Page 21 of The Roommate Lie

I grew up with two younger sisters. Sharing is a way of life. And even though I’m still a little nervous about staying with strangers, I’m mostly just tired.

I tell Lydia it’s fine before following her and Cookie inside, my mouth hanging open as I enter the most beautiful bedroom I’ve ever seen. Perfectly restored, full of charm, and somehow more amazing than the kitchen downstairs. It even has an en suite bathroom with a clawfoot tub.

Oh, my heart.

The bedroom has a taller ceiling than I expected, and it’s slanted to follow the steep pitch of the roof. There’s only one bed, but it’s giant. Lydia offers to sleep on the couch against the far wall, but I don’t mind sharing.

“It’s gorgeous in here. If this is the guest room, Charlie’s bedroom must be huge.”

Lydia gives me a shy smile. “Actually, this is Charlie’s room. He made me take it when I moved in.”

“He gave you his bedroom?”

“Charlie’s just that kind of guy.”

As we get ready for bed, a feeling closes around me that I’ve been avoiding for hours, ever since I left Jason at the wilderness resort. Once the lights are out, it catches up with me for good. That room is too quiet, and my thoughts are too loud.

My boyfriend broke up with me today.

On our anniversary.

Tears sting my eyes. I beg them to knock it off, but they don’t; they spill over. Soon, they’re streaming down my cheeks with no end in sight, and this is pretty much the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done: crying uncontrollably while sharing a bed with a stranger.

It doesn’t matter that I cried at the bus station earlier. Those were frustration tears—a product of being stranded andoverwhelmed—but these are sadness tears.I thought I found my person, but I was wrongtears.

The more I try to stop them, the harder they fall. And let me tell you, weeping silently is not a thing. Before long, Lydia’s voice cuts through the darkness, and if it was possible to die of humiliation, I would.

“Alice?”

Her voice is soft and kind, like she’s worried about me. But there’s something else in there too, something I recognize from heavy moments with my sisters. A hint of playfulness, as if Lydia Sharp is used to being the girl who cheers people up.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she says carefully, teasingly, “but are we having an only-one-bed moment right now? Because I pictured these very differently.”

As soon as she says that, I can’t stop laughing. We both are, and that joke is a balm for my soul. Even Cookie joins in. He lets out a plaintive howl from his dog bed, ready to make as much noise as we are, and we laugh harder.

Once we calm down, we talk a little more. About past hurts and future hopes and how dumb ex-boyfriends can be. As we drift off to sleep, all I can think is that today hasn’t been completely bad.

So much went wrong, but if I come out of this with a new friend like Lydia, maybe that’s the only happily ever after I need.

I’m not sure what time it is when I wake up. There’s a noise outside, the squeal of Charlie’s white picket fence. Or maybe it’s the wind.

Sneaking out of bed, I peer through the window that looks out over the front yard, expecting to see nothing. Just trees andstars and quiet homes. But the dark shape waiting by the gate definitely isn’t nothing.

Hide.

That’s what I should do: go back to bed and pretend nothing happened. Wait for morning when it’s safe. Instead I reach for the mace in my backpack and go full Stealth Kilpatrick.

Before I know it, I’m outside, the cold pathway stones nipping the bottoms of my feet. Who knows what I think I’m doing out here, what I think I’m going to accomplish alone in the dark. I’m half asleep and mostly delirious, but it doesn’t matter.

I’m alone.

The mysterious figure is gone, and all that’s left is an odd glimmer in the moonlight.

There’s something stuck between the slats of Charlie’s picket fence. A white business card with bold black letters in an antique font.

The Victorian

I don’t know what that means, who that is. But when I flip over the card, there’s a message scrawled on the back. And I think it’s for me.

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