Meet Me at Midnight

Chapter 13

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 Seth as 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 showcases ThunderStruck 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 behind ElizaBeth . Even thinking about the username sends me into a tizzy now. Like, has it been that painfully obvious the whole time? ElizaBETH. BETHany. I can only imagine how tickled she would be with herself if it was true.

Fuck.

A text notification pops up on the screen yet again, and I switch back over to Henry’s badgering.

Henry: Hello? Is this thing on? Get your old ass off your couch and come to Allure.

When I don’t respond, a few more messages from my group of buddies populate on the screen.

Mav: Remember Alyssa? The chick in the red dress? She’s here, and she’s asking for you.

Henry: Let’s be real…she was asking for me first, but I gallantly deferred her attention to you.

Me: Let’s actually be real…I’ve never needed you to defer attention to me.

Ronnie: Fucking sizxzle and burnnn. SHeeet that’s a dig, henro

Clearly, Ronnie’s more than a few drinks deep. But that’s Ronnie. The guy has two speeds—sleeping or full throttle. There’s never any in-between.

Me: Have a few more drinks for me, Ron. I’m gonna skip this one.

Mav: Hate to miss ya, but…more pussy for me!

I don’t bother with a response, knowing full well it’ll just be more of the same. Explaining anything about what I’m doing tonight to the three drunk amigos would make me even stupider than I already am.

And fuck me, I am stupid .

Back to the Midnight app, I type out a message, my whole body tensed over the niggling notion that Bethany Williams could be fucking with me all over again. I swear I’ll lose my mind.

Still, coming out with guns blazing isn’t going to get me any real answers, so I’ve got to play it cool.

ElizaBeth isn’t in the chat yet, but I fire off a message anyway. Maybe when she gets the notification that I sent it, it’ll force her to join.

ThunderStruck: I have a question for you. But I want a real answer this time.

I wait and wait and wait. My skin crawls with anticipation, so much so, I start to feel like I need another shower. I’m about ten seconds away from giving up entirely when ElizaBeth has reentered the chat appears below my message.

ElizaBeth: A real answer, huh? That sounds dangerously vulnerable, tbh, but I’ll give it my best shot.

ThunderStruck: I’m serious. I get being vague, but at some point, it goes too far. I want a direct answer to this one question, and I want your promise that it’ll be truthful.

ElizaBeth: DANG. Okay. We mean business. I get it. I promise a truthful, concise answer to this one question (as long as it’s not “What’s your name?” because that’d be very cheat-ish to the whole anonymous thing).

Clearly, I want to know her fucking name. But baby steps.

ThunderStruck: I don’t need your name. Not yet. For now, all I need to know is if I’ve dated you before.

I don’t like how long it takes to get a response, but eventually, I do.

ElizaBeth: Have you dated me before? Is that the question? Because if so, the answer is no.

ThunderStruck: Why’d it take so long to answer? And are you trying to be funny? Because from where I sit, shit is starting to feel a little fucking shady.

ElizaBeth: I’m not trying to be shady or funny. When I try to be funny, people laugh. What happened? Seriously? What’s going on? Because I thought we had something going here. Sure, it started as intel because I wanted to make sure you didn’t get screwed over, but I don’t know. I thought…I thought we were enjoying each other.

ThunderStruck: Do you actually work at Banks & McKenzie?

ElizaBeth: Yes.

ThunderStruck: And you fucking swear we’ve never dated before?

ElizaBeth: Yes. I swear. We’ve never dated.

I stare at her message for a long moment before I decide to stop beating around the bush.

ThunderStruck: And your name isn’t Bethany?

Her response is instant.

ElizaBeth: HA. No. My name is NOT Bethany, but now I understand why you’re so worked up. That would definitely be some real shady shit. But hey, I guess she’s already done some shady stuff in the past, so why not this? I get why you’d be on edge.

I breathe a sigh of relief. And more than that, I actually believe her.

ThunderStruck: Well, thank fuck for that. I’m driving myself crazy. I didn’t think you could be her, but once the intrusive thought struck, I couldn’t get rid of it.

ElizaBeth: But doesn’t that make this kind of fun, though? The not knowing?

ThunderStruck: Is it fun that I’m messaging with a mystery woman who works at my dad’s company? I mean, I guess it is if I ignore the fact that it’s pretty fucking reckless on my part.

ElizaBeth: LOL. I know it seems risky, but I promise you that whatever is said in this chat stays between us. For both of our sakes.

ThunderStruck: It also helps that you can’t take screenshots in it.

ElizaBeth: Very true. Five stars and a unicorn sticker for that idea on Hughes International’s design team.

ThunderStruck: A unicorn sticker?

ElizaBeth: The ultimate prize, obviously. And, I guess you could also consider these little chats of ours as, like, research, you know? You are spearheading a campaign for it after all…

ThunderStruck: Haha.

