Chapter 2
2
DYLAN
I’ve fucked up, but have no idea how. Hunter hasn’t stopped smiling since we sat down to dinner. But halfway through the meal, something about it has started to feel off, like that forced grin has been ironed onto her face. Her energy is different—too bright, too bubbly, like she’s overcompensating for something. I do a mental inventory of our conversation, but I can’t pinpoint what I said or did to upset her, or when exactly the shift happened. I just know it did. Things were going well—friendly banter, easy quips. And now this synthetic politeness has wrapped around us like a creeping fog.
I look at her, and she gives me a thirty-two-tooth smile in return. But it doesn’t reach her eyes, their usual warmth replaced with a glossy, distant sadness.
I sound insane, but I’m sure something is up. I’m not making things up. Like when I got up to refill the water pitcher and I caught her off guard. She thought I had my back turned and had dropped her head in her hands, her shoulders sagged in a way that confirmed my instincts. And now, even though she’s smiling at me and offering cheerful quips, she’s barely touching her lasagna. When she does take a bite, it’s small, mechanical, like she’s forcing herself to swallow it against a gag. Which doesn’t make sense; the lasagna is delicious.
Since I’ve scarfed down all my pasta and Hunter doesn’t seem interested in finishing hers, I offer to do the dishes. Anything to ease the strange disconnect. “I’ll clean up.” I give her my most charming smile. “Only fair, since you cooked this amazing meal.”
Hunter glances up, meeting my eyes briefly. “Sure, thanks.” She nods, but her tone lacks real warmth. As she stands up, her long, dark hair falls down her back, swaying slightly as she moves to the counter. She tears off a sheet of aluminum foil with a crisp, metallic sound that slices through the quiet, jagged and precise. Her movements are rigid as she carefully wraps the metal sheet over the casserole of lasagna leftovers. Hunter drops it in the fridge and closes the door too enthusiastically, making it slam. “Should be good also tomorrow.”
“Lasagna always tastes better the next day.” I give her an open smile.
“Lasagna magic, right?” Hunter flashes a quick, robotic smile, her jaw tight as her eyes flick to the doorway, betraying her eagerness to escape. Fuck, the awkwardness is painful.
Stretching my back, I stifle a yawn, exhausted from hauling a thousand boxes. I gather our plates and deposit them in the sink. Hunter jumps out of my way almost comically.
I eye the pots and pans and suddenly feel too tired to tackle the washing tonight.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with them in the morning when I’m not dead on my feet.
I’m about to head to the living room and collapse on the couch when I catch Hunter’s gaze lingering on the sink, her dark eyes fixed on the unwashed dishes. She presses her lips into a thin line, and I can sense the disapproval radiating off her. Well, at least it’s a genuine reaction.
I sigh, a familiar frustration bubbling up inside me. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those,” I half-joke.
Hunter raises an eyebrow. “Those what?”
“You know, a neat freak. Like Tristan.” I shrug to keep the mood light.
“I’m not a neat freak, Dylan.” Her eyes flash with annoyance. “You offered to do the dishes. I didn’t ask.”
“Yes, but does it have to be right now?”
She grabs a dish sponge. “I can do the washing.”
Perfect. I’ve made things worse. “Please don’t. I’ll take care of them now .” I backpedal, attempting to smooth over the faux pas.
“Thank you.” She nods, dropping the scrubber. And from her tone, she might as well have told me to go fuck myself. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Her stiff posture as she turns and walks away drips with irritation. And the decisive click of her bedroom door closing sounds meaner than if she’d slammed it.
“Oh, hell.”
I roll up my metaphorical sleeves and get to work, scrubbing the plates and pots with a bit more force than necessary before transferring them into the dishwasher. As I dry my hands on a kitchen towel, a sudden thought hits me— this is the first night in fifteen years that Tristan and I aren’t roommates . No more late-night video game sessions, no watching college basketball reminiscing about our days at Duke, or marathons of ridiculous reality shows we’d never admit to liking in public.
Craving a bit of fresh air, I step out onto the balcony. Not exactly fresh. Without the air conditioning, the heat is stifling. But I stay. The city stretches out before me, a glittering sea of lights and distant sounds. Car horns and the murmur of nightlife drift up from the streets below, a reminder that New York truly never sleeps. I lean against the railing, letting the warm night breeze ruffle my hair and the energy of Manhattan wash over me. The vast stretch of lights makes my problems seem small in comparison. Still, I can’t shake the nagging worry that I’ve started on the wrong foot with Hunter.
I’ll have to make it up to her, show her I’m not some inconsiderate slob, explain that I was just tired tonight.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, interrupting the self-flagellation. I fish it out and smile as Tristan’s name appears on the screen.
“Miss me already?” I tease, keeping my tone light.
