Page 30 of The Roommate Experiment

Now everyone else’s lives are moving on without me. I’ve spent years letting this one-sided crush seep into everything, coloring how I live, how I love, and how I don’t. It has to stop. The thought of starting over terrifies me, but so does the idea of staying exactly where I am, trapped in a cycle of waiting for something that might never happen.

If online dating doesn’t work out, I’ll find something else. Maybe I’ll join obscure hobby clubs, like competitive origami. Or try a singles-only trivia night and dominate all the Taylor Swift categories. Or throw myself into singles hiking groups, pretending I love sweating uphill. I’m already pretending to be a happy early raiser; what’s one more layer of misery?

At least the restaurant I picked looks nice. The flickering candlelight and soft background noise of conversations create an intimate atmosphere. Still, as I ask the hostess for my table, I wonder if I should stop going on dinner dates and meet new guys for drinks. Give me a faster, easier escape. Assuming I’ll ever have the courage to set up new dates. If tonight’s another bust, I won’t have the fortitude—I’d rather join a bowling league.

As the hostess guides me through the maze of tables, my eyes land on Lucas, seated by the main window. He’s meticulously groomed, his short, gel-slicked hair sitting rigidly in place like it wouldn’t dare defy him. His broad shoulders strain against the seams of his too-tight button-up, the fabric pulled taut over a chest that seems more swollen than natural. The rolled-up sleeves reveal thick, veined forearms that look like they’ve seen more dumbbells than daylight. When he spots me, his brown eyes narrow briefly, scanning like I’m a cut of steak he’s deciding whether to throw on the grill. Did he look like that in his photo? He seemed much less… muscular? Inflated?

He stands to greet me, offering a warm smile that at least seems genuine. “Hunter, nice to meet you.” He pulls out my chair in a smooth, chivalrous motion.

So far so good on the attitude, but I can’t help being on edge, searching for red flags instead of concentrating on the positives. Should I ask him right away if he believes there are aliens hidden in Area 51 or when his last break-up was and if he still texts his ex?

The hostess hands us our menus, and we fall into the standard first-date script—where we’re from, how we ended up in New York, how we like the city.

Lucas’s answers are smooth, making me wonder how many first dates he’s been on. His responses have a rehearsed quality that leaves me wary. Still, I keep up with my lines, nodding at the right intervals, but there’s a part of me already wondering how much longer this will last. He suggests a wine from the list, and I go along, deciding to reserve judgment for later.

Just then, the hostess reappears, escorting a couple to the table next to ours. I glance over—and my stomach drops. Because, of course, the universe can’t resist throwing a pie in my face.

It’s Dylan and Olivia.

15

DYLAN

Inside the restaurant, candlelight flickers across burgundy tablecloths, casting a warm glow against the exposed brick walls. Muted conversations and the clink of silverware echo around the room as Olivia and I follow the hostess to our table. The vibe could be described as romantic—or suffocating, depending on your mood. Honestly, it’d be perfect for a date if I weren’t this on edge.

Taking space from Olivia hasn’t helped me chill or get more into this new relationship, nor has lying awake in bed every single night of the past week listening in for when Hunter would return from her dates. It was never too late. Does it mean the one-on-ones went poorly? And why does the supposition cheer me up?

Anyway. She’s out with another dude tonight. I only caught a whiff of her perfume as I came back home, but she was already gone.

Olivia grabs my hand as we follow the hostess. “Wines from Bourgogne are supposed to be the best in the world.” She points at the chalkboard behind the bar with the day’s special and suggested wine pairings. “I bet they have a great selection here.”

I’m about to respond we should order a bottle when the back of my scalp prickles. My attention shifts as I glance around, wondering what the heck happened.

Then I see her.

Hunter.

My stomach clenches, hit with the force of a sucker punch. Of course. Of all the restaurants in this city, she’s here. She has her back half turned away from me and hasn’t seen me. Only the curve of her profile is visible from behind, but her date is right in my face. The guy looks like a puffed-up jerk who thrives on pushing people around. I turn my head. One glance is plenty; I’ve no desire to get the full picture.

I’m still half-hoping the hostess will deviate at the last second and steer us in a different direction, but, to my horror, she heads straight for the empty table next to Hunter and the guy who must curl his biceps while staring at his reflection the entire time.

“Here we are,” the hostess chirps, oblivious to the storm brewing in my gut.

“Thank you,” I say becausefuck medoesn’t sound like an appropriate response.

Hunter, who was smiling at something Mr. Self-Impressed yapped, glances up at hearing my voice, eyes locking with mine. I freeze. The smile dies on her face as her mouth goes slack—not that the shocked expression does anything to diminish how stunning she is.

She looks different tonight. Her lids are shadowed in smoky-gray and her dark hair, instead of the usual natural waves, is straight, falling in a curtain of black silk over her shoulders. I notice all this in an instant, and it doesn’t help the been-punched-in-the-gut sensation in my stomach.

Does she feel it too? That immediate shift in the air?

Her hair might be sleek, but her obsidian gaze is wild for a hot second. Before her features quickly shift, going blank and polite, as if we’re nothing more than passing acquaintances.

Olivia tenses beside me. She’s half-smiling, the expression uncertain as she tries to figure out why I’ve stiffened.

“Hi,” she says brightly, her tone a little too cheerful as she glances between Hunter, her date, and me.

Hunter straightens in her chair, offering a tight smile. “Dylan. Olivia.”

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