There’s also the No Streaking reminder, but, honestly, you’d think by this point that one would be implied.
We hit the soft dirt road, and Millie jolts awake next to me. Dragging a forearm across her mouth, she mumbles, “Was I snoring?”
“Yes.” I glance briefly at her adorable just-waking-up face. Her eyes blink slowly, heavily over to me. Her mouth is a little swollen.
“And I drooled.” She turns, looking over her shoulder out the back window at the other three following us in Chris’s car. Because my car is in the shop, we decided to take Millie’s Mini Cooper, which meant that Chris is scowling behind the wheel of his Acura while Alex and Ed appear to be singing loudly with the windows down.
I can feel her looking at me, and flash her a quick smile before turning back to the road. “Good nap?”
She nods, stretching. “I haven’t slept well this week.”
I let out a sympathetic grunt. I haven’t, either. The last few nights, I’ve been up until one or two messaging Catherine and, less frequently, Daisy. It’s the sort of addictive rush I haven’t felt in years. It feels a little like being a teenager again.
Millie lifts her chin when we pass the Pine Grove Road sign that signals we’re less than two miles from my house. “Almost there.” She runs a hand through her hair and it spills like a sunset over her shoulders. “Want me to call Chris?”
She knows the drill.
“Sure.”
Chris answers on the first ring through his Bluetooth, and it’s a few seconds before I hear his voice over the sound of John Waite singing “Missing You” with the loud accompaniment of Ed and Alex.
“Get me out of this hell,” he says by way of greeting.
Millie clears her throat. “Just calling with the reminders.”
“Rayme equals no-no!” Alex yells.
“Prosthetic arms aren’t toys!” Ed says.
And then Chris rounds it out: “Downstairs bathroom still broken—got it!”
Mom’s already out on the porch, pacing as she waits for us, and she jogs down when we come to a crunching, dusty stop in front of the wide, outstretched farmhouse. When I climb out from behind the driver’s seat, I know better than to expect a hug immediately—she goes to Millie first, then Chris, then me. Alex and Ed get the last hugs, the sort of Oh, fine, come here, you idiots embrace that I imagine most people give them.
Ed is notoriously awkward with all parents, but within three minutes Alex will have Mom charmed enough to forget why she was annoyed to begin with.
And in about eight hours, I’m sure he’ll do something to remind her.
“I’m making ribs,” Mom says, and grins at Millie, who pretends to swoon. A few visits back, Mom made ribs and Millie ate them so enthusiastically that she looked like the Joker when she finally came up for air. It’s the kind of culinary zeal my mom lives for.
“Sharon. Are you trying to make me move in here?” Millie asks her.
“Don’t tease me.” Mom pops a kiss to the side of Millie’s head, then walks ahead of her into the house, calling out, “James! They’re all here!”
Dad yells from upstairs, “You think I didn’t hear that crap music booming down the driveway?”
Chris grins up at Dad as he descends into the living room. “Alex and Ed chose the emo eighties theme for this drive.”
“Who was driving?” Dad asks, laughing knowingly. He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. “You are too goddamn nice, Chris.”
The two of them disappear immediately to do who knows what. Discuss the weather almanac or the biochemistry of grape fermentation, probably. Alex and Ed look around, hoping to find Rayme, I’m sure, and I smile proudly when Millie reaches out to either side of her and shoves each of them in the shoulder.
“She’s not going to be here until about five,” she says.
I start to agree before remembering that I didn’t know this. “Wait, what?”
“She texted me,” Millie says, all innocent round green eyes and flirting freckles.
“Rayme texted you?” She didn’t text me. Millie didn’t mention it, either.
“Uh, yeah.” Millie follows Mom into the kitchen and I’m left with Ed, whose hands are shoved deep into his pockets—safe, he won’t break anything this way—and Alex, who saunters over and sits on the couch, kicking his feet onto the coffee table.
“Alex,” I say.
He drops his feet.
“Want a beer?” At their nods, I turn and head into the kitchen. Mom and Millie are staring into the oven and moaning over the sight and smells of the roasting meat.
“Christ, that looks good.” Millie’s gravelly voice rockets a gallon of blood down my body and toward my groin, before I remember that she’s talking about my mother’s cooking.
Mom heads out the back door to pick vegetables for the salad, and Millie leans against the counter, smiling at me. It’s a quiet smile, a real one, where her mouth curves but doesn’t open, and her eyes move all over my face, cataloging, almost like she’s reading a news story for the latest update.
“Hey, you,” she says.
It feels like everything finally goes still. With the tenure party, the spontaneous sex, and this last week of cycling work/dating-app adrenaline/sleep/repeat, I realize we haven’t just been us in days. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but Millie is a fixture in my life. When I don’t get time with her . . . it’s weird.
“Hey, yourself.”
“What’s new?”
I shrug. “Work’s been bananas. How about you?”
“Same.” Millie pulls a hair tie off her wrist and bundles her hair on top of her head. “I got started on the book.”
“That’s awesome.” I reach for a high five. Her hand is a soft slap of warmth against mine. “How are things going on the dating front?”
“Meh.” She looks down to the floor. “There’s one guy I’m talking to a fair bit.”
“That’s awesome! See, I told you they weren’t all losers.” She shrugs noncommittally. “Is he cool?”
She nods. “What about you?”
Tension rises like steam in the room, and it feels like every other sound falls away. “Yeah. Same. Well, the two still, really. But Catherine and I stay up late messaging lately. It’s . . . nice.”
Millie gnaws at her lip for a few seconds, and I can’t read the reaction. Is it jealousy?
“Is this the one whose picture you didn’t like?” she asks.
I groan. “Come on, this again?”
She grins. “Tell me about her.”
There’s a flash of annoyance when I realize how easily she’s managed to turn the conversation back to me. She deflects before I realize she’s done it.
“Well,” I start, leaning back against the counter and choosing my words carefully, “I’m not sure what department she’s in, but it sounds like she’s faculty at UCSB. She’s funny—I told you that—and laid-back, but shares these amazing stories. Apparently in college she went to Africa for a month and got into a car with the wrong driver and ended up, like, two hundred miles away from the town she was supposed to be in, but she just got on a bus and went back.”