There’s a beat of silence before Tristan replies, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah, Thirty-Three. I do.” We still call each other with our old team numbers from when we were playing basketball at Duke. A reminder of how far our friendship stretches back.
The admission feels strangely comforting. A shared acknowledgment of how much our lives have changed in such a short time. That it’s okay to be happy for him and Nina, but also to miss my best friend.
I click my tongue, wanting to lighten the mood. “Well, I warned you that your girlfriend is a super-annoying roommate,” I joke, hoping to coax a laugh out of him.
But Tristan scoffs. “Nah, Nina’s great. No complaints there.” His voice takes on that slightly goofy, love-struck tone he always gets when talking about my sister.
“I take it you’re not calling to report she kicked you out?”
“Nope, she’s showering,” Tristan replies, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
I groan, holding up a hand even though he can’t see me. “Please don’t tell me it’s a post-sex shower.”
Tristan chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that’s so familiar it makes my chest ache. “Then I won’t tell you.”
Rolling my eyes, I change the subject. “Remember our first place together? That tiny dorm room where the beds were too short?”
“How could I forget?” There’s a note of amusement in his voice, and I can picture him lounging on the couch in his apartment, one arm draped over the back as he stretches out comfortably. “Those beds are still the reason I’ll never sleep in the fetal position again.”
I laugh, the tension from earlier easing a bit as I reminisce with my best friend. “Those were the days, Eleven. Remember that time we tried to sneak that keg into our room?”
“And we dropped it down the stairs?” Tristan chuckles. “I was sure the RA would catch us.”
“Good times, man. Now, you’re shacking up with my sister, and I’m…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
“How’re things with Hunter?” Tristan must sense my hesitation.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ve already fucked up. Left some dirty dishes in the sink like a slob, and I’ve committed some other obscure offense I haven’t figured out yet.”
Tristan laughs, but there’s a sympathetic edge to it. “Poor bastard. Can’t even smooth things over with mind-blowing sex.”
And just like that, for the first time in my life, I get a mental flash of Hunter in a sexual context. Long, toned legs wrapped around my waist, dark hair fanned out across the pillow, those obsidian eyes burning into mine as I—Woah. Where did that come from?
I banish the inappropriate image. “Yeah, well, I’ll resort to the traditional forms of groveling.”
I hear my sister’s voice yelling his name in the background.
“I should head inside. Early day tomorrow and all that.”
“Same here.” Tristan stifles a yawn. “Night, Thirty-Three.”
“Night, Eleven. And thanks for calling.”
“I thought you might need to hear my voice, honey.” Tristan uses a mock-romantic tone.
“Asshole.”
“Love you, man.”
“Same.”
I hang up, slipping my phone back into my pocket. The skyline glitters in the distance, but I don’t really see it. My mind is stuck on that fleeting, vivid image of Hunter, limbs tangled with mine. I need to get that out of my head, and fast. The last thing I want is for things between us to grow even more complicated.
With a sigh, I make my way back inside, the cool air of the apartment a welcome relief from the cloying humidity. As I pass Hunter’s door, I pause, wondering if I should knock and apologize. But then I reconsider. I’ll make it up to her by becoming a better, cleaner roommate. In my room, I flop down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling fan whirring above, its shadows casting playful shapes across the walls as my mind refuses to shut off. My thoughts ping-pong between guilt over arguing with Hunter and that damn mental image of her pinned underneath me that has imprinted in my brain.
I mean, sure, she’s attractive. I’d have to be blind not to notice. But that’s always been a passive observation, a fact filed away without much thought. But tonight, it feels different. That image of her tangled in the sheets with me came out of nowhere, blindsiding me like a sucker punch. Maybe it’s because we’ve never spent this much time alone together before. Sharing a space like this changes things—it strips away the buffer of other people, leaving just the two of us. I tell myself it’s nothing, just a stray thought brought on by the new dynamic.
She’s my roommate now. And even if seeing more of her messes with the wiring in my brain, I can’t go there. We’re in too close quarters. Living together means there’s no escape if things get messy. And, more importantly, I’m seeing someone. Things with Olivia are pretty new; we’ve only gone on a couple of dates. But I still have no business fantasizing about another woman. Already, Olivia wasn’t super thrilled when I told her I was moving in with a woman—a single, smart, gorgeous woman…
I groan, covering my face with my hands. This is not how I pictured my first night in the new apartment going. I need to fix this, and fast. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early, make breakfast as a peace offering, and apologize for whatever incomprehensible offense I committed. It’s a solid plan.
Just as I doze off, my phone lights up with a message.
Olivia
How’s the new place? New roommate nice?
I stare at the screen, guilt churning in my stomach as Hunter’s face flashes in my mind. How do I even begin to answer that?