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The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)

It’s the strangest sensation—being treated like you’re special. It’s like someone wove a blanket out of everything that’s right in the world and then wrapped it around you like a hug.

It’s almost addictive.

And it explains so much. People with money don’t care so much about being perceived as rich as they do about being perceived as special.

I get it now.

When we leave, I’m buzzing. My entire body is humming with an electric charge. Already I can’t wait to come back here, to dip my toe in the Wiedenfeld waters all over again. Maybe one of these weekends I can stay the night? I’d die. I’d literally die. I want to know what it’s like to spend a day with this family.

I bet it’s magical.

I bet they play tennis and watch golf and have cocktail hour and tell country club jokes and share pictures from their latest trip to Cannes.

I bet nothing bad ever happens behind these doors, and if it does, their housekeeper is on standby with a broom and dustpan to sweep it up and toss it outside where it belongs.

Lauren starts her car before my seatbelt is fastened. And then she yawns. It’s dark out now, the sky starless, and we’ve got a little under an hour until we get back to Monarch Falls.

We stayed way longer than we’d planned, but her parents are expert conversationalists and it’s like they knew how to draw me out of my shell. Once they got me talking, I couldn’t stop. That’s never happened before. It’s like we just clicked.

Lauren sat there in silence most of the night, checking her phone under the table, completely bored with our conversation. Maybe she and Thayer are fighting again? I don’t know. Or maybe she was jealous that her parents were fawning all over me? Hard to tell. I’m still getting to know her, still trying to figure her out.

“Your parents are amazing,” I tell her once we hit the interstate. I can’t stop replaying the night in my head, trying to record it like a movie, embed it into my memory.

She smiles, lips tight and tired eyes and blinking as she focuses on the road.

“They’re perfect,” I say. Reaching for her radio, I twist the volume knob until her favorite band—which I’ve recently learned is Hooverphonic—begins to play, in hopes that it’ll bring her out of her funk. “They really are. You’re so lucky.”

My words are met with zero response at first, and then she exhales. “There’s no such thing as perfect, Meadow.”

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“Sometimes,” she says, voice soft, “when you look close enough, you can see the cracks. And I think people who seem perfect are the ones with the most flaws. They just do a better job at hiding them.”

I’ve never heard Lauren go so deep before, and I’m stunned into reticence.

“What you didn’t see tonight,” she says, “is the bottle of Riesling my mother downed before we got there or that the second we left, my father made a beeline to his study where he’ll play online poker until one in the morning.”