Page 9 of The Roommate Experiment

After a few minutes, a different notification dings from our group chat—code name Gossip Girls. It’s Rowena, reassuring us everything is fine in her tower—a swanky Manhattan penthouse—and that Adrian is cool. I don’t even know how to reply to that. The message at least reassures me I’m not the only one messed up in our group of friends. I send a hug emoji back. After that, we wrap things up with brief goodnights.

Slumping down, I flick off the bedside lamp, flooding the room with inky blackness. I can only make out the shadowy outlines of my bookshelves in the faint glow filtering through the blinds from the street.

I squeeze my lids shut, but my mind won’t quit whirring. Frustration simmers in my veins as I toss and turn futilely, haunted by the disastrous start of my cohabitation with Dylan.Ugh.I need to find an anti-cringe setting for my brainstat. Is there an app for that?

4

HUNTER

I blink awake at 5a.m. without an alarm, the sky outside just turning pink. At once, I’m alert, straining my ears for any sound in the apartment. But the house is silent. Dylan must be asleep.

A knot uncoils in my stomach. I don’t have to face him. Not yet. I can slip away before he wakes up and avoid a morning repeat of yesterday’s debacle—the sting still burns like a thousand red ants biting all over my skin. Even a shower is out of the question. The noise might wake him; his room is right next to the bathroom. I’ll wash up at the gym instead.

After slipping into something comfortable, I gather a change of office-appropriate clothes, trying not to wrinkle the outfit too much when I stuff it into my gym bag. As I pull my bedroom door open, the hinges protest with a slight squeak. I silently curse and vow to oil them as I step through the threshold. I need stealth, but the entire apartment fights against me. The floorboards creak under my feet as the hallway stretches impossibly long. And the pipes groan somewhere in the walls, adding a muffled grumble to the stillness.

I glare at the flat surface;can’t you wait five minutes before starting a wind section concert?

Finally reaching the front door, I slip out, inhaling deeply as the humid morning air envelops me.

At the gym, I swipe my membership card and push through the glass doors. I almost make a beeline straight for the showers, but since I’m here, I might as well squeeze in a workout.

I go check the course schedule, not in the mood to mindlessly exercise on the machines. That kind of training never appeals to me. I get bored too easily, lose interest fast, and bail before getting any benefit. I prefer guided instructions and the structure of a group. Keeps me accountable, and there’s no slipping out halfway through.

The gym is nearly deserted this early, the sterile scent of disinfectant and rubber mats still unspoiled by the inevitable tinge of sweat. I pass by the rows of treadmills, their blank screens mirroring the dim overhead lights, and read the bulletin board. Mindfulness yoga is the sole pre-dawn offering.

I could use some mindfulness.

I drop my things in a locker and head to the yoga studio. The room is awash in soft, warm light, the walls a calming neutral shade. A hint of incense lingers, even if nothing appears to be actively burning. I grab a mat from the rack by the door and unroll it near the back, hoping to remain inconspicuous. While not a total novice, I’m far from a yoga master.

A loud gong kick-starts the class. With a deep exhale, I sit up straighter, determined to embrace this small slice of peace before the day truly begins, pushing aside all thoughts of a certain tall, blond distraction living under my roof.

As the instructor guides us into the first pose, her voice soothing, I try to concentrate on my breathing, on emptying my mind, but my thoughts refuse to cooperate. As I move through the positions, my brain continues to churn, making me wince each time I replay last night’s events.

I redouble my efforts to focus on the instructions, but my mind stubbornly drifts back to Dylan. Every stretch becomes a reminder of our uncomfortable dinner, each deep exhale a sigh I couldn’t release in his presence. The yoga teacher keeps shooting me pointed looks, my constant wincing and teeth-grinding likely a dead giveaway that inner peace is eluding me.

As the class winds down, I’m no more relaxed than when I started. I sigh, rolling up my mat and returning it to the rack before heading out of the studio. The hot shower is a welcome relief, washing away the sweat and some of the stiffness in my muscles, but doing little to quell the persistent thoughts of Dylan.

I dress quickly, shoulder my bag, and stride out of the gym, making my way to the closest subway station. As I descend the steps, the familiar rumble of the trains and the bustle of morning commuters envelop me. I find solace in the journey’s anonymity, my thoughts finally quieting as I lose myself in the city’s rhythm.

* * *

By the time I exit the subway, I need another shower. Thankfully, a blast of air conditioning engulfs me as I step into my office building. The sleek, glass-walled lobby is already bustling. Business suits brush past each other, briefcases in hand, as they head toward the elevators. It’s another Monday morning at Winton Engineering Solutions, and the office promises the usual battlefield of egos and power plays. But today, I’d rather be at work than face the minefield of conflicting emotions waiting for me at home. I want to see Dylan; I crave our next encounter. But I also want to avoid him like the Plague.

The elevator ride to the twenty-fourth floor is as quick as it is silent. The doors glide open onto a series of interconnected hallways lined with glass-walled offices, each door bearing the name of a different engineer, and larger meeting rooms that make up the heart of the firm. From up here, the Hudson River glitters in the distance, the sun catching the ripples of water in a dance of light and shadow. The Manhattan skyline stretches out beyond it, a steel and glass jungle that is both a comfort and a cage.

I head toward my office, one of the smallest for a team leader, but that I’ve made the most of, decorating it with a few personal touches: a framed picture of my mom and dad from my college graduation, a cactus plant I’ve kept alive for two years, and a collection of engineering manuals stacked neatly in the corner of my desk. I’ve also hung my master’s degree on one of the drywalls, in case someone still doubted I’m really an engineer. There’s the proof, folks, printed on watermarked paper.

I drop my bag on the chair, fire up my computer, and take a minute to gather my thoughts before the daily grind pulls me under. Since I’m early, I take my time sorting through unopened emails that accumulated over the weekend.

When I come up for air, the clock on my computer reads 8.55a.m. The team leaders’ morning meeting is in five minutes. I grab my notepad and pen, checking my reflection in the glass wall. I’ve pulled my hair back into a neat ponytail to hide the lack of access to a flat iron this morning. And I’m wearing only basic makeup—mostly concealer, to cover the signs of a sleepless night. I smooth down the wrinkles in my cream blouse and straighten my pencil skirt. Ready as I’ll ever be.

The conference room is already half-full when I get there. A large, crystal table dominates the space, surrounded by high-backed, leather chairs. The vast windows frame a breathtaking, full-scale view of the city cut in half by the partially drawn blinds—a shield against the summer glare.

“Morning, everyone,” I say as I take my seat toward the end of the table, my usual spot.

A chorus of mumbled greetings responds. Most of my colleagues are buried in their phones or tablets, also catching up on emails or reading through reports. Soon, the last of the stragglers file in. I flip open my notepad, ready to jot down the latest updates. Daniel, the company’s COO, takes the seat at the head of the table. His gray hair and perpetual scowl give him a gruff appearance, but I like him. He’s fair.

Mark, the team leaders’ coordinator for the infrastructure division, sits next to him, his blond hair perfectly gelled, and a smug smile on his face as he thumbs through his phone. I make a point not to look at him.

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