Page 46 of The Roommate Lie

He gestures to the clothes I unpacked from Big Red. The super embarrassing ones that are now sprawled out for the world to see. None of them are underwear, but I kind of wish they were. At least underwear is normal.

Charlie reaches for something on top, holding it up. “Did you bring a Betsy Ross costume with you to Colorado?”

I snatch the white linen cap out of his hands and stash it behind my back. Because it’s worse than a Betsy Ross costume. Way worse.

He reaches for something else, a pair of wool stockings that are folded and bundled in a neat little set. With ribbon garters wrapped around them and tied in a bow.

“What’s this?”

“It’s nothing,” I stammer. “That’s just some backup clothes I brought with me—just in case.”

“You pack wool socks in the summer? Just in case?”

He’s right—this is weird. I have no idea what I was thinking, bringing all this with me on vacation. The typewriter was bad enough. I’ve traveled with it before, but that doesn’t make it better. It’s a giant, heavy typewriter that I packed in a suitcase and took on a bus.

What is wrong with me?

Writing shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t need an entire roster of bizarre supplies to get things done. I shouldn’t needmagic.

Jason would’ve roasted me for weeks if he saw everything I brought. He was annoyed enough when he heard that metallic clank at the wilderness resort and realized I’d brought my typewriter. Forget an entire historical outfit.

Why did I pack an entire historical outfit?

I press my eyes shut, and Charlie elbows me lightly. When I finally get up the nerve to check, all that’s waiting for me is a wry smile, a hint of gentle teasing in his eyes. No harsh judgement, no roasting.

He reaches past my inner and outer petticoats on the bed, his fingers latching on to something smaller, stranger. To him, it probably looks like a thin cotton pouch on a string. “Alice”—his voice is slow and playful—“what in the name of history class is this?”

“It’s a pocket. Most dresses didn’t have them back then, so you’d wear this between your petticoat layers. Your top skirt would have a side slit to let you reach in and voilà—instant pocket.”

My voice is too excited when I say that. As if tie-on pockets are the best things that have ever existed, and maybe they are. Besides typewriters.

Charlie nods, amused but not in a mean way. He sets the pocket down and reaches for my cotton chemise next, the one I wear under all my layers whenever I dress up. He doesn’t seem to know what it is, but if he finds my stays next—my Regency version of a corset—I’m going to die of embarrassment.

Guess there was underwear in that suitcase after all…

I dive into action, scooping everything up and stuffing it back in my giant red suitcase. When I turn around, Charlie looks even more amused than before. “Is there…something you want to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Because those looked like historical clothes—lots of them—and I’m pretty sure there’s something you want to tell me.”

Forget it, Blythe.

There isn’t a single thing I want to tell this man about what he just saw. Except he won’t stop staring at me, and I cave. “It’s a Regency maid costume.”

It isn’t, though. Most Regency-era servants didn’t have a specific type of outfit they had to wear. They used their regular clothes. What Charlie actually saw was the everyday outfit of a working-class woman in the early 1800s…that I wear as a scullery maid costume.

I’ve barely said anything. I gave that man five measly words of description, but it was too much. His smile quirks.

“You brought a Regency maid outfit with you on vacation?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

Great question. I’m never going to answer it, butgreat question.

Charlie studies my face again, and his brow crinkles like he can tell I’m digging in, like he knows I won’t say another word about it. So he changes tactics. Leaning back against the dresser, he unleashes one of his dangerous smiles. A casual but deadly masterpiece that makes being bad look good.

---