Page 45 of The Roommate Experiment

Just as I’m polishing off the last crumbs, Mrs. Thompson returns with her children in tow. A brittle silence settles over the room following their entrance. Mrs. Thompson’s expression is carefully neutral. Dylan looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face pale and eyes wide. And Nina is grinning from cheek to cheek.

The stark contrast in their reactions makes my lower back grow tight. What could have provoked such opposite responses?

Mr. Thompson clears his throat, his gaze flickering between his wife and kids. “Alright, what’s going on?”

“Well, given the new… circumstances.” Mrs. Thompson wrings her fingers together as she looks at Rowena. “We can’t have a pregnant woman sleeping in the basement as planned.”

I frown, confusion swirling in my mind. The Thompsons have always had an extra room with a single bed that converts into a double; it’s where Rowena and I have bunked during previous visits. And true, everyone calls the spareTristan’sroom. But with him and Nina sharing now, no one should be sleeping in the basement.

As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Thompson continues, “When Nina and Tristan got together, we converted Tristan’s room into a home office for me. Dylan’s room has a single bed, so…” She pauses, her gaze shifting to me. “Rowena will have to take Dylan’s bed.”

My heart stutters, a sense of foreboding creeping up my spine, especially since Dylan is looking everywhere but at me.

Mrs. Thompson offers me an apologetic smile. “Hunter, would you mind sharing the sofa bed in the basement with Dylan? You’re already roommates; it’s not that different, is it?”

Oh, but it is. It’s entirely different.

I stare at Dylan, my pulse racing, but he’s still studiously staring at the floor, his ears tinged pink. Realization dawns on me; his earlier expression of terror was about the prospect of sharing a bed with me. A sharp, unwelcome pang pierces my chest. He must be mortified at the thought of having to explain all this to Olivia.

“I can stay at a hotel in town,” I blurt out.

A chorus of protests erupts around me.

Mr. Thompson shakes his head. “You won’t find anything decent last minute on July third.”

Nina reaches out, squeezing my arm. “And it wouldn’t be the same without you here, Hunter.”

Rowena shifts uncomfortably on her stool. “I can sleep in the basement…”

But Mrs. Thompson cuts her off with a firm, “Absolutely not. You need a proper bed, dear.”

I sense the moment Dylan’s eyes lift to my face, and like a compass finding true north, I turn to him. The intensity of his gaze on me is a collision of galaxies. Time compresses and stretches simultaneously as I wait for him to speak.

Dylan offers me a small, tentative smile. “I don’t mind sharing, Hunter. Really.”

My pulse speeds faster than machine-gun fire. I know he’s being polite, that he’s probably still appalled. I should let him off the hook. But I don’t want to inconvenience the Thompsons, or put them on the spot, not after they’ve so graciously welcomed us into their home.

I nod, forcing a smile. “Okay, sure. It’s only for a couple of nights, right?” More four nights.

The room breaks into cheers and relieved sighs. Mr. Thompson claps his hands together. “Alright then, now that’s settled, who’s ready to fire up the grill?”

As the men head outside, chattering about barbecue techniques and the perfect burger, Mrs. Thompson and Nina follow them to the backyard, offering to help with the preparations.

Rowena stays with me in the kitchen. She still looks pale, her shoulders slumped. I reach out, gently touching her arm. “Hey, you okay?”

She meets my gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“I… I don’t know either.”

I hesitate, wondering what she guessed about my bad mood and what worries her. Is she missing Adrian, worrying about the baby, or just anxious about the future? But I get a sense that she, same as me, would prefer not to discuss it. We share a small, understanding smile, and without another word, we each reach for a cookie. Because sometimes, words aren’t necessary when sweets and denial are on the menu. Nothing says “emotional avoidance” like literally sugarcoating our problems.

22

DYLAN

Smoke from the grill has sneaked into the house and clings to the night air as we all file in from the backyard after having a cozy dinner under the stars. With five of us camping at my parents’, it’s a long line to use the spare bathroom upstairs. But eventually, the house falls silent, and only Hunter and I are left. We head down to the basement together. She’s quiet, and so am I. The echo of our footsteps down the narrow stairs mingles with the buzz of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.

The basement isn’t fancy, but it’s comfy. The ancient sagging couch takes up most of the space, especially now that my mom has pulled out the mattress underneath the seat and made the bed. My ancient gaming console, on which Tristan and I have played infinite games, has been pushed to one side together with the big, old TV.

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