Page 5 of The Proximity Factor

Which is why I refused to fall for it. The last time I had, it cost me my house, my life savings, my favorite dog, my best friend, and my company. “Listen, Lanie. Let’s just agree to ignore each other for the next three months. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

She grimaced, and her cheeks reddened, but she wasn’t giving up. “But three months is a long time. Don’t you think we should at least get to know each other?”

Her imploring tone almost had me losing my resolve, as did her big baby-blue eyes I found myself getting trapped in. I tore my gaze away from hers before I made a fatal error. It’s not that I wanted to be a jerk, but my sister and sometimes even my mom depended on me. I needed to get the next release of my game out, and there were still several bugs to fix. And Daphne was right—it wasn’t Lanie’s fault she reminded me of Maren—but she did, and I wanted no part of it, no matter how good she smelled.

“No,” I said simply, and pushed past her.

AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE THE longest week of my life, I sat on my bed and logged into the experiment portal to begin my weekly video diary and answer the questionnaire the researchers had just uploaded. I had no idea what to expect after the unforeseen week from H-E-double hockey sticks, like my mama would say. Why she wouldn’t just say hell, I don’t know. I mean, it’s in the Bible. And nowadays, hardly anyone considers it a curse word. Never say that to Mama. But this week was definitely up there with the place of fire and brimstone—or should I say down there?

I’d had visions of gaining another girlfriend and becoming lifelong pals. Instead, I was living with Mr. McBroody. Not sure if his parents hadn’t nurtured him enough as a child or if it was all the sugar and processed foods he ate. I had to say, I was jealous of his physique. If I ate as much crap as he did, I’d look like the Michelin Man.

I stared at the map of Europe I’d placed in the prettiest gold frame I’d found at HomeGoods—my mecca—and hung on the wall. I needed the reminder of why I was doing this. It was clear I wasn’t going to be bettering humankind with this experiment. I can’t tell you how disappointing it felt. At least my room was a cozy little haven. I’d brought with me all my plant babies and several strings of lights I’d strung across the ceiling. With my chunky afghan and pillows, I had the whole boho vibe going.

Ready to get this over with, I sat up straight for my laptop camera, opened week one’s questionnaire, read the instructions, and clicked the record button. Once I started recording, the instructions said I couldn’t stop or pause it until I’d answered every question, and I needed to read every question out loud. Apparently, it would provide the researchers with genuine, authentic data as they analyzed each video diary.

“Question one,” I read out loud. “What is your first impression of Parker?” I curled my lip and tsked to make sure the researchers got the full effect of my disdain for my roomie. Even though part of me wanted to say I thought he was oh, so fine, but that sounded shallow. Besides, as soon as the man had opened his mouth, I stopped caring about how incredibly handsome he was. “Uh, awful. Plain awful.” I couldn’t say that emphatically enough. I wanted to add: Why in the world would you choose the two of us for this experiment? We’re polar opposites—I’m the South Pole and he’s the North Pole. Except Santa wouldn’t want an angry elf like him around. But I kept that to myself.

“Question two: On average, how much time per day do you and Parker spend together?” That was easy. “None. Absolutely none.”

“Question three: Have you found any common ground with Parker? Nope. No. Nada.” I wasn’t even sure what the man did for a living. All I knew was he didn’t leave the house for work. I assumed he did something high tech, given the number of computers and laptops I had sneaked a peek of in his room. For all I knew, he was running some elaborate crime ring. Did that come up on background checks?

“Question four: How would you best describe Parker?” I laughed maniacally. “I’m not really sure you want to know. Well, I guess you do.” It was weird talking to my laptop. “To start with, he’s arrogant, rude, maddening, sexy. Oh crap. I didn’t mean to say that last one. Strike that from the record.” So maybe I’d had a hard time not thinking about how he looked with his shirt off ever since that first morning he’d come into the kitchen wearing only his pajama pants. He had good definition and the perfect amount of dark chest hair. Like Bradley Cooper good. I know everyone thought because I’d been a cheerleader, I only went for football players, but there was just something about a man who looked smart. Not that there weren’t smart football players. But honestly, I would take brains over brawn any day. Sadly, it seemed like guys stereotyped me. Book-smart guys normally stayed away from me. Maybe Greg was right—I should have memorized the periodic table. I bet Parker knew it by heart.

