Chapter 12
12
DYLAN
After fleeing Hunter’s room, I quickly hop into the bathroom for a cold shower. Five minutes later, I step out, the fire in my veins still far from cooling. I wrap a towel around my waist, droplets dripping from my hair onto my shoulders. The bathroom mirror is fogged up. I wipe a hand across the glass, clearing a circle to catch my reflection and shave.
As I walk into the living room, I notice the silence. Hunter must have already left for work. My lungs twinge with… relief? After our last super-cringy interaction, I’m not eager for a repeat. Or maybe it’s shame. Or disappointment. All three are equally possible.
When Tristan and Nina first told me they were moving in together and kicking me out, albeit lovingly, taking over Nina’s room seemed the fastest, most logical solution. The New York rental scene is no joke, and while I’m doing well at my investment firm, I don’t want to throw away my savings on some overpriced bachelor pad—to rent at least. I want to save until I’m ready to buy.
But as I pour myself a mug of the coffee Hunter left in the pot and glance around at the empty apartment, I wonder if I’ve been na?ve thinking living with her would be the same as staying with Tristan. Yes, we’ve known each other forever. She’s a friend, but being roommates is different. Is it because she’s a woman? Would it be the same with any other woman on the planet?
No.
The answer rings in my ears before I even have time to fully form it. It’s instinctive. Immediate. And I know it to be true.
I scratch my head. This whole platonic living arrangement might be trickier to navigate than I expected. And it doesn’t help that Hunter looks the way she does: all dark eyes and flawless skin.
And I should stop having these thoughts. Especially now that I have a girlfriend.
I finish my coffee and drop the mug in the dishwasher—I’ve learned my lesson about the sink and leaving dirty dishes in it. I go change for work while still analyzing the situation. Hunter and I are friends. So, yeah, I saw her underwear, and it was sexy as hell. The memory of her belly piercing had me turn the water to cold in the shower. But I need to lock those thoughts away before they spiral into something I can’t control.
I didn’t think it’d be this hard to adjust. Nina and Tristan moving in together was inevitable, but I wasn’t ready for how it’d turn my life upside down. Those two have been my rocks, Nina as my literal sister and Tristan as the brother I never had. But now that they’ve become a thing, I’ve been pushed out by both. I’m watching from the sidelines while they build their life together. Sure, I’m happy for them, but it feels like I’ve been demoted. I’m the backup player no one needs anymore. And I so desperately wanted to grab on to something familiar. Not to live with strangers or by my fucking self.
But maybe next time, I’ll think twice before signing up to share an apartment with a woman who looks like she stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Rookie mistake, Thompson. Rookie mistake.
* * *
I stride into the office, the familiar Monday chaos swirling around me. But today, I’m off my game. As I settle into my corporate fishbowl, the usual start-of-the-week energy eludes me.
The June sun slants through the glass walls, bright but not yet oppressive, glinting off the brushed steel seams of the skyscraper. Outside my door, phones ring, cutting through the tense atmosphere on the M)
My eyes glaze over the screen again. Why does my girlfriend promising a sexy outfit leave me completely indifferent? I gulp down the lump in my throat and silence the phone, putting it face down on the desk.
I dive back into the merger reports, determined to make sense of them. My brain is still foggy from lingerie-induced madness, but I power through.
The 11a.m. meeting is a video call, so I don’t even need to leave my office. I join the video conference and take the lead on presenting a new merger. I’m walking the others through the assets of the company to be acquired, starting with their real estate holdings, when I mix out my words again, “The risk is that the rent on the warehouse could double since the lace agreement will expire next year, and the owner knows they need it.”
My team stares back in confusion through the screen. The tips of my ears grow hot, and I correct myself, “Sorry, lease agreement. The lease agreement will expire.”
I apologize to my colleagues for the slip-up, hoping they’ll attribute it to stress or lack of sleep. Anything but the truth—that I can’t stop obsessing over my roommate’s underwear.
Finally, I’m done with my part of the presentation. I put my mic on mute and sit back, relieved I no longer have to speak and am required to provide only minimal input. I keep tapping my fingers on my desk as the video call continues.
It’s not the first time my brain scrambles words, but today, it’s happening more often. My usual misfires are on overdrive, likely triggered by my preoccupation with Hunter. I don’t know why my brain switches words on me—pink for print, lace for lease—but it’s always been like this. Once I was diagnosed, I’ve gotten good at compensating.
But “compensating” doesn’t mean it’s been easy. I’ve spent my entire life building a fortress of coping mechanisms, layer after layer, to keep anyone from noticing the cracks. Teachers, friends, even my parents for a while. No one needed to know just how many nights I stayed up late, staring at words that refused to make sense, trying to memorize entire pages because reading them wasn’t an option. I’ve rewritten more notes and summaries than I can count, not because I’m thorough, but because it’s the only way to retain anything.
In school, I was forced to reveal this weakness. Teachers thought I was lazy. Classmates called me dumb. Even my parents, as supportive as they were, didn’t fully get it at first. The humiliation of being called out in class for misspelling simple words or misreading instructions is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It stayed with me all my life, that sense of being different in a way that isn’t celebrated, just noticed and pitied—or worse, mocked.
Sports were the one thing where I didn’t need to read a fucking thing, so I threw myself into athletics. I was tall, so basketball was the obvious choice. I didn’t get into Duke for my stellar grades. But if basketball got me through the door, once I was there, I made sure I did my best to excel also academically. No one knew me, no one thought of me any less, and I kept things that way. Hid my daily struggles.
I’ve made it so far. But the fear never leaves—the constant dread of someone catching on. A boss noticing I skimmed instead of read. A colleague spotting a typo I didn’t realize I’d made. Every email I send is triple-checked, every report reviewed until my eyes feel like sandpaper. When dictation was integrated into phones, I almost cried with relief.
It’s exhausting, always staying one step ahead of the truth. The worry is always there, keeping me sharp, keeping me afraid. And when I’m stressed, it gets worse.
By lunchtime, I’m practically useless at work. My inbox is flooded with unread emails, and reports are still waiting for my input. I order a salad but barely touch it, pushing the lettuce around with my fork.
I have everything a man could want. A great job. Amazing friends. A gorgeous, kind girlfriend. What’s my problem?
Olivia is perfect—on paper. But why doesn’t it feel right? Even the idea of dinner on Friday doesn’t bring the excitement it should. Olivia is beautiful, smart, thoughtful, and totally into me, but something is not clicking.
And then there’s Hunter. She’s been in my life for years, and we never had a problem. But now she’s slipped under my skin in a way I can’t ignore. And I still can’t figure out how long she’s had that damn belly button piercing.
Thankfully, more meetings keep my head off things until it’s time to go home. As I pack up for the day, my phone pings with a text from Olivia.
Olivia
Hey, what time are we meeting on Friday? Should I make a reservation?
Shit, I should’ve taken care of the booking already and sent Olivia the details. But I haven’t thought about the dinner at all. I send a quick vocal text to Kelly to book the restaurant for me and dictate my reply to Olivia.
Dylan
I’ve requested a table for 9 pm
Just waiting for the confirmation
She replies instantly.
Olivia
Perfect. Can’t wait :)
An enthusiasm I’m not sharing. My disposition leans more toward a sense of obligation, which is ridiculous mere weeks into dating someone. But hopefully, dinner on Friday will give me clarity.