Page 15 of The Roommate Experiment

The crooked grin is back, causing all kinds of inappropriate reactions in my internal organs. “Hey, no harm done. Well, maybe a little harm.” He gestures to the frozen peas. “But I’ll survive.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “I promise I’m not usually this neurotic. Or violent.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teases, eyes twinkling. “You seem pretty dangerous to me. Should I wear a cup around the apartment?”

I fiddle with the ribbed neckline of my T-shirt, my fingers twisting the fabric as I look everywhere, the floor, the couch—not thepeas—but at him. “We should invest in glow-in-the-dark light switches.”

“Uh-huh, so wecanhave nice things.”

“Sure.” I smile because how can I not. “We’ll get them with little glowing basketballs for you.”

“Great, then I’ll stop running into trouble.” He keeps his eyes on me, unblinking.

This time, I can’t look away; I drift in the deep blues and greens of his irises as we fall into a silence that if it isn’t exactly comfortable, at least is no longer tense.

Dylan flicks at the condensation forming on the bag of peas, like icing his crotch is just another Monday night activity. “What did I even break? Can I replace it?”

“It was just a vase. Rowena used to fill it with flowers.”

“Did you like the flowers?”

“I mean, sure, they were nice. But then they all just died in a few days.”

“Sure I can’t buy another one for you?”

I shake my head. “No need.”

Dylan stands, still holding the bag of peas and keeping the weight off his left leg on his heel, the bandaged part of the foot raised. “Same time tomorrow?”

I snort, crossing my arms. “If you survive the night.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Brolin.” Dylan tilts his head. “Unless you’re always up and out of the house at the crack of dawn?”

I can read between the lines of what he’s not asking—if I was avoiding him this morning? But I’m not ready to admit that I was. Because then he’d ask me why, and I would have to explain to him things I can’t say. Things no one knows. Things that are buried so deep inside me, sometimes even I can pretend they’re not there.

I stand from the couch as well. “I’m on a new, massive project. So, yeah, I might have longer hours for a while.”

Our gazes meet again and hold. If he smells my bullshit, he doesn’t call me out on it.

For a wild instant, I wish that he would. That this boat I’ve been drifting on for eleven years finally got rocked.

Instead, Dylan gives a slight nod, accepting my answer. “Goodnight, Brolin.”

“Night, Thompson.”

I watch Dylan limp down the hallway and wait until his bedroom door clicks shut to release a long, shaky exhale.

I pad back to my room, sagging on the bed with too much adrenaline flooding my system to fall asleep right away. What time is it even?

The digital clock on my nightstand reads 1.30a.m.

A horrible thought hits me in response: why was Dylan returning home so late? Long day at work, or was he coming back from seeing his girlfriend? Did I whack him in his post-coitus willy?

My inner villain lets out an evil laugh.I hope I’ve broken it and that they can’t have sex for at least a month.But unfortunately, it’s my tragic inner princess who gets the last word as unwanted mental images of Dylan making love with a faceless (but impossibly gorgeous) woman float before my eyes.

Flopping onto my bed, I grab a pillow and press it over my face, muffling a frustrated groan.

And the worst part?

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