“Oh, I know,” Reid says with a hoarse laugh, and then seems to realize what he’s said as soon as I do. “Shit, there it is.” We go silent and he adds, “I made it weird.”
My laugh is a sharp, awkward bark into the room.
“Okay, no, that noise made it weird,” he says, rounding the counter and moving to stand next to me. “What was that?”
“A laugh?”
He sets his empty glass in the tray and when I look over I notice his lashes, and the feathery shadows they leave on his cheekbones. I’ve never really noticed things like eyelashes on Reid before, but now I’m remembering the way they looked with his eyes closed tight, head thrown back and the muscles of his throat straining.
I shut off the water. This tension is exactly the kind of thing the Morning After/Are We Okay? cupcake was meant to eradicate—it was supposed to provide sexual closure.
Get it together, Millie.
“We’re always pretty weird,” I say, using my metaphorical broom to gather all sexy thoughts and sweep them under the metaphorical rug. “The sex just made us weirder.”
“Our half-night stand?” he asks, and his smile is an adorable concoction of self-deprecating and sweet.
I shake my head. Must resist the cute nerd. “Stop. You can’t pull off internet lingo.”
“Come on,” he says, laughing, “you guys act like I’m my dad’s age. I’m thirty-one! I am the internet.”
Reid sidles up beside me, reaching back and gripping the edge of the counter. I swear my pulse rockets forward when I catch the scent of his soap. I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about sex this much—even when I’ve been in actual sexual relationships with other people.
“And I’m glad things aren’t actually weird between us,” he says.
I manage an easy smile of agreement.
Nope.
Not weird.
Not even a little.
He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s different, but not weird. I didn’t mean to bring it up again, though.”
I reach out, booping his nose with my index finger. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll say something way more awkward the next time I make us something with eggplant.”
“You said eggplant, not baby carrot. I’m not going to complain.”
“Oooo-kaaaaay.” I dry my hands and walk back into the dining room. “How about we finish these on our own and call it a night?”
Read: How about if you stop being cute and leave me to my vibrator?
Reid is obviously pleased with himself. “Too far? How about cucumber? No? White asparagus?”
I close his laptop and place it in his hands. “Good night, Reid. Thanks for feeding me. If you didn’t bring dinner I would have been left to gnaw on a rind of old cheese.”
“You are the frattiest woman I have ever met,” he says.
“It’s Manchego. I defy you to find a frat house with Manchego.”
“You know I love you,” he says, smile straightening as we near the door. My heart clenches a little at the sincerity in his voice. Reid is so good. I could never risk screwing this up over something as trivial as sex.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“Then you know there’s nothing wrong with the two of us making jokes about what happened. Maybe it’ll even bring us closer.”
“Maybe.” I tap his computer. “But if our goal is to meet other people, you need to finish this tonight and send it to me in the morning for approval.”
He looks down at me with a goofy smile. Reid Campbell really is fucking cute. “Yes, ma’am.”
I open the door and push him out. “And make sure the guys do it, too. I’m looking forward to judging you all.”
“As you wish,” he calls out. When he disappears out the front gate, I am free to disappear into my bedroom.
Chapter four
reid
Millie Morris
Dude. You guys.
Christopher Hill
What?
Reid Campbell
What?
Millie Morris
Your dating profiles suuuuuuck.
Alex Ramirez
There were approximately six hundred questions!
Millie Morris
I’m aware. I filled them all out, too. I’m talking specifically about your essay/intro portion.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
I spent like two hours on it!
Millie Morris
Really Ed? Two hours?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Two . . .ish.
Millie Morris
I’m going to paste the best example in here, which was Chris’s.
Christopher Hill
That’s right, boys! Learn from the man.
Christopher Hill
Headed to a meeting so I’ll catch up then. Back in an hour.
[Christopher Hill has left the chat]
Millie Morris
He left before he realized that his also needs to be rewritten.
Reid Campbell
Hey, mine wasn’t terrible.
Millie Morris
Yes, Reid, it was T E R R I B L E. You essentially had the abstract from your most recent paper in there. Women don’t need to know about optic neuritis until, like, date four. Ok, here’s Chris’s: I am divorced, 29, six foot three, and a professor of Chemistry at UC Santa Barbara.I enjoy running, home-brewing, and Cal football.
Reid Campbell
He forgot to mention roosters.
Millie Morris
He forgot to mention, like, anything interesting about himself.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Wait why is that intro bad? I don’t get it
Reid Campbell
Ed, aren’t you supposed to be helping Shaylene transfect her cells?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Shit.
Alex Ramirez
lol the downside of IM’ing with your boss
Millie Morris
Chris took the less-is-more approach. Alex, you took the all-about-me approach. I can assure you that the execution is equally offensive for entirely different reasons. Ed, yours had like 700 typos.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
I hate to break it to you but so will 90% of the profiles out there. Most people are doing all this on their phones
Millie Morris
I am so old.
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
Maybe you should write them for us.
Millie Morris
Uh, PARDON?
Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio
You’re good at this shit and you obviously care more that they’re well written.
Reid Campbell
Ed. Cells. NOW.
Millie Morris
I am not being the organized, well-spoken woman to your male chaos.
[Stephen (Ed) D’Onofrio has left the chat]
Reid Campbell
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but he has a point.
Millie Morris
UGGGGGGH
Reid Campbell
Please Mills? I’ll buy you lunch.
Millie Morris
You owe me lunch anyway.
Reid Campbell
Two lunches then. You can wear your elastic waist pants tomorrow.
Millie Morris
No
Alex Ramirez
Please Millie
Millie Morris
No
Alex Ramirez
It’s a good idea Mills
Millie Morris
No
I sense that victory is near—Millie is just about to break—but I’m called away from pressuring her when my phone rings. My smile fades at the picture of my mom lighting up the screen. In the photo, she’s standing on the wide front porch of my childhood home, wearing her worn denim shirt and rubber boots up to the knees of her khaki pants. Her long gray hair is tied back with ribbon. We’ve always had an easy relationship, my parents, Rayme, and I. But three months ago, at Christmas, Mom and I took a long walk through the family vineyards behind the house and—whether out of some strange mood or the impulsive decision that I was an adult and therefore ready to also be a confidant—she told me about nearly all of her marital woes. Not only did I have to hear her frustration that my parents barely have sex, and how Dad never tells her she’s pretty anymore, but I had to talk her off the ledge of panic when she started speculating that Dad was having an affair with the woman down the street, a forty-year-old artist named Marla who creates sculptures out of only things found in her yard: twigs, leaves . . . rodents.