Chapter 9
9
HUNTER
After a day wasted doing chores and little else, I decide to at least treat myself to dinner. I’m about to leave the house to go to my favorite Mexican place around the block—sadly, they don’t deliver—when I bump into Dylan, looking pleasantly disheveled as he carries a stack of cardboard boxes down the hall. His T-shirt stretches across his sculpted chest as he balances the load in his arms.
“Hey, Hunt,” he greets me with an easy grin. “Where’s the recycling? These empty cartons are taking over my room.”
I take the boxes from him, offering a small smile in return. “I can bring them downstairs. I’m headed out, anyway. We’ll do a full tour another day.”
“Oh, thanks, you’re the best.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I have to look away before I say something stupid like, How’s your ding-dong? Once a day is enough.
“No problem. I’m going to grab tacos from my favorite Mexican place. You want in?”
A grin spreads across Dylan’s face, his eyes shining. “That would be amazing. I’ll get a…”
I mentally recite his order to the last detail. Pollo asado with corn tortillas. One quesadilla. Nachos with guacamole and pico de gallo, no cheese.
Dylan echoes my thoughts and I nod along, hoping he doesn’t notice I’m not writing any of it down. Or that if he does, he’ll chuck it down to me having an exceptional memory. With a quick wave, I escape out the door, wondering if our second dinner together will go better than the lasagna letdown. How could it be worse? Haha… wait for it.
A short walk later, I step into the taco place, greeted by thick, warm air heavy with the comforting scent of spices and sizzling meat.
I relate my order to the guy at the counter, then throw in an extra burrito and nachos for good measure. Because carbs are the only certainty in my life right now.
When I come back to my place, I shuffle the takeout bags weighing down my arms to free a hand, about to put the key in the lock, when I hear a feminine giggle coming from the other side of the door. My stomach drops. That could only be her . Cruella D’Olive. Dylan’s girlfriend.
There’s no other possibility. Nina doesn’t laugh that way. Rowena is in the Hamptons. And my building is not one where neighbors visit at random.
Panic rises in my throat. I don’t know what to do. Should I flee? But I’m wearing a crappy T-shirt and baggy shorts, and I only took my phone to the Mexican place. Plus, Dylan knows I’m supposed to come back. He’d worry if I disappear—or worse, ask questions.
Pursing my lips, I brace myself and enter the house. My eyes snag on the other woman occupying my space at once.
Olivia.
Dylan’s girlfriend is a beautiful blonde with warm amber eyes, wholesome, all-American, so perfect she could appear in a toothpaste commercial. Seriously, she probably wakes up in the morning and birds braid her hair.
She is also my exact opposite. The awareness cuts through me as a sharp prick burns behind my eyes. She’s everything I’m not: polished, put-together, blonde—did I say blonde? Then there’s me, in my ratty clothes, holding bags of greasy takeout, my hair a dark mess, and my heart in pieces.
Before I can even process my anguish, Olivia greets me with a dazzling pearly-white smile that could outshine the sun. “You must be Hunter. I hope you don’t mind I paid Dylan a surprise visit.” Her voice is so sweet, it gives me a toothache.
I blink, still clutching my mountain of takeout bags like a security blanket, wondering if I should’ve added a bottle of tequila to my order—carbs might not be strong enough for this. “Uh, hi.” I force a smile that probably comes off as a grimace.
When I don’t add more, Olivia explains she was too curious to see the apartment, her enthusiasm bordering on manic. “And it’s so nice to finally meet you.” Finally? How long has she been waiting? Didn’t they just start dating?
Olivia interrupts my mental drift, going in for a hug, and not even my takeout bags can save me from the much-unwanted embrace.
I’m appalled at the personal-space invasion. Over Olivia’s shoulder, I shoot a look at Dylan that screams, What the fuck?
He makes an apologetic face that says, I didn’t plan this.
Stepping back from the sticky hug, I do my best to remove myself from the situation. “I’ll leave you two some space and eat in my room.”
But Olivia, still beaming with that impossibly bright, polite smile, tells me not to be ridiculous. “We can all have dinner together.”
Desperate to avoid this nightmare, I scramble for an excuse. “There isn’t enough food for three.”
Olivia, ever prepared, chimes, “Oh, don’t worry. I brought one of my specialties, so there’s plenty.”
I stammer, “It probably won’t pair well with tacos.”
Unfazed, Olivia counters, “I made tamales. Isn’t that a serendipitous coincidence?”
Even more appalled by how accomplished she is—and yes, I’m aware we don’t live in Jane Austen’s England but accomplished is the right word for her—I ask, “You mean from scratch?”
When Olivia confirms with an enthusiastic nod, I wish I could drop into a hole and disappear. Who even makes tamales by hand? Is she planning an appearance on MasterChef ?
As I set down the takeout bags on the kitchen counter, Olivia glances at the table. “Hmm, there isn’t a lot of space here. How about we get comfy on the couch?”
