Page 56 of The Roommate Experiment

“Listen, Dylan, I want to be a supportive girlfriend and hear whatever it is that’s troubling you. Hell knows you’ve been so closed off lately.” So I’m being chastised on top of being shut down. “And I’d hate you feeling like you can’t talk to me. But…” She glances up, her expression almost pleading. “…not tonight, okay? I’m holding on by a thread.”

“But I?—”

“No, please.” She presses her hand against her chest, her fingers trembling. “I want to be here for you. I really do. But tonight, I just need to curl up on the couch and cuddle.” She exhales hard, her shoulders slumping as she looks away. “I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t deal with other people’s problems on top of mine right now…” Before I can retort, she asks, “Have you ever lost someone?”

“Oh, uh, not really. My grandparents all died when I was too little to remember them. But if any of my relatives were to pass, I’d be destroyed.”

“I hope it doesn’t happen to you for many, many years because it’s devastating. I still feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest.”

And my cold-blooded plan is to stomp on it and finish crashing it. I nod, my resolve weakening with each word out of her mouth. My entire strategy of being kind yet direct evaporates in the face of her grief. No way she’d believe the break-up isn’t about her now. About something she did.

Olivia pulls me down onto the couch, and I sink into the plush cushions. It’s ridiculously comfortable and should be pure heaven. But I’d rather be sharing that lumpy, ratty sofa at my parents’ place with Hunter like we did this past weekend. I’d prefer the old guy even creaky and soggy on his last day over being trapped on the world’s most comfortable couch with a girlfriend I don’t want, wishing I was anywhere else.

As the night wears on, Olivia leans into me more and more, asking me to hold her, nestling closer until I have no idea where to put my arms. Her warmth presses against me, more suffocating than a hot summer night, sticky and cloying.

Every time I adjust to create some personal space, she moves in closer, pressing her cheek against my chest, making it impossible for me to shift away without being obvious. I can’t stand the thought of being cruel to her, but it’s killing me not to do what needs to be done. The compression is suffocating. An invisible hand is squeezing my lungs, each inhale shallow and forced as if the air is being sucked out instead of in.

When she corners me at the end of the couch, I’m being literally and figuratively imprisoned, with no room to maneuver as she cuddles into me more insistently. The pressure builds until I can’t take it anymore.

“I, uh, I need to use the bathroom,” I say, disentangling myself from her clutches.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face to calm myself. What am I doing? I can’t keep leading her on. Enough is enough. I have to man up and tell her the truth. Once again resolved to put an end to this farce, I get out of the bathroom.

But when I return, Olivia is holding a small black box, a sad smile on her face. “I wanted you to have these—we made them in Theo’s name. All profits from the sales go to a shelter to honor his memory. We gave these to everyone at the funeral.” Olivia’s voice catches as she sets the box in my hands, her fingers trembling. “He would’ve loved it.”

As soon as I take the box, Olivia’s composure shatters. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, but it does nothing to muffle the guttural sob that escapes her. “I—I can’t talk about him without… without falling apart. Every time I think about him, I can’t breathe.” Her voice cracks, and she covers her face with her hands, shaking her head violently. “Gosh, I’m such a mess.”

I guess,How about we stop seeing each other?is not a great segue. Acting like a half-decent human, I undo the velvet ribbon and open the box. Inside are two white socks with black writing. One says,Step Into Healing.The other,Toe-tally Here For You.

I force a smile and accept the socks gracefully, while inside, I’m wondering if anyone has ever drowned in kindness—or a load of crap because right now, I’ve toe-tally stepped into a massive pile of it.

* * *

In the week following the second failed break-up attempt, Olivia and I mostly talk on the phone. I ask to see her every single day, but she’s never available. Her friends have embarked on a mission to cheer her up and take her out every night. Apparently, my hours are too long and if she’d have to wait for me to get off work, she’d just go home and cry herself silly on the couch. She prefers to hang out with her girlfriends.

Still, as we talk, she keeps pushing for the Hamptons trip, asking if we’ll be spending the night, hinting at how it’d be the perfect occasion to take our relationship to the next level. Aka she wants to have sex. Looks like in her mind, the waiting period is over. Her timing couldn’t be worse. I have no intention of taking her to Rowena’s party, but I can’t tell her over the phone or break up in a text. I panic instead and invent a commitment in the city on Sunday as an excuse not to spend the night at the resort where Adrian and Rowena are hosting their engagement party.

I tell her I’m volunteering at a summer soup kitchen. They’re short on hands, and I committed months ago. If Theo used to volunteer—why else would socks profits go to a shelter?—she won’t ask me to skip. And she doesn’t. I also make her promise we’ll see each other on Friday night, the day before the party, so I can break up with her before we even go. She promises. So at least there’s that.

With the overnight-stay bullet dodged, I still sign up to serve meals to the homeless. If I’m going to lie, I might as well commit and actually go—cleanse my conscience with a good deed. But as I fill in the volunteer form, I don’t feel any less lousy.

The rest of the week slips by in a haze of frustration and anxiety. In my darkest moments, I draft break-up texts in my head: short, direct, apologetic. But every time I get close to dictating one out, I feel like the world’s biggest jerk. Who does that? Who breaks up with someone over text after their best friend just died? The thought makes me queasy, so I put my phone down and tell myself I’ll handle it face to face. But then another day slips by, and I’m still stuck in this fucking limbo.

At home, I almost never see Hunter. It’s strange, how the apartment is emptier without her—off balance. I wistfully glance at her closed door more often than I care to admit.

With her, I never know where we stand. Are we friends? Then why is she avoiding me?

When I bump into her late on Thursday night, she tells me she’s had a work emergency and is putting in crazy extra hours. She’s wearing that exhausted smile that people put on when they’re barely holding it together, and I’m sure she’s telling the truth. She isn’t using work as an excuse to avoid me.

“Hey, you okay?” I double-check, noticing she’s pulled tighter than a bowstring. “You look like you could use a week of sleep.”

“More like a month.” She chuckles. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m in survival mode. I just have to make it another day, until my presentation tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but even superheroes need a break.” I walk toward the kitchen. “Tell you what, take a seat. I’ll make you something to eat.”

“You don’t have to do that, Dylan. I’m fine,” she insists, but appreciation flickers in her eyes.

“I know I don’t have to feed you, but I want to. You’re running on fumes, and it’s late. Have you had dinner?”

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