Page 36 of The Roommate Experiment

She hands me the leather folders. I open the first, and my jaw drops as I scan the items. Twenty-six dollars for a platter of snails, plus tips and taxes.

It’s a metaphor for my life. Unwanted, bitter, and far more costly than I bargained for. And then there’s the eighty-dollar bottle of wine they ordered…

I contemplate the receipts in stunned disbelief. How fitting to be left alone, with no man, no love, no direction, and not one, but two printed reminders of how pathetic my life is.

I swipe my credit card and sign on the dotted line, my hand moving on autopilot. As I rise from my seat, I glance at the bottle of wine still sitting nearly full on Dylan and Olivia’s forlorn table.

Without thinking, I grab it, tucking it under my arm. If I’m going to wallow in misery tonight, I might as well have a decent drink to keep me company.

The warm summer air hits my face as I emerge onto the bustling New York street. The city’s alive around me, people laughing and chatting as they pass by, but I feel disconnected from it all.

Clutching the wine as a tragic consolation prize, I raise my hand to flag down a cab because even a few blocks’ walk home seems like too much. One slows, then speeds up the second the driver spots the bottle under my arm.Seriously?I try again. The next one doesn’t even hesitate, just zooms right past like I’m holding a grenade.Perfect.

After the third cab swerves out of reach, it hits me how people must see me from outside, walking down the street with an open bottle of wine. No one’s stopping for me.

Great. I’m officially “that girl.” You know, the hot mess you avoid eye contact with because she looks like she’s going to drink herself into a stupor on a sidewalk.

I sigh, resigning myself to walk home. Please, don’t let me get arrested for public drinking. With my recent luck, a cop is bound to stop me any second, and then I’ll be explaining how I’m not starring in a rom-com, and there’s no hidden camera crew ready to film my “everything will be okay” moment. I’m just someone who got dumped—no, wait, that isn’t the right word. Gaslighted by one man and platonically rescued and then ditched by the other? Yes. I’m the loser who had to pick up the tab for two men who definitely aren’t dating me.

And spending the night in jail would sound more promising than having to share an apartment with Dylan.Dear officer, could you also write me up for tragic life decisions while you’re at it?

17

DYLAN

I stumble on the uneven sidewalk as I march down the dimly lit street, heading back to the restaurant—alone. The muggy summer air is not entirely responsible for the icy trickle of sweat down my spine. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the guilt settling in my gut after my failed attempt at reconciling with Olivia. Her words keep echoing in my head.

“You were never really there, Dylan. You’ve been distracted all night, paying more attention to your roommate than me.”

She’s right, of course. I rationalize it, telling myself I was being a good friend, looking out for Hunter when that sleazeball was getting handsy. Anyone would have done the same.

If Nina were in the same situation, I’d have intervened, too.

For the first time, a true wave of gratitude that she’s dating Tristan hits me. At least my sister will never have to sit across the table from a jerk like Lucas.

But even as I try to convince myself of my brotherly disposition toward Hunter, the nagging ache in my gut won’t let up. The truth is, the instant I saw Lucas reach for Hunter’s wrist, something inside me snapped. It wasn’t friendly concern—it was a visceral, possessive anger that took me by surprise. I keep picturing that faint-pink line on her skin where his fingers had been, and it sends a fresh wave of rage rippling through me.

But that’s not the only thing that haunts me. Alarmingly, the memory of Hunter laughing at his jokes before he revealed himself for what he was, gnaws at me even worse.

As I round the corner, the restaurant comes into view, its flashing neon sign a beacon in the night. My steps slow as I brace for an unpleasant interaction. They must’ve thought we did a dine and dash—no matter that the dining part stopped at the snails. Going back in will be humbling, but it’s still better than facing my thoughts. I don’t want to examine why Hunter’s interactions with her date bothered me so much. I’m not ready to confront what it might mean. Let’s focus on fixing one screw-up at a time. First off, the bill I forgot to pay in my hurry to chase after Olivia. I steel myself and push inside.

The warm aroma of garlic and herbs envelops me. I should be hungry, having had a single snail for dinner, but I’m not. All I want is to leave. I scan the candlelit space, hoping to slip up to the bar, pay the bill, and make a quick exit unnoticed.

I approach the bartender, a burly guy with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Hey, um, I was here earlier, and I… uhm, had an emergency… and I forgot to settle my bill.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving me a once-over. “Forgot?”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. This isn’t like me. I’m the responsible one, the guy who always has his shit together. I’m a people pleaser, run a tight ship, and avoid confrontation as much as I can. The humiliation of coming back here, tail tucked between my legs, to confess I skipped out on a bill is like swallowing glass. “Yeah, my girlfriend and I had a bit of a disagreement, and I guess I just… left in a hurry.”

The bartender’s expression softens a fraction. He nods toward a server passing by. “Yo, Mia. This guy says he dashed on his bill earlier.” I wish he wouldn’t yell about my business for everyone to hear. “That ring any bells?”

Mia, the server who attended to us, stops in her tracks. She looks me up and down, recognition dawning on her face. “Oh, yeah. I remember you. You were with that blonde, right? The one who was shooting daggers at the couple next to you all night?”

I wince. “That’s us.”

“No worries, hon.” Mia waves a dismissive hand. “Your bill’s been taken care of.”

I blink, sure I must have misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

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