Page 25 of The Roommate Experiment

Hey, work’s crazy at the moment. I’ll be swamped all week.

But let me make it up to you with dinner at a nice restaurant Friday night.

There’s this new French place I heard about that we could try

Waiting until the weekend will give me time to breathe, to figure out what’s wrong with me and how I’m going to deal with the strange, inappropriate thoughts I’m having about Hunter.

Also, Olivia’s nice, but the constant pushiness—like showing up unannounced at my place on Saturday—is rubbing me the wrong way. I hit send and toss my phone on the desk, leaning back in my chair with a sigh.

I need to screw my head on straight. A glimpse of lace shouldn’t derail my day or my relationship. It’s lingerie, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.

Olivia replies instantly.

Olivia

Sounds great. I love French cuisine. I’ll wear something nice for you ;)

My eyes glaze over the screen again. Why does my girlfriend promising a sexy outfit leave me completely indifferent? I gulp down the lump in my throat and silence the phone, putting it face down on the desk.

I dive back into the merger reports, determined to make sense of them. My brain is still foggy from lingerie-induced madness, but I power through.

The 11a.m. meeting is a video call, so I don’t even need to leave my office. I join the video conference and take the lead on presenting a new merger. I’m walking the others through the assets of the company to be acquired, starting with their real estate holdings, when I mix out my words again, “The risk is that the rent on the warehouse could double since the lace agreement will expire next year, and the owner knows they need it.”

My team stares back in confusion through the screen. The tips of my ears grow hot, and I correct myself, “Sorry, lease agreement. The lease agreement will expire.”

I apologize to my colleagues for the slip-up, hoping they’ll attribute it to stress or lack of sleep. Anything but the truth—that I can’t stop obsessing over my roommate’s underwear.

Finally, I’m done with my part of the presentation. I put my mic on mute and sit back, relieved I no longer have to speak and am required to provide only minimal input. I keep tapping my fingers on my desk as the video call continues.

It’s not the first time my brain scrambles words, but today, it’s happening more often. My usual misfires are on overdrive, likely triggered by my preoccupation with Hunter. I don’t know why my brain switches words on me—pink for print, lace for lease—but it’s always been like this. Once I was diagnosed, I’ve gotten good at compensating.

But “compensating” doesn’t mean it’s been easy. I’ve spent my entire life building a fortress of coping mechanisms, layer after layer, to keep anyone from noticing the cracks. Teachers, friends, even my parents for a while. No one needed to know just how many nights I stayed up late, staring at words that refused to make sense, trying to memorize entire pages because reading them wasn’t an option. I’ve rewritten more notes and summaries than I can count, not because I’m thorough, but because it’s the only way to retain anything.

In school, I was forced to reveal this weakness. Teachers thought I was lazy. Classmates called me dumb. Even my parents, as supportive as they were, didn’t fully get it at first. The humiliation of being called out in class for misspelling simple words or misreading instructions is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It stayed with me all my life, that sense of being different in a way that isn’t celebrated, just noticed and pitied—or worse, mocked.

Sports were the one thing where I didn’t need to read a fucking thing, so I threw myself into athletics. I was tall, so basketball was the obvious choice. I didn’t get into Duke for my stellar grades. But if basketball got me through the door, once I was there, I made sure I did my best to excel also academically. No one knew me, no one thought of me any less, and I kept things that way. Hid my daily struggles.

I’ve made it so far. But the fear never leaves—the constant dread of someone catching on. A boss noticing I skimmed instead of read. A colleague spotting a typo I didn’t realize I’d made. Every email I send is triple-checked, every report reviewed until my eyes feel like sandpaper. When dictation was integrated into phones, I almost cried with relief.

It’s exhausting, always staying one step ahead of the truth. The worry is always there, keeping me sharp, keeping me afraid. And when I’m stressed, it gets worse.

By lunchtime, I’m practically useless at work. My inbox is flooded with unread emails, and reports are still waiting for my input. I order a salad but barely touch it, pushing the lettuce around with my fork.

I have everything a man could want. A great job. Amazing friends. A gorgeous, kind girlfriend. What’s my problem?

Olivia is perfect—on paper. But why doesn’t it feel right? Even the idea of dinner on Friday doesn’t bring the excitement it should. Olivia is beautiful, smart, thoughtful, and totally into me, but something is not clicking.

And then there’s Hunter. She’s been in my life for years, and we never had a problem. But now she’s slipped under my skin in a way I can’t ignore. And I still can’t figure out how long she’s had that damn belly button piercing.

Thankfully, more meetings keep my head off things until it’s time to go home. As I pack up for the day, my phone pings with a text from Olivia.

Olivia

Hey, what time are we meeting on Friday? Should I make a reservation?

Shit, I should’ve taken care of the booking already and sent Olivia the details. But I haven’t thought about the dinner at all. I send a quick vocal text to Kelly to book the restaurant for me and dictate my reply to Olivia.

Dylan

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