Page 21 of The Roommate Experiment

I make a zipper-over-mouth gesture as Hunter’s gaze drops from my face and she gasps, making me realize that I came straight from bed and am not wearing anything except for my boxer briefs.

I cough, and her eyes dart up from my bare chest.

“You’re in your underwear,” she mumbles, then catches herself. “I mean, thank you.”

“I’ll go get dressed.”

She nods.

But as I backtrack blindly, my foot catches onto something. I stumble, arms flailing to steady myself as my feet get more tangled into whatever tripped me. Something hard hits my calf, and I kick it away on instinct, sending clothes flying everywhere as I fall flat on my butt.

I land a little stunned, surrounded by scattered garments—jeans, shirts, and, to my horror, a collection of bras and lacy underwear—and Hunter’s laundry basket capsized on the floor.

I contemplate the possibility that I’m being punished for something I did in a past life because, amidst all the chaos, a lacy thingy has landed on my head. My eyes widen under the lace. The soft fabric—pink and racy—is draped over my nose. And I don’t need to inspect it to know it’s one of Hunter’s thongs hanging off my face like a deflated superhero mask.

For a long, painful moment, neither of us moves. My face burns red as I gingerly pluck the underwear off, holding it up. “Uh… this yours?”

Hunter stands there, equally shell-shocked. She stares at the thong in my hand as if it might explode at any second. Her cheeks are as pink as the lace, and she’s pressing her lips together. My roommate looks like she’d gladly crawl under the nearest piece of furniture instead of answering me. Finally, she moves. “Thanks.” She takes the unfortunate underwear from me and stuffs it back into the basket, avoiding my gaze as she collects the rest of her laundry, her long, dark hair falling forward to shield her face.

I stand, waiting for her to be done. Neither of us knows what to say. But I can’t stand the silence. “I, uh… didn’t mean to touch, t—to trip on… you know.” I rub the back of my neck.Real smooth, Dylan.

We share a look—embarrassed, horrified—and that has us both silently agreeing to never mention this again. “Well, uh…” I scramble for something to say to defuse the awkwardness. “I’ll… go pretend this never happened.”

Hunter nods, her face still flushed. “Yeah… solid plan.”

Making sure there’s no more laundry to stumble upon, I turn and slip out of the room. As I shut the door behind me, I lean against the wall and exhale, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. I try to focus on literally anything other than Hunter’s lingerie and the accidental peek-a-boob. Taxes. Yeah, taxes. Those are neutral. “Taxes. Think about taxes,” I mutter, as I head back to my room, hoping I’ve hit my embarrassment quota for today.

11

HUNTER

I stand frozen in my room after Dylan leaves, my cheeks still burning with mortification. I double-check the door is closed, leaning against it as if a wooden barrier could block out the humiliation that just unfolded. But the image of Dylan bare-chested lying on the floor, tangled in my laundry, with my thong draped over his face, is burned behind my retinas.

I can’t believe that happened. I press the heels of my palms over my eyes, wishing for a time machine that’ll bring me back to earlier this morning when I picked an old shirt from the closet and thought,Hey, it’ll stretch, it’s what viscose does, right?

Wrong.

I tug at the blouse in question, which is still squeezing me worse than a boa constrictor, and head to the desk. Scissors in hand, I slice the fabric open from the navel up with immense satisfaction. I put on a different, size-appropriate shirt that hasn’t shrunk from too many dryer cycles, and fix my hair, looking in the dresser mirror over my desk. With three women who used to share a single bathroom, we all had stacked emergency beautification supplies in our bedrooms.

The person staring back at me is unhinged. My hair is a mess, skin botched with shame, and the eye circles worthy of a raccoon. I haven’t slept all weekend, plagued by nightmares of Dylan and Olivia together—knowing what she looks like, how they touch each other, and the sounds they make when they kiss magnified the weight crushing me and invited insomnia.

With a deep sigh, I spray perfume on my neck and try to shake off the exhaustion. But the dark circles under my eyes are stubborn. Not even a double layer of concealer can do much.

I scold myself for letting the Olivia situation get to me. But Dylan is my kryptonite, and living together has only added fuel to the fire. Unfortunately, I’m as equipped to handle the flames as a marshmallow at a bonfire.

Desperate to escape, I grab my bag and creak my bedroom door open, listening to trace Dylan’s whereabouts in the apartment. Mercifully, the shower is running, and I can avoid another mortifying interaction. I’m outta there faster than Neo dodging bullets inThe Matrix.

As I speed-walk down the hall toward the elevator, I wonder what Dylan must be thinking. I’m glad I don’t have a visual of the situation he found me in, trapped in a shirt like a total moron. I groan, pressing the down button repeatedly as if that will make it come faster.

“Just forget it happened,” I mutter to myself as I step into the elevator. “It can’t get any worse.” But even as I say it, I know that’s tempting fate. With Dylan and me under the same roof, it’s only a matter of time before I find new and creative ways to humiliate myself.

A ding chimes overhead, and the doors slide open. I straighten my shoulders and step out, ready to face the day. Or at least, as ready as I can be with the memory of a half-naked Dylan tangled in my underwear replaying on a loop in my mind. I hope work will provide the distraction I desperately need to chase away all the Dylan angst. Getting lost in engineering schematics and project timelines sounds a lot better than dwelling on my disastrous personal life.

After a grueling subway ride, I push through the revolving doors of my office building, the cool blast of air conditioning a welcome respite from the heat outside and the simmering embarrassment still clinging to my skin.

An even greater sense of relief settles over me as I reach my office, which has become my only private, safe space. I drop my bag by my desk and slump into my chair, the supple leather cradling my tired body. As I log into my computer, the day’s schedule fills the screen, and I’m thrilled not to have a single free minute.

“I’d say good morning, but you look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

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