I can’t explain it—that feeling of being so untethered to anyone. I used to dream that I was in the middle of an ocean and could see for miles in every direction, but there was no one else around me.
When I turned eighteen, I practically sprinted for the door.
Elly stayed in Seattle for school and got married, turning her loss into what she needed: an anchor and a family. Was it different for her with Dad because he was her primary parent for most of her life? Maybe. But now, after doing everything for the past twelve years, Elly, my patient, gentle sister, is losing her patience with me.
“I’m not saying you should move home permanently,” she says. “But you should at least come home more. Stay longer than for just a weekend. I think the summer could be really good—for all of us.”
“I have to turn my manuscript in by the end of the summer,” I tell her, “and need the summer to make a dent in it.” It’s true, but it’s also a very convenient excuse. Judging by her silence on the other end of the line, we both know it. “Let me see how much I can get done before then and figure out if it’ll work.”
“Thanks, Millie.”
I can tell my sister wants to be happy for me, but disappointment hovers in her voice.
“I’ll update you as soon as I know something.” I roll to my back again and look up at the ceiling, at the way the blue-gray light from the window creeps along the walls. The muted color matches my mood. “How is he?”
“He’s . . .” She shuts off the water and the silence grows while she formulates an answer. If I’m this anxious waiting to hear, what must it be like to live with it, day in and day out? “He’s good,” she says. “Slower now, and less independent. His balance is terrible, so we’re thinking of looking for a new house. Something without stairs.”
Jared and Elly bought their house right after they were married. Things must be getting bad if they’re considering selling it.
“I can help with that, too,” I tell her, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I’ll have part of my advance by then, and it’s all yours if you need it.”
Two Cocoa Krispies doughnuts improve my outlook dramatically by the time I get to school, but the call with Elly sticks like a cloudy film on a window. I know I did my best as a kid, but I can’t stop feeling like a selfish asshole now. Elly needs me. Dad needs me. But I would honestly rather walk across a beach of broken glass than spend the summer in my childhood home.
Instinct carries me here: with a coffee in each hand, I use my foot to push open the door to Reid’s office. He’s finishing up a call, phone wedged between chin and shoulder, pen scribbling away at something on his desk.
The polite thing would be to wait outside or tell him to find me later, but Reid and I have never been particularly good at boundaries—obviously—and so I set his cup down in front of him and take a seat while he wraps things up. I’m not really in the mood to talk, but locking myself in my office isn’t going to do anything but make me feel worse.
Given the fastidiousness of Reid’s brain, his desk is a surprising mess. There’s the usual detritus of files and assignments and books, but Reid is an obsessive note taker so there are Post-its and scraps of paper everywhere, notes tacked to the computer monitor, the window, the walls. A corkboard hangs just within arm’s reach and it’s so weighed down with bulletins and reports and random scribbles, I’m not even sure how it’s still hanging.
The one on the side of his computer is a drawing of a brain—not just a doodle, but an actual anatomically correct illustration—with arrows and words like limbic and superior colliculus. This is exactly why we no longer play Draw Something—Reid goes way too deep. The Post-it just beside the drawing has the name Lillie and a phone number written in bubbly, heart-embellished script.
Do I remember him mentioning a Lillie?
“Sorry about that. You okay?”
I startle, sloshing my coffee on his desk. I didn’t even hear him hang up the phone. “Shit. What?”
“You’re . . . pouting.” He sounds amazed.
My eyes flick to the tacked-up phone number, and back to where I’m using my only napkin to sop up some of the mess. “Yeah. Totally. Just zoning out.”
Reid eyes me with a curious grin before handing me a few tissues to help. He picks up his own cup. “Thanks for this. I meant to grab some before I started this morning but got called away.”
“Of course.”
He takes a sip, sucking in a breath when he burns himself.
“PS, it’s hot,” I say, and drop the tissues into the trash can next to his feet. “Long morning?”
“You could say that. I came in to get some papers graded and was cornered by a couple students begging for extensions. But, I’m glad you came.” He looks at me again and then does a double take. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Reid.”
“You look . . . haggard.”
“Wow. Seduce me, why don’t you.”
“Seriously, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing, I swear.”
He stares at me with flat skepticism for one, two, three seconds, before shaking his head to clear it. “Okay, whatever. I wanted to show you something.” Reaching for his phone, he swipes the screen before turning it to face me.
I lean in. “Good God, Reid. You have ninety-eight updates to install? Amazon, OpenTable, Facebook . . . What is wrong with you?”
“Focus, Millie.” He taps on a bright blue icon with a red notification bubble. “The IRL app. I woke up to eighteen notifications.”
“Notifications for . . . ?”
He clearly thinks I’m going to figure it out because he pauses for a few lingering seconds before giving up. “Didn’t you go through the app intro when you downloaded it?”
I spread my hands like he should know the answer to this. “Obviously not?”
Laughing, he says, “Okay, this means eighteen women shared their profile with me.”
“Ohhhh.” I fumble for my bag on the back of the chair and pull out my own phone. I hadn’t even thought to look. “I filled everything out on the laptop.” I turn the screen to him. “Oh, hey look, I didn’t even download the app yet.”
“According to Ed, you’ll want to use your phone for everything else.” He lifts his chin. “Search for it in the App Store.”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down with this technical speak.” My eyes are wide in faux-confusion. “Write that down for me, mansplainer.”
“Jesus Christ, Millie.”
“I do know how an iPhone works, Reid.”
He leans back with a patient sigh and continues scrolling through his own messages. “One of them speaks French and is a scuba instructor,” he says proudly, eyes widening as he zooms in on a photo.
Once the app has downloaded, I enter in the username and password I’d set up on my computer. “How does this work, exactly?” I ask. “There’s no swipe right or whatever, is there? That sounds terrible.”
“You know you were in the room when we talked about this.”
I smile at him over the top of my coffee. “I probably wasn’t listening. I do that sometimes when you speak.”