“Really, don’t record that. That was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. Okay, next question. Number five: How do you split the household duties? Cooking, cleaning, etc.” That was another straightforward question. “We both do our own thing. I will say he’s pretty tidy. I hardly know he lives here—except for when his takeout arrives, and by the movie soundtrack obsession he has. It feels like he listens to them around the clock.” I had to ask Siri to identify the songs coming from his room. The man was in love with Howard Shore, the composer for all the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit films. I had to look that up. “I’ll tell you this: don’t try to organize his Pop-Tarts. Why can’t he just use the white bins?” I lamented out loud. “Also, he leaves the toilet seat up. So gross. I’ve almost fallen in twice now. That didn’t really have anything to do with your question, but I thought you should know. Maybe you could let him know too. Apparently, he didn’t read the hot-pink sticky note I left him on the toilet lid. While we’re at it, will you please tell me what a guy who owns a Porsche is doing here? Is he a mob boss? Is this witness protection for him? Asking for a friend.”

But for real. It kind of freaked me out. I told him he could use the one-car garage for it. (By told him, I mean I left him a note on his door.) I wasn’t a monster. Besides, Daddy’s old beast of a truck wouldn’t fit in it, anyway. Not to say I hadn’t blocked him in a few times. I don’t know why, but I was desperate for Parker to talk to me. It didn’t work—the man seriously decided not to leave instead of just coming to ask me to move my truck. Did it give me some pleasure? Sure. But more than anything, it bugged me that I couldn’t win him over, or at the very least get him to talk to me. I wasn’t looking to be his BFF or GF. Definitely not his girlfriend. I didn’t need another Greg in my life. I just wanted to rock this social experiment, even if I didn’t know what that meant exactly. But the questions had me convinced they wanted us to interact.

“Question six: Have you met any of his family or friends?” I scoffed. “Does a man like him have family or friends? Okay, sorry, that sounded mean. Everyone deserves family and friends, even if they’re awful. If Parker does, I haven’t seen any. Although once when he was walking through the kitchen, I heard him talking on the phone to someone. I think her name is Daphne. Whomever she is, she must make him happy. It was the most pleasant I’ve heard him. Maybe it’s his girlfriend. Poor woman. I mean that one. Regardless, the answer is no: I haven’t met any of his friends or family.”

“Question seven: Any physically intimate contact? Uh, is that a real question? Do you want us to touch each other? I’m going to have to say that’s a big fat no. If he touches me, he’s going to find out that I weight train with my girls two to three times a week during cheer practice. And not to brag, but I have a powerful kick. I might be small, but I pack a punch. You might want to mention that to him. Except, I’m now remembering you said the only contact we would have with you was these questionnaires until the experiment ends. It probably doesn’t matter. At this rate, we won’t even be talking to each other for the next eleven weeks.”

“Last question. Question eight: How would you rate your experience so far?” I threw myself back against my pillows and sighed. “Zero out of ten, don’t recommend.”

I SAT AT MY DESK and begrudgingly logged into the experiment portal in the dim light. My bedroom was lit mainly by several monitors. I knew it was the price of admission, but I was ruing the day I’d signed up for this experiment. Tuition money and free rent for three months, I kept telling myself as I scrubbed a hand over my face. A layer of scruff scratched my hand. Normally I wasn’t so unkempt, but there was no time to shave. I was close to fixing a few of the bugs my testers had encountered. Testers meaning my buddies who had graciously been helping me out for free. If it weren’t for Javon, Pete, and Ethan, I don’t know what I would do. We’d all been friends since our college days, including Stephen, the wife-and-company-stealing bastard. We’d all roomed together during our sophomore year of college in some dive apartment and bonded over our love of playing Halo and Final Fantasy. From there, we moved on to multiplayer role-playing games.

It didn’t sound all that mature, but from the time we were in high school, Stephen and I had dreamed of creating a game of our own to rival the likes of Warcraft. And we’d done it. I was now hoping for that same magic with Ruptured Worlds. In my opinion, it was head and shoulders above anything Stephen and I had created together.

I rubbed my neck. It always got tight anytime I thought of Stephen. Never could I have imagined my best friend—dating back to junior high—screwing me over. We were like brothers. My only consolation was that I got the rest of our friend group in the divorce.

Without any time to spare, I couldn’t dwell on Stephen being a prick or even the damn questionnaire. I finished logging in and downloaded this week’s questions before clicking record. I didn’t care that I was wearing a wrinkled T-shirt or that my hair was disheveled from running my hands through it. It was a nervous habit I’d acquired when I began programming. It’s not like I was out to impress anyone, especially not my annoyingly gorgeous roommate.

