Page 76 of The Roommate Subtext

Sick, she pushed it from her mind. Necessary evils, she thought, and she hated the idea that any evil felt necessary.

The condo was oddly quiet. Her hopes for a fancy breakfast vanished. Blake didn’t usually sleep late, but he’d been up late too, and that was after the stress of his presentation and the gala. The door to his room was ajar and it looked dark in there. She would check more closely after she took a shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom a luxurious forty-five minutes later, feeling human again and ready to face whatever was left of her day, Blake’s door was still in the same position. She knocked lightly, then peeked inside. His room was empty. She went to the kitchen, and there was a note written on his grandma-style grocery list paper, stuck right next to the fridge handle where she’d be sure to notice it.

Maggie—Had to run some errands this morning and didn’t want to wake you. Hope you slept well. —Blake

It didn’t sound like him. He usually left her a little smiley face or a joke of some kind. This left her uneasy, even after having breakfast.

After some consideration, she texted him. Got your note. Hope I didn’t drive you away! She even added an emoji smiley face, because Blake loved emojis. She wanted some reassurance, even though she thought they’d had an amazing night together.

His message went to read, but he didn’t reply right away. That wasn’t like him, either. Obviously, sometimes you checked a message real quick and didn’t have time to respond, especially when out and about, so it didn’t mean he was purposefully leaving her on read. But she still didn’t like it.

Three dots appeared as he started typing, and she was embarrassed at the flood of relief. But then the three dots disappeared with no message. What the fuck? Now she really had a sinking feeling. Had she ruined everything by sleeping with him? He was her roommate. She’d known it was a terrible idea. But she’d wanted him, and Maggie St. Claire went after what she wanted, and now she’d fucked up her best living situation ever.

She’d probably fucked up a really good friendship, too.

Then his message showed up, and some of that anxiety faded. Had a great time last night. Wish I could have stayed to cook you a big breakfast. He sent an emoji of bacon and eggs, and Maggie smiled at her phone screen. Then he added, Not sure when I’ll be back today. Don’t worry about me.

Don’t worry? That was a phrase designed to inspire worry. She wanted to distract herself. Her first impulse was to message the Pimpernel, but guilt followed right behind the impulse. Their relationship was already over, but he didn’t know it. She opened the messaging app and stared at their last messages, back before Chauvel ruined everything.

Her conversation with Chauvel flicked through her mind again. It’s not like he was going to fall in love with you. The memory stung. Whatever this thing was with the Pimpernel, she’d been quietly banking on it to become something more. She’d known it was a ridiculous hope. Even if Chauvel hadn’t intervened, she had been overreaching, drawn in by the seductive pull of submission. Maybe the same thing had happened with Chauvel’s fiancée.

In the events of last night, Maggie had nearly forgotten about Chauvel’s fiancée. Her journalist brain whirred to life again, asking questions, trying to make connections. Blake said Chauvel had brought a plus-one to the gala last year. Chauvel was notoriously private, but perhaps he’d indulged the red carpet, enjoying the attention with his bride-to-be …

She’d found her distraction.

The PlantSeed social media feed was focused on their charitable work, not their glamorous fundraising gala. But just because they didn’t post those pictures didn’t mean they didn’t exist, and Maggie started down the rabbit hole of searching for the press photos.

She discovered the photos a half hour later on a website devoted to mid-level local Boston celebrities. And yes, there was Arnold Chauvel with a lovely blonde woman on his arm. She was leaning in to laugh with him about something. Maggie couldn’t see her face very well, but she had distinctive platinum blonde hair. From there, Maggie started hunting for other fundraising events from the same time frame and digging into their Instagram feeds, looking for a name. Too bad people didn’t publish engagement announcements in the paper anymore. Eventually, she ended up on a benefit page for an organization raising money for foster children, and there, she finally found a captioned photo: Arnold Chauvel and Giselda Shaw.

About fifteen minutes and a lot of web skimming later, Maggie sat in front of an email screen, wondering how to ask a woman she didn’t know to share deeply personal information.

She’d looked through as much as she could of what was public online, but Giselda was another who didn’t keep a very active social media presence and was smart enough not to write about her relationships or breakups online. She wasn’t a major social figure, either; her LinkedIn indicated that she was a former model and a current voice actor, and she had a website, but it was mostly a portfolio page with some contact info for jobs. Maggie might be seriously overstepping, but she wanted information only Giselda could provide.

She wanted the Pimpernel to be worth the risk.

Dear Giselda Shaw, she began, but that felt too distant, so she deleted the last name. I’m writing to you with an unusual request. I hope you’ll forgive me for the personal nature of this question. I was hired by Arnold Chauvel to write an article about the Scarlet Pimpernel, and Chauvel told me you had some experiences with him. I was hoping you would be willing to share your story. She stared at the email, then added, I don’t trust Chauvel’s motives. I’ve become interested in the Pimpernel, though, and I want to know if I can trust him. She signed her real name and hit send.

She took a break for lunch, and then her mind circled back to Blake again. She started to pace the condo in a mindless loop. Why was Blake running errands? He’d done the groceries a few days ago. He’d planned to get everything done ahead of time precisely so he wouldn’t have to worry about anything after the gala.

The simpler explanation, but the one she didn’t want to consider, was that he was freaked out that they’d slept together last night and needed to get away from her.

She didn’t like that possibility, but the signs added up. He got weird at the end last night and didn’t want to share the bed. Then there was the disappearing act and vague note this morning.

Maggie didn’t want ambiguity. She wanted things resolved; she wanted to fix everything. If only he would talk to her! They could sit down like adults and make sure they were on the same page about what last night did or did not mean.

Running away didn’t solve anything. She was annoyed—and hurt—that Blake might not be telling her the truth. They were supposed to be friends. Why didn’t he trust her?

Maggie stopped mid-step, realization crashing over her along with an accompanying wave of guilt. Shit, she’d been an asshole.

She pulled out her phone and texted Cora.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this.” Cora sounded more disappointed than angry when Maggie finished unloading the story. Maggie had told Cora everything: the financial investigation, the deal with Chauvel, his threats if she didn’t deliver on her article. She even told Cora about her feelings for the Pimpernel, although not the details of their time together. (That was a bridge too far for the sibling relationship.) She confessed the possible repercussions if she didn’t go through with her betrayal and what it might mean for the two of them. At the end, she folded her hands in her lap and let herself bear the brunt of Cora’s disapproval.

“You should have told me,” Cora added. Then, more gently, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Maggie leaned back. Cora’s apartment was tidy as ever, sparsely furnished yet welcoming, a calm space in the turmoil of Maggie’s mind. “I didn’t want you to worry. I still don’t. I hate bringing this into your life and making you think about things that I should be able to control.”