Dylan nods enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve been dying to watch the pilot of that new Star Wars spin-off.”
In a galaxy far away, my heart explodes—it breaks into pieces so small no one will ever be able to find them and put it back together. I wanted to see that show, too. Why does he have to love everything I love?
Let at least Olivia hate Star Wars .
“The one where the Jedi are still a thing?” she asks instead. “I’d love to.”
Dylan looks over at me, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “You good with that?”
Despite wanting nothing more than to retreat to the solitary confines of my room, I nod. “Yeah, sure. I was curious about that show, too.” The words taste like self-betrayal.
That’s how we end up on the couch, our feast spread out on the coffee table. Dylan grabs the remote, sets up his premium streaming subscription, and presses play. As the opening credits roll, a sense of dread settles in my stomach. How long is each episode? How will I survive till the end? Please tell me at least it’s one of those shows where they still release one episode per week and not dump the entire season at once.
I discreetly check on my phone. One episode, forty-two excruciatingly awkward minutes. Let the countdown start.
I spend the entire dinner as the world’s most uncomfortable third wheel. Dylan and Olivia are cuddled up on one side of the couch, acting all lovey-dovey and short of hand-feeding each other. They’re two peas in a pod, and I’m the lonely turnip wondering how I got thrown into this stir-fry.
Then I take my first bite of Olivia’s tamales and the spicy blend bursts across my taste buds. The savory, perfectly seasoned filling, the tender masa—it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’m fighting the urge not to throw it up.
I want to crawl out of my skin and forget I exist. How can one person be so perfect inside and out? Does Olivia volunteer at animal shelters and knit sweaters for orphans in her free time, too?
To add insult to injury, Dylan’s girlfriend keeps dropping clever jokes about the show, making him laugh. Each chuckle carves at my insides, eviscerating me slowly and methodically, leaving nothing untouched.
At least if I were Taylor Swift, I could take this low point in my love life and write soul-wrenching lyrics about it, channeling my heartbreak into a song and then moving on.
It’s her , her, she’s the problem , it’s her .
But unfortunately, my songwriting isn’t up to par. I finish my food—I’ve never enjoyed Mexican less—and wait for the episode to be over before I excuse myself. I wish the happy couple goodnight and retreat to my room. I’m about to close the door when I hear them talking in hushed tones. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I tiptoe back out into the hallway to eavesdrop.
“Do you think Hunter doesn’t like me?” Olivia’s voice carries through the apartment. Her sweet tone is textbook passive-aggressive.
“No. Why would you say that?” Dylan reassures her, but his tone betrays a sliver of hesitation.
“I have this feeling…” Olivia persists. I picture her perfect brows furrowed in worry. Fake or real remains to be determined.
Dylan sighs, and I can tell he’s choosing his next words carefully. “Maybe Hunter prefers not to find strangers at home unannounced?”
“We haven’t seen each other all day.” Olivia sounds defensive now. “And you said you were too tired to go out. I thought it’d be a pleasant surprise.”
“Yeah, but I don’t live alone. Next time, let me check with my roommate if she’s okay with you coming over.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
Dylan doesn’t reply. At least not verbally. He could be shrugging, but I don’t dare peek around the wall.
There’s a pause, and then Olivia suggests, “We should spend more time at my place. I live alone, so we wouldn’t be bothering anyone.”
My heart rams itself against my ribcage. Great, now I’m the bothersome roommate who needs to be managed.
“You live on the opposite side of Manhattan,” Dylan points out. “I’ve been coming over a lot, but I can’t do it every night.”
“I know, and I appreciate the effort you’re putting into our relationship,” Olivia replies, her voice dripping with sweetness.
Next, I hear the unmistakable sound of kissing, my cue to leave before the crack of my heart shattering alerts them to my presence.
I tiptoe back down the hallway. Earplugs, that’s what I need. Before Dylan and Olivia move things to the bedroom. I embark on a frantic hunt for sound blockers, certain that the airline from my Miami conference a few months back gave me a courtesy kit. I always keep that shit. It must be here somewhere.
I turn my entire bedroom upside down, taking out my rage and frustration on innocent clothes and defenseless furniture. I toss pillows across the room, yank open drawers, and rummage through my suitcases like a possessed woman.
Finally, I find the kit buried at the bottom of my carry-on. I jam the earplugs into my ears, cheering at the blissful insulation. My last act before collapsing into bed is ordering a family-size supply of replacement earplugs online.
As I lie still, tears streaming down my face and soaking into my pillow, I wonder how I’ll survive this living arrangement. I should move to Alaska—just me and the bears. Perhaps Brooklyn could be enough. I could claim I got a sudden hipster calling.
I close my eyes, picturing myself renting a quaint brownstone and not shaving my armpits. Can body hair cure unrequited love? Afraid not. And I can’t afford a house on my own, anyway.
For now, I’ll have to coexist with the happy couple, even if it means investing in a lifetime supply of earplugs and turning my heart into stone.