The problem is rent.
Rent doesn’t care about our decompression. Rent is a fixed monthly event, and having an empty room means we’re splitting the bill five—four, technically—ways instead of six.
So. Roommate hunt.
We post the ad on a Thursday. By Friday we’ve got eleven responses. Three were immediately disqualified because they used the word ‘fellowship’to describe what they were looking for in a living situation—hard pass. Two more because they just felt like narcs. And one because Finn recognized him from a campus drama situation that he explained at length, and that I stopped following after the third plot twist.
We interview five people.
The first guy yaps about himself for forty minutes without asking a single question about the house. The second one asks if we have a cleaning schedule in a way that suggests he will enforce it. The third one is fine, totally fine, nothing wrong with him, and we all sit there after he leaves going “yeah, he’s fine”, but none of us wantfine. We wantfits, and fine isn’t fits. The fourth one is Miles’ pick, and I’m pretty sure it’s because theyshare a dealer. We spend ten minutes with this guy before Grant texts the group chat a single skull emoji.
The fifth one is called Reid.
He shows up on time, which already puts him ahead. He’s maybe six-one, lean build, but definitely not a gym rat like most of us. He has dark eyes, dark hair, and is wearing an all black outfit and leather jacket that is lessbad boy, and moreformer high school loner. He’s got some ink on his forearms, geometric stuff and rings mostly, and a resting bitch-face that would genuinely intimidate me if I wasn’t, at this point in my life, fairly desensitized to intimidating.
He sits down.
We do the thing—the vibe check questions, the logistics stuff, the “are you the kind of slob who leaves dishes in the sink”interview that Grant runs every time. Reid answers everything straight up. No bullshitting or trying to sell himself. He asks three questions back, all of them practical—parking, wifi speed, and if we’re cool with him smoking.
At some point, Walker asks what his major is.
“Pre-law,” Reid says. “Criminal justice.”
I feel my phone vibrate against my thigh. I don’t look at it because I’m busy sizing Reid up, but I’m 99% sure it says something like “ew, a narc.”
Reid ends up doing the thing that seals it, though. Grant’s bitching about the neighbors—the ongoing war with the guy two houses down who keeps parking in front of our mailbox—and Reid listens, and then at the end he says, completely dry: “Have you considered pissing in his gas tank?”
We all look at each other.
Grant starts laughing.
Reid moves in in a week.
* * *
The conversation about the doll situation happens the next day, because it has to.
We’re in the kitchen. Grant’s working the eggs while the rest of us hunt for caffeine.
“So,” Grant starts, not looking up from the pan. “The new guy.”
“Reid,” Miles mutters. He’s still pissed that we shot down his pick, I guess.
“Reid, right. We’re flying blind with him.”
“Pre-laws, man,” Walker says, leaning back. “They always have a massive stick shoved up their ass. I don’t trust them.”
“Pre-law guys are either rigid as hell or obsessed with bending the rules.” Finn shrugs. “Reid looks like he’d bury a body for the right price.”
Miles tilts his head, his eyes sliding over to me. “He spent a hell of a long time staring at Kit’s ass.”
“Did he now?” I perk up, leaning into the table. My brain immediately goes:new dick in the rotation, hell yeah.I wonder if he’s packing.
“Yeah, man. Dude was staring a hole through you.” Miles shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose, making a weird face.
“Isn’t that just... what people do when they talk?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m not having very pornographic thoughts.
“Not like that, it wasn’t.”