ElizaBeth: What? Why’s that funny?

ThunderStruck: It’s like you’re giving me a free pass, even though we both know this isn’t exactly a good idea for me.

ElizaBeth: Well, I know I’m anonymous, but I CAN share that I’m not a domestic terrorist, an active deployment in corporate espionage, or a member of any of the alphabet agencies…at this time. Can’t predict the future, of course.

Man, she’s funny. I came into this conversation like a Grade A asshole, and still, she’s managed to turn the whole thing around in the blink of an eye.

ThunderStruck: And your age?

ElizaBeth: Somewhere between 23-34. I’m out of school, but I’m not your grandma either. Though, wouldn’t that make for a fun little diddy at Christmastime?

ThunderStruck: Anything else I should know about you?

ElizaBeth: Well…this one is actually hard for me to say…

ThunderStruck: What is it?

ElizaBeth: I got way too curious about Donny’s balloon fetish. The things I found on Google were DISTURBING. I should probably hate you for putting that into my head.

ThunderStruck: Technically, I didn’t tell you to research it. If anything, I spared you from all the freaky details.

ElizaBeth: Wait…so…you’re not even going to offer an apology?

ThunderStruck: It’s not my fault your curiosity got the best of you.

ElizaBeth: You’re evil. I’m totally pouting right now.

ThunderStruck: And I’m sitting here thinking about how your pouting is really fucking adorable right now. If only I could see it in person…

ElizaBeth: Nice try. LOL.

ThunderStruck: How about you tell me some more things I should know about you?

ElizaBeth: More things about me? Well…I like the sound of the rain, but I hate thunderstorms. And I’m not a Disney adult, but sometimes I get scared that I could be a closeted one.

ThunderStruck: What the fuck are Disney adults?

ElizaBeth: You know, the people who love going to Disney World, to the point of wearing Mickey ears and Minnie Mouse sweatshirts even though they have no kids.

ThunderStruck: Why do you think you could be a closeted one?

ElizaBeth: This is so cheesy, but…I really want to believe in happily ever afters.

ThunderStruck: What’s holding you back from believing now?

ElizaBeth: Everything.

ThunderStruck: I think you need to let that go. You need to let yourself believe.

ElizaBeth: That’s easier said than done, you know? My childhood didn’t inspire hope for Prince Charming.

ThunderStruck: Is that what you want? Prince Charming?

ElizaBeth: That would be a big fat no. He’s too…predictable. Too…boring.

ThunderStruck: I think Cinderella would disagree.

ElizaBeth: Yeah, but I’m not her biggest fan either.

ThunderStruck: And what exactly do you have against her? The poor girl was mistreated by that evil stepmother of hers and worked for everything she got.

ElizaBeth: And her stepsisters. Don’t forget about them.

ThunderStruck: My thoughts exactly. Why the beef with Cinderella?

ElizaBeth: I don’t have beef with her. LOL. I just think she deserves better than some man who has to go around putting her shoe on people’s feet to find her. He should’ve known who she was the moment he looked into her eyes. It just feels like their connection wasn’t soul-deep, you know? And that’s what she deserved.

ThunderStruck: Is that what you want? Soul-deep?

ElizaBeth: Isn’t that what every woman wants?

I snort to myself. My answer to that question is an obvious one.

ThunderStruck: I don’t know. I’m a man.

ElizaBeth: Oh boy, macho macho. I man. I strong. I beat chest.

A soft laugh jumps from my throat.

ThunderStruck: I didn’t say that. lmao. I’m just saying I don’t know how the female mind works. If I did, I wouldn’t be single and starting fights with nice women on the internet, thinking they’re my ex.

ElizaBeth: Well, I can’t speak for femalekind, but I’d like to think everyone wants the soul connection, wouldn’t you? What are we here for if not?

ThunderStruck: I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve never had it.

ElizaBeth: Me either.

Silence hangs heavy around me as I consider the thing we’re both not saying.

What if this thing between us is that?

ElizaBeth: Well, I hate to cut this chat short, but I have to get up for work in the morning. Not sure if you know this, but I work at this marketing firm called Banks & McKenzie.

ThunderStruck: Oh yeah? You like it over there?

ElizaBeth: I do, actually. I mean, there’s this guy named Beau Banks who’s kind of demanding, but he’s at least handsome enough to make it tolerable to deal with him.

ThunderStruck: He kind of sounds like a prick.

ElizaBeth: I didn’t describe him well, then. He’s pretty perfect.

ThunderStruck: Ha. You must not know him that well.

ElizaBeth: I guess we’ll just have to keep meeting at Midnight until we find out.

Fuck me. I’ve got a big feeling I’m not going to be able to give this up anytime soon.

ElizaBeth: Goodnight, Beau Banks.

ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Woman.

Until we meet again.