I’ve come back to this one listing at least fifteen different times and scrolled through every image. The West Village is postcard-perfect, and this home, with its dark brick and stoop, reminds me of Carrie Bradshaw’s place inSex and the City. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It’s far enough from the elite zip codes that no one will look twice at me as I walk down the street. I’ve done my research, and the tenants are young professionals, grad students, and artists. People who are too busy with their own lives to care about mine.
The problem is, it’s a roommate situation, not a place that I will have to myself.
This place was recently renovated. It has high ceilings, an open floor plan, a large kitchen with marble countertops and high-end appliances. There’s a private terrace with views of the surrounding neighborhood and a spiral staircase leading to what looks like a rooftop deck. It’s stunning, the kind of place that should cost a fortune, but the listing price for the room is surprisingly reasonable, which makes me suspicious.
Why would someone with a penthouse like this even need a roommate?
The listing doesn’t say much, but there is a phone number.
I stare at the number for a long moment, then pull out the burnerphone I have with a US number. I drop the French accent and put on my best American one.
A man answers on the third ring.
“Yeah?” The voice is deep and sounds clearly annoyed.
“Hi. I’m calling about the room listing.”
“Right.” I hear papers shuffling in the background, like he’s doing something else while talking to me. “You saw the ad?”
“I did. I’d like to tour the place before making a decision.”
“It won’t be ready until January. The current tenant isn’t out until after the holidays,” he says. “It’s not a good time.”
“The January timeline works for me. But I’d still like to view it first.”
He gives me a long sigh, like I asked him to solve world hunger. “I travel a lot for work. I won’t be back in the city until then.” There’s more shuffling along with a keyboard clicking. “I can meet you on the twenty-seventh of December. That’s the earliest. Take it or leave it.”
I bite back a retort. “Fine.”
He clears his throat. “Actually, wait. I should mention, I’m not really looking for a female roommate, so if I find someone before December twenty-seventh, I’m renting to them first.”
I blink at the phone because I’ve never met anyone so arrogant. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not personal.”
“It sounds personal.” I bite my bottom lip so I don’t continue the rest of what I want to say.
“It’s not.” His tone is flat, like he has explained this before and finds it tedious. “Mixed-gender living situations can get messy.”
“That’sincrediblysexist.”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t met me.”
I’m sitting up straighter now, my grip tight on the phone. “What does that mean?”
“It means women tend to get the wrong idea and fall in love with me quite often. So, I’d have to set additional rules with you that I wouldn’t need to make if I could find a guy to room with me.”
I sigh and almost end the call, but then I glance at my screen.
“How often do you travel?”
“Depends,” he says. There’s an edge to his voice now. “Look, I don’t have time for quaint conversation. I need to get back to work.”
“Okay. So, I suppose you’ll let me know if youhaven’trented it?” The words come out before I can stop them.
“Want me to text you in a month?” he asks.
“Yeah. That would be fine,” I say. “Why do you need a roommate so bad?”
