instinctively drop past the logo to where I know I’ll find the information about who’s contacted me.
My pulse rockets. I have a new contact request from Millie M.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 12:45 pm, April 30
I’ve given you almost a month to process everything, and it’s killed me, but I know you needed space. Ignore these if you want or deny my contact request. But I miss you like crazy, Reid.
I’m giving you access to my full profile, which I updated just for you. I’m not trying to meet anyone else. I’ve already found the love of my life and I didn’t even need this website to do it. But I thought maybe this would be a good way to start getting to know each other again, if you’ll let me.
Love,
Mills
I stare at the green and red button options at the bottom.
Allow or deny?
With my hand on the mouse, I slide to the left, clicking ALLOW.
Her new profile opens in front of me. There’s a photo I took of her standing in Chris’s yard, wearing a lobster oven mitt on one hand, holding a tray of salmon aloft with the other, and grinning like an idiot. She once told me it’s the only photo taken of her that she absolutely adores. “Most of the time I look like either a bitch or a stoner,” she said.
I remember that day like it happened a week ago. Ed thought he would make us all dinner, and decided to grill duck, which resulted in Chris’s grill catching fire and Ed nearly losing his eyebrows. Millie saved the day by running to the store and grabbing some salmon, which she barbecued to perfection. I snapped the photo just as she turned to present it to us, proudly.
Beneath the photo are a few new paragraphs where her old profile used to be.
Hi. We both know the generals: Born in Bellingham, always a quirky kid. Mother died too young, sister needed too much, dad was a quiet mess. The sad specifics aren’t a secret—they’re just sad. It’s the quiet specifics that are hard to explain, the years and years where it feels like nothing of interest happened to me.
I realize I’m a late bloomer, socially. If I went home, I’d run into people who would be perfectly pleasant to me, but would never say, “Oh, Millie and I were super close in high school.” I was easygoing, upbeat, nice to everyone. Maybe I got sick of being nice. Maybe that’s why I’m so mean to Ed.
That’s my only joke, I promise.
Did I become fascinated with murder because, in comparison, female psychopaths make me look well-adjusted? Maybe. I don’t know if it’s because of my mother dying, or just the way my life would have unfolded regardless, but I think I managed to roam through life until my late twenties not really knowing how to take care of people. I want to do better.
That’s it. That’s all there is, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I sit back and stare at my screen. Millie’s new profile feels like a beginning, a warning maybe, that what comes next might be messy, but at least it’ll be intentional.
There’s a brightness in me, something blooming warm and tight. I worry that it’s hope.
Putting my phone facedown, I turn back to my computer and find where I’ve left off in my article.
From: Millie M.
Sent: 1:39 am, May 1
You haven’t written me back, but you did let me write you, so I’m going to limit myself to one a day. If I’m bugging you, at least you can be comforted knowing that the Block button is really simple. Trust me, I used it a few times in the early days with Mr. Dick Profile Pic and Mr. Show Me Your Rack.
Anyway, here’s something I don’t think you knew: I lost my virginity to a guy named Phil. PHIL! I know, right! It’s the least sexy name I can imagine. Sometimes when I’m alone and feeling glum, I think of the name and say it in sort of a breathless sexy voice, and I can’t stop laughing. Maybe it’s slightly sexier than Ernest or Norman. But only slightly. Philip? Now that’s sexy. But Philllll.
Bottom line, I was fifteen, he was seventeen, and we had no idea what we were doing. I remember it being messy and being more embarrassed about that than anything. I ruined my sheets, and Dad found me trying to shove them in the washer, and I’m sure he