Page 42 of The Roommate Experiment

“Goodnight,” I reply, watching as she disappears into her room, the door closing with a quiet click.

I stand there, staring at the closed door—realizing with terrifying clarity, I want her to open it again, for me.

20

DYLAN

I have to break up with Olivia.The singular thought swirls in my head, taking over my entire mental space as I sit in the office on Monday morning, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, the open spreadsheet a blur of numbers and data.

It’s not that Olivia isn’t great. She’s sweet, kind, a woman you’d want to bring home to meet your parents. But as much as I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, there’s no spark, no excitement when we’re together. It’s like trying to force two mismatched puzzle pieces to fit.

And then there’s Hunter. My roommate. My sister’s best friend. The woman I can’t stop thinking about. A romantic involvement with her would be beyond complicated. If things went south, not only would it make living together awkward as hell, but it could also blow up my entire social circle. And yet.

I sigh, passing a hand over my face. One problem at a time. First, I need to end things with Olivia. Grabbing my phone, I dictate a text before I lose my nerve.

Dylan

Hey, can I come over tonight?

Her reply comes a minute later.

Olivia

Sure, I’d love to see you. Let me know the time

Guilt twists in my gut, but I’m doing the right thing. For both of us.

I give her message a thumbs up and set down my phone, drumming my fingers on the desk. How do I explain the lack of a spark to her without making it sound like it’s her fault?

It’s not you, it’s meis a punchline foritisyou. Even if in this case, it’s true, it’s not her. It’s me. But she wouldn’t believe me.

No matter how I do it, now that I’ve decided, I can stand up straight again. For the first time in days, I’m able to focus on work. The charts and graphs that have been harder to read lately make more sense. I attack my inbox with a vengeance, the emails that had been piling up all morning quickly dealt with.

Tonight won’t be fun, but it’s the right call. And after, I’ll figure out what, or who, I really want.

* * *

Early that evening, I shut my laptop and stand to leave while the office is still full. I’m taking off earlier than usual because I don’t know, it seems like bad etiquette to make someone wait on you all night to break up with them. Olivia will hate me all the same, but the least I can do is to be polite about it.

A weird sort of detachment washes over me as I grab my jacket and backpack. But my palms are sticky and my pulse is too elevated for someone who’s been sitting at a desk all day. Everything in me wants to smooth the waters as if my job were to ensure nobody felt a ripple. Confrontation has always felt like stepping into a ring I was never trained for. Ever since being put on the spot in school left me scarred, I’d rather fade into the background, and maintain the peace, but this time… I can’t. People call me nice. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s a euphemism for pushover. I’m sorry that Olivia will be the one to see me grow a spine.

By the time I’m outside, I almost invent an excuse to go home and avoid what’s coming. But even the gentlest tide has to turn.

I flag down a cab, sinking into the back seat. I rattle off Olivia’s address to the driver and close my eyes to contain the anxiety gnawing at my gut. She won’t see this coming. She thinks I’m dropping by to hang out. But I have to rip off the Band-Aid—the sooner, the better. The driver is talking about something—traffic or the weather—but I barely register his words as we zip through the blurry city lights.

When the car pulls up outside Olivia’s building, I pay the fare and step out. I compose her buzzer number and wait, tapping my foot on the sidewalk, the concrete sticking to my sole in the heat.

Olivia’s voice crackles through a minute later. “Who is it?”

“Dylan?” Wasn’t she expecting me?

“Oh, right. Come on up.” She sounds weird, surprised but also as if she was already crying?

Has she guessed why I’m here?

Perplexed, I push through the main door and cross the lobby, opting for the stairs since Olivia lives on the second floor. The distant, muffled sounds of a TV playing greet me as I reach her hallway and walk down it. I pause outside her door, steeling myself for what I have to do. My hand lifts to knock, but I hesitate. Before I muster the courage, a distraught Olivia flings the door open, ushering me in. Her face is splotchy and tear-streaked, her normally coiffed hair disheveled. Behind her, I glimpse her usually tidy apartment in disarray, clothes strewn everywhere.

“Dylan, I’m so sorry,” she chokes out between sobs. “I completely forgot you were coming over. It’s just—” She stops, fluffing her hands in front of her face, hyperventilating. “Theo died,” she whimpers. “And the funeral is in two days. I have to go home and?—”

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