Page 28 of The Roommate Experiment

I fidget with my untouched glass of wine. Right now, having wasted an evening on this date is quickly becoming my biggest time-management challenge. As Ethan drones on about his morning-routine app, I draft a polite “thanks, but no thanks” text to send later.

After splitting the bill, Ethan walks me out, shaking my hand once more. “You seem like you’re on top of things, Hunter. It’s been great meeting you.”

I wonder if he’s going to follow up with a performance-review email.

As I make my way home, I sigh, vowing to swear off corporate types for the foreseeable future. Even if Dylan, theoretically, is a corporate type. But with his easy-going nature and goofball attitude, it’s so easy to forget. If only all investment bankers were more like him… I wouldn’t like them, anyway. Because they’re not Dylan.

What I should wish for is a version of him who’s single and into me.

I stare up at the night sky, searching for a sign. But no stars shoot across the firmament to offer me hope, so I walk my sorry ass home.

* * *

Wednesday evening rolls around, and despite a terrible first experience, I’m getting ready for another date. Last night with Ethan was a total disaster, but I’m positive the guy I’m meeting tonight, Malik, can’t be any worse. And as Clara keeps reminding me, it’s a numbers game. The more dates I go on, the higher the chances of finding someone I click with.

At the front door, I nearly collide with Dylan again. He’s the spitting image of the hot guys on the covers of billionaire romance novels. Dark suit, white shirt, blue tie. Hair sleeked back for once instead of tousled in that endearing way of his.Move over, Christian Grey.

The sight is as unsettling as ever. But at least this time, I manage to keep my mouth shut and only wave him goodbye.

A short cab ride later, I step into an understated Italian bistro. The place smells of garlic and bread with twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling that cast a warm glow over the checkered tablecloths. It’s the perfect setting for a cozy evening.

Malik is at a table near the back. He’s tall and lean, with smooth, dark skin and an impeccably groomed, short beard. His broad smile drew me to his profile on the app. But the body that goes with that smile isn’t bad at all. His fitted charcoal T-shirt and black jeans make him look like he stepped out of an upscale magazine ad for casual summer fashion.

We settle into a booth, and the conversation flows easily. Malik talks about his job as a graphic designer, his favorite indie bands, and the best spots in the city to get coffee. I relax, thinking that maybe first dates don’t have to be grueling.

But halfway through dinner, something shifts. Malik’s smile falters, and he gets this distant look in his eyes. “My ex, Samantha, loved this place.”

I freeze, my fork hovering in mid-air.Uh-oh. Mentions of the ex on a first date can’t be good.

“We were together for three years. She was… amazing.” Malik’s staring into his plate of spaghetti as if it were a portal to the past where he could see himself and Samantha sharing a noodle with the same demure sweetness ofLady and the Tramp.

As Malik lists everything he misses about Samantha—how she made spaghetti with meatballs like the ones we’re eating, how they used to spend Sundays binge-watching shows, how he still sometimes texts her even if she hasn’t replied in months—I shift in my seat.

I fix my gaze on the flickering candle on the table, racking my brain for a way to steer the discussion away from his ex. But it’s no use. Malik has disappeared down a rabbit hole in memory lane and is not coming back. His eyes mist over as he continues to reminisce, and I pat his hand while he sniffles, unsure if I should offer him more bread or a tissue.

When our server approaches, asking if we’re interested in dessert, I decline even if the chocolate cake sounded promising. I’m ready to leave.

“I guess this wasn’t what you signed up for,” Malik says once the server returns with the check.

I shrug. “We’ve all been there. Break-ups aren’t easy.”

He nods, blowing his nose loudly—turned out tissues were the way to go. “You’re right. Sorry for dumping all this on you. I thought I was ready to date again, but clearly, I’m not.”

I give him a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. Healing takes time. Focus on taking care of yourself, and the rest will fall into place.”

Ahha, how collected I am when advising others.I’m a pot calling the kettle black.

I wish Malik a good life, and, as I wait for my cab, I wonder if I’m a magnet for walking red flags.

My car arrives, and I climb into the back seat, scoffing. Two dates, two disasters. At this rate, I’m wondering if the dating app gives out loyalty points for not-so-meet-cutes. Five points: a pint of ice cream (it’s better to spoon something that won’t talk back). Ten points: a bottle of moonshine (only a borderline illegal drink could blur your memory enough). Twenty points: a coupon for therapy (because, let’s be honest, you need it at this stage). Fifty points: a plush pillow embroidered withAt Least You Tried(soft enough to cry into). And the grand prize at one hundred points: a lifetime subscription to streaming services (because sometimes, the only commitment you need is to continue watching).

I’ve only accumulated two points so far, but I might still indulge in a carton of ice cream.

* * *

Despite my resolution to give dating apps a fair chance and win at the numbers game, tonight, I’m putting zero effort into it, already bracing myself for disappointment. I throw on a pair of jeans and don’t even bother showering again before heading out. I’m meeting guy number three, Tyler, at a casual burger joint—no need to get all dolled up.

At 8p.m. sharp, I walk into the upscale pub. The walls are covered in chalkboard menus listing craft beers and specialty burgers with quirky names. The atmosphere is lively and loud with chatter and clinking glasses.

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