Page 38 of Meet Me at Midnight

I smile at Seth again, my exterior iron-clad while my mind races with Midnight messages as I try to remember them all. But I no longer have the urge to chat with Clara Lay—or anyone else in the office, for that matter.

I’m on edge now. My mood ruined. And I won’t feel better until I know who Mystery Woman is.

The screen of my phone is bright against my eyes as I stare at it, moonlight pouring through the skylight window on the far side of my bedroom.

My hair is still wet from my shower, and a chill coats my bare skin as the air conditioning kicks back on. Thanks to the growing, glowing pile of embers in my stomach, I didn’t make it past a pair of plain black boxer briefs in my quest to get dressed.

I opened the Midnight app five minutes ago, but thanks to Henry and my other buddies, I haven’t had a chance to send a message yet. Our ongoing group chat is miles long, and their recent chatter is downright insane. Seriously. My fucking phone won’t stop buzzing. Quickly, I scroll toward the end, ignoring a shit-ton of nonsense, and read the last few messages they’ve sent.

Henry: What time are you meeting us here, Beau?

Mav: Allure is poppin’, bro.

Ronnie: Yesssir.

Henry: Stop treating us like a Tinder fuck, Beau-nana dick. Ghosting goes against our bro-code.

I’ve known Henry, Ronnie, and Maverick for most of my life. We went to grammar school together, high school together, and attended college together at the University of Miami, with Sethas the fifth member of our group. If he hadn’t ruined shit by fucking my girlfriend behind my back, I’d probably be able to find shit from eighth fucking grade in this thread still.

Fingers to the screen, I type out a response.

Me: We don’t have a bro-code. If we did, making sure Ronnie stays away from whiskey would be rule number one.

Mav: I second this. Ron turns into a psycho when he’s on the whiskey-sauce.

He’s not lying. The last time we went out and Ron imbibed in some Jack, he ended up getting kicked out of Neon for dragging a fucking sofa onto the dance floor and jumping around on it.

Ronnie: But I likes it.

Mav: Shut up, Ron.

Ronnie: K.

Henry: How you feeling, Beau? You take a good shit and get all that toxic energy out of your system after I left your condo?

After work this evening, Henry and I weight-trained in my condo’s gym before heading out on a six-mile run. He bitched about being tired the whole damn time.

Me: Don’t blame the fact that you couldn’t keep up with me today on anything other than yourself. Maybe you need to train a little harder.

Henry: You were running on pure rage, dude. A fucking cheetah couldn’t have kept up with you.

Me: Rage? I’m nothing but kumbaya, son.

Henry: HA. That’s bullshit. You want me to send you the Fitness app data? We set an all-time personal record. Or maybe, you know, you should tell me what the fuck is going on with you lately?

Clearly, there’s a lot going on with me. A whole bunch of shit, in fact, but getting any sort of feedback or advice from these fuckers is like going to a psychic when you’re in debt in hopes they’ll give you the winning lottery numbers.

Me: I’m peachy keen, baby.

Henry: Fucking fantastic. Then you can come have a few drinks with us at Allure.

I flip back over to my Midnight chat and look for a sign that Mystery Woman has any intention of showing up.

The chatbox is filled with all of our prior conversations—that I’ve read and reread a hundred times this evening—and the last notification inside of it showcasesThunderStruck has reentered the chat.

Anxiety gnaws at my chest, and I war with myself over whether I should even keep engaging with whoever is the real face behindElizaBeth. Even thinking about the username sends me into a tizzy now. Like, has it beenthatpainfully obvious the whole time? ElizaBETH. BETHany. I can only imagine how tickled she would be with herself if it was true.

Fuck.

---