My Favorite Hal-Night Stand - Christina Lauren Page 0,15

shirt to make it look like that’s what I was doing all along.

“Can I help you with something?” Reid mumbles.

“I was—never mind, just be cool. Be cool.”

“Oh my God. Millie!” Avery shuffle-runs over to us. “I was going to call you this week to see how you’re doing.”

I smile up at her with as much easy calm as I can muster. “I’m doing well, how are you and Doug?”

She waves this away like I knew she might, indicating that she and Doug should be the least of my worries. Her voice drops. “I mean . . . with your dad.”

I lift my chin, mentally sweating under the weight of Reid, Chris, and Ed staring at me with loud questions in their expressions. “I’m good. We’re all great.”

Avery falters. “But Elly mentioned—”

Abruptly, I stand and give her an awkward hug. “I appreciate you asking,” I say. “I’ll tell Elly you said hi!”

“Yes, please!” Thankfully, she looks at her watch. “Oh man. I’d love to catch up more, but I have a deposition at two. You’ll call me with any news?”

“Of course!”

She shuffle-runs out with her coffee in hand and I take as much time as is reasonably possible to sit back down, lift my napkin, shake it out, and slide it back onto my lap.

“So.” I look around the silent table. “Where were we? Tinder no, but another app . . . maybe?”

Reid shakes his head. “What was that about? Something with your dad?”

I shift a little under the scrutiny of his gaze. “It’s nothing bad.” It’s terrible. “Just . . . parents getting older.”

Just fathers getting diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

I uncap my water and take a long drink, trying to push the worry and sadness back into place, where they won’t bubble up easily.

Ed pulls out a sandwich he’s had tucked away . . . somewhere and takes a bite. “My mom had her gallbladder out last week and bitched at me for an hour last night on the phone because she can’t have McDonald’s anymore.”

I give a sympathetic wince, internally relieved that I might escape this grilling. “Yikes.”

But per usual, Reid is undeterred. “Wait, Mills. Is he sick?”

Here’s where I’m stuck.

I don’t share much about my family. I don’t do it in part because I don’t see them much, but also because my mom died when I was twelve and it sucked, and it’s made me really hate talking about things that suck.

But I also don’t lie, and I especially don’t lie to my friends. Threading the needle here, I tell them simply, “He hasn’t been feeling great, but he’ll be okay.” I hope my tone puts Reid’s antennae back down.

It seems to—he pushes his salad around his plate the way he does when he’s full but feels guilty about wasting food.

But nope, I’m wrong: “You know you can talk to us if something is going on,” he says.

I see the little press there, the emphasis on us when what he really means is You can talk to me, your supposed best friend.

Thankfully, Chris and Ed seem to have tuned us out, so I turn to Reid, lowering my voice. “If there was something to share, I’d share,” I assure him. “Avery is just dramatic. She likes to make a big deal out of little things.”

“But you make no deal about big things,” he argues.

“Everything’s fine.” I give him a little chuck on the chin.

“You’re really terrible about sharing personal shit. You know that, right?”

“So I’ve heard,” I say. It isn’t the first time he’s complained about this, but I’m not sure how to do better. There just isn’t much to say at this point—Dad has been diagnosed, is on medication, and we’re handling it. Or, rather, my sister is handling it, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be supportive from a distance. Talking about it with my friends when none of us have any control over it would just stress me out and make me feel more helpless.

Ed looks at his phone. “I have some cells I need to sort, so I should get back soon. Are we doing this? The dating app? Are we all in?”

Three sets of eyes swing in my direction, and I groan.

“Let’s check a few out,” Chris says. “We’ll find the best one out there and put as little or as much info as you want.”

“And you can quit anytime,” Reid adds with a hopeful lean to his words.

I’m positive I’m not ready for this, but I am unwilling