“Question one,” I read out loud irritably. “What was your first impression of Lanie?” I had to clear my throat. No way was I going to tell the researchers exactly what I thought when I opened my bedroom door to find her standing there, looking like a mistake ready to happen. My immediate thought was ... well ... things I shouldn’t be thinking. Natural-man things. Instead, I answered, “Spoiled southern belle.” It was my second impression, but more than likely the correct one, so I went with it. Except she drove some old, crappy Chevy truck. It was probably her boyfriend’s or something and she stole it, trying to be all cutesy. Just like how Maren used to steal all my hoodies.

“Question two: On average, how much time per day do you and Lanie spend together? I avoid her at all costs,” I admitted. I had to say, I impressed myself, especially given that Lanie was doing her best to thwart me. She’d even gone so far as blocking me in the driveway or sneaking up on me in the kitchen. Don’t even get me going on all the hot-pink sticky notes she left for me to find. Because of those notes, I was leaving the toilet seat up just to tick her off, hoping she would get the hint and let me be. The toilet seat thing had always been such a double standard to me. Why must the man always leave it down? For once, it would be nice if a woman left it up for me. And I didn’t care how many sticky notes she left me. I wasn’t interested in going for a run with her or eating her freshly popped popcorn while watching a movie of my choice together. I knew exactly what those activities led to—divorce court.

Moving on. “Question three: Have you found any common ground with Lanie? I’m not looking for any.” Not that we would have any, judging by her perky attitude and love of throw pillows, ruffled shower curtains, and every kind of smoothie and protein shake known to humankind. And she likes kale. Who likes kale? Worse was her Taylor Swift obsession. If I had to hear “Anti-Hero” one more time, I was going to lose my mind. Every time she belted out, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” I had to fight the urge to yell out, It IS you! You are the problem here. All I wanted was to be left alone.

“Question four: How would you best describe Lanie?” What a redundant question. “Refer to answer number one.”

“Question five: How do you split the household duties? Cooking, cleaning, etc. There is no splitting anything. I want to do my thing, and I want her to do her own thing. Granted, I’m glad that she’s not a slob, although I would appreciate it if she left me a little more space in the shower. Why do women need so much crap? She has three different kinds of shampoos and conditioners, exfoliating gloves, two razors, gels, sponges ... you get the picture.” I didn’t mention the lacy bras in assorted colors she hung up to dry every day on the shower rod. I’d been trying not to think about how she was the perfect cup size or how those bras would look on her. After my divorce, I swore I wasn’t going to be a walking midlife crisis looking for some gorgeous younger woman to make me feel better about my life. It goes without saying that even if I were looking to ease my pain in that way, I would never consider Lanie.

“Question six: Have you met any of her family or friends?” I grimaced. “Not exactly met, but her best friend threatened me via a note, and then she had a sorority reunion a couple of nights ago with ten of her closest BFFs,” I mocked. They’d subjected me to the sound of Reese Witherspoon movies, everything from Sweet Home Alabama to Legally Blonde. It was apparent the women all worshipped the southern icon and wished to model themselves after her. If that weren’t bad enough, they shouted out old cheerleading routines. From what I could gather, my roommate was on the spirit squad of our old alma mater and was now a cheer coach. Figures. The worst part was they’d trapped me in my room.

I knew Lanie was testing me, just begging me to interact with her, even if it was to tell her to turn down the TV or to keep her party to a mild roar. Little did she know, I had an iron will and earplugs. Not only that, but I could go for hours without food. Sometimes I got so wrapped up in coding I forgot to eat. No matter how much my stomach had growled that night, I’d refused to give in and leave my room. Unfortunately, I had to take a leak around midnight. It was my weakness. It was as if Lanie knew, and she and her squad were waiting for me. As soon as I left my room to dart to the bathroom, I had an audience waiting to gawk at me. A few of the women even took pictures of me with their phones.

The way those women tittered about me was ridiculous, although several said I was cute. Sexy, even. Lanie didn’t agree or have anything nice to say about me from what I could overhear. Not that I blamed her—I’d been a jerk. It was for her own good as much as my own, though. Honestly, she should be thanking me. She should be happy she could live rent-free for a few months without being bothered. It’s all I wanted. But for some reason she couldn’t understand that.

“Question seven: Any physically intimate contact?” I coughed and spluttered. “What the hell kind of question is that? No. I’m not that kind of man. I’m not going to prey on her.” Not to say I wasn’t attracted to her or hadn’t dreamed about her, but those were all subconscious thoughts. She is a beautiful woman, and I would even admit to liking how the house smelled like her instead of a guy’s locker room. But there would be nothing intimate between us. Ever. Period.

---