My Favorite Hal-Night Stand - Christina Lauren Page 0,78

just good and bad, and that I can do something wrong and still be a good person—but it doesn’t feel that way right now. Shame claws its way up my throat when I think of how careless I’ve been with Reid’s feelings, and how I rationalized my way into hurting him. I think of how terrible I’ve been to my dad, and how I always assume Elly will be there to do the right thing when I inevitably drop the ball.

I love Reid but lied to him, and he knows it.

I love my sister and my dad, and haven’t been fair to either of them.

It’s time to grow up.

My hands are shaking by the time I ease to a stop in front of Reid’s house.

It’s after ten, but the TV is on in the living room, so I know he’s home. I sit in the dark, watching the shadows flicker across his front window until a man walking a dog stops and peers at me from the other side of the street.

I give him what I hope looks like an I’m a friend, not a crazy stalker! wave before pulling the keys from the ignition and climbing out.

I haven’t even stepped onto the porch when the light flips on and the front door slowly opens. He must have seen me pull up.

My heart jumps inside my chest when I get a look at him. His dark hair is messy, falling over his forehead. He looks tired, is barefoot and dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. When he steps into the pool of light on the porch, my body reacts almost on instinct. I start to move forward to hug him and have to force myself to stay still.

I give him an awkward wave instead. “Hi.”

Crickets chirp from a pair of bushes on either side of the porch, the sound amplified in the duration of his answering silence.

He shifts on his feet, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s late, Millie.”

I take a breath. “I know. I was wondering if we could talk.”

That’s not something I’d have needed to ask before. On a normal night, I would have just barged in and dropped my things by the door before collapsing in a heap on his fancy leather couch. Nothing’s been normal between us for weeks now.

Surprising me, Reid takes a step back and holds the door open enough so I can pass. The small light over the kitchen window is on, and I can see that the counters are clean, the sink empty. I follow when Reid crosses to the TV, muting the volume before tossing the remote on the couch.

His mood is unfamiliar and solemn. Things were clearly strained when he left my house yesterday, but there’s something else in the closed-off look of his eyes, the way he holds his body, stiff, like there’s a wall around him and he’s being careful to keep everything tucked safely behind it.

He motions to the couch and I sit, relieved when he takes the spot next to me.

“I know I’m supposed to be letting you think,” I say.

I’ve never been scared in front of Reid, but the half inch of space that separates where our hands rest on the couch is terrifying. The act of simply not touching is intentional. I want to cling to his hand and feel its solid, reassuring weight. I want to hear that his love for me is unconditional, even though I know I don’t deserve it.

Reid clears his throat and I know I’ve been quiet too long. I’m sweating, hyperaware of how warm the night is and that I’m still wrapped in my giant sweater. When I look down at our hands again, I see tiny grains of sand that still cling to the sleeve.

“I should tell you something,” I say, wincing because of course I wanted to tell him something. That’s why I’m here, and we both know it. “Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

Reid’s finger twitches where it rests against the cushion. His hands are large, skin tan, tendons visible. I’ve seen those hands in the lab, calibrating the most sensitive pieces of equipment, and then in bed, holding me down, inside of me. He can tell I’m nervous—that I’m stalling—but for once he doesn’t reach out, doesn’t offer comfort.

“Go on.”

I tug on my sleeves, pulling them down over my fingers despite the heat. I feel like I need a force field around me, some