“Ed, it’s like seven in the morning.”
He wheels on me. “I will not be judged by you!”
Holding up my hands in defense, I tell him through a laugh, “Fine, sorry, sorry.”
He cracks the bottle open and returns to his seat. “Now you. Out with it.”
“Okay.” Deep breath. Calm down. “I started an account because you guys gave me shit about how boring mine was, and also I was getting matched with a lot of assholes. But then Reid somehow matched with me—as Cat. I thought he’d figure it out because I made some stupid crack about Monopoly. And Girls Trip. And cats. But he didn’t!”
I wait.
Ed blinks. “You are not blaming Reid here for being too dumb to know he’s talking to you online.”
Yes. “No.” I groan, dropping my head to my arms on the table. “When you guys started talking about how Catherine must be ugly, I guess I got a little competitive.”
“Well, at least it sounds like you had a proportionate response. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Shut up. I know.”
“We were all doing this together,” he says. “Am I the only person taking this dating plan seriously?”
When I sit up again, he’s looking at me with Sad Ed eyes, and I can barely stand it. “I’m taking it seriously. I promise. It just . . .” I flounder. “Once I started being Cat it felt—I don’t know—easier to be more open? Is that weird?”
“Not really,” he admits. “I think I get why you’d want to keep it to yourself. But . . . it’s Reid. You know? You’re lying to Reid. That’s like lying to your dad or something.”
“No, Ed, it’s nothing like that. Please don’t put Reid and dads—”
“It’s bad, is what I’m saying.”
“I know how bad it is,” I hiss, and the truth rolls out of me without warning, “but it’s also sort of nice.”
He tilts his head down, staring up at me through thick eyebrows. “It’s ‘nice’?”
I feel my cheeks heat. My explanation comes out meek: “I like being able to talk to Reid like this. Is that terrible?”
Ed stares at me with gentle pity. “You are a mess, you know this, right?”
I sit up. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
I can’t even fathom what I’d do if Reid found out. Am I in too deep? I mean . . . it doesn’t feel like a runaway train yet. It feels like we’re getting to know each other, like a sweet entrée into . . . a different place for us. But the idea of Ed saying something to Reid before I can figure out how to fix this so thoroughly nauseates me that it chases away any residual hurt-anger that Reid left my bed to go write Cat. I am, without a doubt, the bad guy here.
Ed runs a hand through his hair and looks around the room. “I won’t say anything. But this kind of thing is sort of hard to juggle, Mills.”
chapter ten
reid
Millie has to walk past my bedroom to get to the stairs, and I hear her passing by around seven in the morning. I know it’s her because I hear her shushing Bailey and cleverly avoiding the squeakiest spots in the hallway—something Alex and Ed would never think to do.
It’s hot—Mom habitually overheats the house—too hot to stay under the covers, too hot to stay in my own skin with the cacophony of thoughts skidding around inside my head after last night with Millie.
Once was a fun accident.
Twice is two data points, and my brain scratches around trying to find a pattern.
Both times we were hanging out with friends.
Both times there was alcohol—although neither of us was drunk last night.
Both times there was—what? Mention of dates, other people, or the lack of partners in our lives?
And last night wasn’t even a single quickie, in and out, back to our respective rooms. It was a night together. We went up around eleven and I snuck out around three—long after everyone else had gone to bed—tiptoeing down the hall, and leaving Millie naked and visibly comatose on her bed as if a storm had blown through.
Was leaving a bad idea? Or would it have been awkward to wake up in bed together? Especially if we had to explain it to anyone else. I feel faintly nauseous, like this could go very bad very quickly. I know conversations about relationships and feelings aren’t in Millie’s wheelhouse, but in this case I feel like we need to have one.
Downstairs, only Millie and Ed are up. I heard the murmur of voices, but they’ve since moved to the back patio, and when I join them I wish I could say I’m surprised to find Ed with a beer in his hand at seven thirty in the morning, but I’m not. Millie is staring out at the vineyards. Ed is so intensely engrossed in Dad’s morning delivery of the New York Times that he doesn’t even look up when I step out onto the back patio.
“Mills,” I say.
She turns her face to me, giving me a bright smile. “Morning, sunshine!”
I draw back reflexively, jarred. The greeting is too loud, too over-the-top. Especially considering that the last real sound I heard her make was a long, relieved exhale before she passed out face-first into the mattress.
Her eyes flicker over to Ed, and then back to me. “What’s up?”
“Wanna go for a walk?” I ask, lifting my chin to indicate the tidy rows of vineyards that seem to stretch for an eternity.
She looks down at her bare feet, thinking it over for a few seconds, and then hops up. “Sure!” Again, too loud. “Just a sec. I’ll throw on some shoes.”
Ed still hasn’t looked up at me, and I bend, trying to catch his eye. “Hey, Ed.”
Eyes down, brow furrowed in deep concentration, he says a gruff “Hey.”
“Thirsty?” I ask, nodding to his beer. “Coffee wasn’t cutting it?”
“Uh-yup.” Very seriously, he turns the page of the newspaper, reaching the crossword puzzle and folding it up like he might actually start doing it.
“Don’t.” I hold my hand out. “My dad would murder you. He waits all week for the Sunday puzzle.”
Ed unfolds the paper and, instead of making conversation, starts reading an article on some new graffiti artist in Queens.
“What’s with you?” I sit at the edge of the chaise longue where Millie was lying before I came out. “Both of you, actually. She’s Merry Sunshine and you’re Very Monosyllabic.”
“Nothing.” He glances up at me, and then away. “Seriously just . . . readin’ the paper. Relaxin’. Drinkin’ some beer.”
“Okay then, Pauly Shore, keep on with your relaxin’ and drinkin’.”
Millie comes out and smiles more calmly at me this time, and I’m relieved Ed is acting so off it isn’t even weird for us to not invite him along with us.
I let her lead me down the back porch and through Mom’s garden, which transitions to vineyard after about thirty feet, allowing us to practically disappear into the foliage and the fog. But although we aren’t in view of the house any longer, the silence doesn’t immediately vanish.
After a minute or so of listening only to our footsteps tromping through dried leaves and soil, I say, “So, hey.”