Page 19 of The Roommate Experiment

It’s her,her,she’s the problem,it’sher.

But unfortunately, my songwriting isn’t up to par. I finish my food—I’ve never enjoyed Mexican less—and wait for the episode to be over before I excuse myself. I wish the happy couple goodnight and retreat to my room. I’m about to close the door when I hear them talking in hushed tones. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I tiptoe back out into the hallway to eavesdrop.

“Do you think Hunter doesn’t like me?” Olivia’s voice carries through the apartment. Her sweet tone is textbook passive-aggressive.

“No. Why would you say that?” Dylan reassures her, but his tone betrays a sliver of hesitation.

“I have this feeling…” Olivia persists. I picture her perfect brows furrowed in worry. Fake or real remains to be determined.

Dylan sighs, and I can tell he’s choosing his next words carefully. “Maybe Hunter prefers not to find strangers at home unannounced?”

“We haven’t seen each other all day.” Olivia sounds defensive now. “And you said you were too tired to go out. I thought it’d be a pleasant surprise.”

“Yeah, but I don’t live alone. Next time, let me check with my roommate if she’s okay with you coming over.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

Dylan doesn’t reply. At least not verbally. He could be shrugging, but I don’t dare peek around the wall.

There’s a pause, and then Olivia suggests, “We should spend more time at my place. I live alone, so we wouldn’t be bothering anyone.”

My heart rams itself against my ribcage. Great, now I’m the bothersome roommate who needs to be managed.

“You live on the opposite side of Manhattan,” Dylan points out. “I’ve been coming over a lot, but I can’t do it every night.”

“I know, and I appreciate the effort you’re putting into our relationship,” Olivia replies, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Next, I hear the unmistakable sound of kissing, my cue to leave before the crack of my heart shattering alerts them to my presence.

I tiptoe back down the hallway. Earplugs, that’s what I need. Before Dylan and Olivia move things to the bedroom. I embark on a frantic hunt for sound blockers, certain that the airline from my Miami conference a few months back gave me a courtesy kit. I always keep that shit. It must be here somewhere.

I turn my entire bedroom upside down, taking out my rage and frustration on innocent clothes and defenseless furniture. I toss pillows across the room, yank open drawers, and rummage through my suitcases like a possessed woman.

Finally, I find the kit buried at the bottom of my carry-on. I jam the earplugs into my ears, cheering at the blissful insulation. My last act before collapsing into bed is ordering a family-size supply of replacement earplugs online.

As I lie still, tears streaming down my face and soaking into my pillow, I wonder how I’ll survive this living arrangement. I should move to Alaska—just me and the bears. Perhaps Brooklyn could be enough. I could claim I got a sudden hipster calling.

I close my eyes, picturing myself renting a quaint brownstone and not shaving my armpits. Can body hair cure unrequited love?Afraid not.And I can’t afford a house on my own, anyway.

For now, I’ll have to coexist with the happy couple, even if it means investing in a lifetime supply of earplugs and turning my heart into stone.

10

DYLAN

That sound again. It’s Monday morning, and I’m lying in bed, cocooned in my freshly changed sheets, the fabric cool against my skin. I stretch and sink deeper into the pillow, determined to tune out the weird noises. Still half-draped in the fog of sleep, I pull the covers closer as if they could shield me from the world. When the disturbance persists, tugging at my awareness, I roll over and blink at the clock on my nightstand: 5.50a.m.

By now, Hunter is usually gone, already at the gym or on her way to work. Whatever that obnoxious sound is, it’s not coming from inside the apartment.

I groan and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. Ten glorious minutes before the alarm goes off, and I intend to enjoy them to the last second. I close my eyes again, drifting back to that sweet spot between wakefulness and dreams. Monday morning can wait a little longer.

Then I hear it distinctly. A low grunt, followed by a muffled curse. I frown, pushing myself up on one elbow. Another grunt, louder this time, then a strange rustling sound. Curiosity piqued, I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The room is still dim, the sun not fully risen, leaving everything bathed in a cool, bluish tint.

My gaze drifts over the last few unpacked boxes scattered across the floor of my new bedroom. Nina’s old room. I’m still adjusting to the idea that this place is mine. It’ll be a while before I stop thinking of this as a temporary crash pad. But perhaps now’s not the time to get philosophical.

Reluctantly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shuffle out of my room, my bare feet padding on the hardwood floor.

“Hunter?” I call out but receive no response.

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