my office.
Work.
Focus on work. It’s the best way to cope, the most productive way to handle stress.
I blink over to my inbox before returning to the journal article I’m working on and see an email notification that I have a new contact request on IRL. The appearance of the site name in my inbox is jarring; I haven’t been on the app since the day Cat—Millie—told me she was moving.
I open the notification and my eyes instinctively drop past the logo to where I know I’ll find the information about who’s contacted me.
My pulse rockets. I have a new contact request from Millie M.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 12:45 pm, April 30
I’ve given you almost a month to process everything, and it’s killed me, but I know you needed space. Ignore these if you want or deny my contact request. But I miss you like crazy, Reid.
I’m giving you access to my full profile, which I updated just for you. I’m not trying to meet anyone else. I’ve already found the love of my life and I didn’t even need this website to do it. But I thought maybe this would be a good way to start getting to know each other again, if you’ll let me.
Love,
Mills
I stare at the green and red button options at the bottom.
Allow or deny?
With my hand on the mouse, I slide to the left, clicking ALLOW.
Her new profile opens in front of me. There’s a photo I took of her standing in Chris’s yard, wearing a lobster oven mitt on one hand, holding a tray of salmon aloft with the other, and grinning like an idiot. She once told me it’s the only photo taken of her that she absolutely adores. “Most of the time I look like either a bitch or a stoner,” she said.
I remember that day like it happened a week ago. Ed thought he would make us all dinner, and decided to grill duck, which resulted in Chris’s grill catching fire and Ed nearly losing his eyebrows. Millie saved the day by running to the store and grabbing some salmon, which she barbecued to perfection. I snapped the photo just as she turned to present it to us, proudly.
Beneath the photo are a few new paragraphs where her old profile used to be.
Hi. We both know the generals: Born in Bellingham, always a quirky kid. Mother died too young, sister needed too much, dad was a quiet mess. The sad specifics aren’t a secret—they’re just sad. It’s the quiet specifics that are hard to explain, the years and years where it feels like nothing of interest happened to me.
I realize I’m a late bloomer, socially. If I went home, I’d run into people who would be perfectly pleasant to me, but would never say, “Oh, Millie and I were super close in high school.” I was easygoing, upbeat, nice to everyone. Maybe I got sick of being nice. Maybe that’s why I’m so mean to Ed.
That’s my only joke, I promise.
Did I become fascinated with murder because, in comparison, female psychopaths make me look well-adjusted? Maybe. I don’t know if it’s because of my mother dying, or just the way my life would have unfolded regardless, but I think I managed to roam through life until my late twenties not really knowing how to take care of people. I want to do better.
That’s it. That’s all there is, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I sit back and stare at my screen. Millie’s new profile feels like a beginning, a warning maybe, that what comes next might be messy, but at least it’ll be intentional.
There’s a brightness in me, something blooming warm and tight. I worry that it’s hope.
Putting my phone facedown, I turn back to my computer and find where I’ve left off in my article.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 1:39 am, May 1
You haven’t written me back, but you did let me write you, so I’m going to limit myself to one a day. If I’m bugging you, at least you can be comforted knowing that the Block button is really simple. Trust me, I used it a few times in the early days with Mr. Dick Profile Pic and Mr. Show Me Your Rack.