Page 81 of The Roommate Subtext

Her phone buzzed with a message, this time from Cora. Where’d you say you were going?

The Docksider, she answered. She’d told both Cora and Phoebe where she was headed and asked each of them to do an escape call with her—one at seven thirty, one at eight. A person could never be too careful.

Maggie finished her primping, spending far longer staring at her reflection than normal, but this was a special occasion. More than a special occasion. This was a pivotal moment, and if she couldn’t control the Pimpernel or how he was going to react, she could at least control how she presented herself.

And her space. She couldn’t imagine coming back here with him after—that would feel cruel to Blake; she hadn’t even been able to bring herself to tell him she had a date—but she itched to straighten up. It was too soon to leave, anyway. She made her bed, arranging her pillows, then picked up loose clothes and papers. She brought leftover water glasses to the dishwasher. There, that was better. With the room clean, she could think.

Blake’s cufflinks still lay on her nightstand. She sat down on the bed and studied them in her palm. She’d helped him put these on, and then later that night, he’d taken them off and set them on her nightstand before giving her the best sex of her life. And here she was, three days later, going to meet someone else for a date. Of course she felt unsettled about it all.

Maggie closed her hand around the cufflinks and went down the hall to Blake’s room. His door was ajar, as it frequently was. She knew he wasn’t here but still had to resist the urge to knock. He had a small dish on his bureau for loose change, and she set the cufflinks in it. Then she took another moment to look around his room. Blake was a fastidious person, and his room was impeccably clean. It smelled fresh, too. She trailed a hand across his desk, eyes flicking between the calendar on his wall, and the art, and the plants lining his desk. His favorites, clearly. They had the nicest plant pots. The middle one was vaguely familiar. She didn’t know houseplants at all, except the basic ones, so there was no reason for her to feel this sense of something. There weren’t even any flowers on it, just small green leaves, lush and vibrant. The plant filled a spherical, orange-red glazed clay pot and spilled over the edges, and she could not stop staring. Finally, she broke away with a shrug. She’d have to ask Blake about it sometime.

For now, she had a more important destination than the plant binder.

The night was growing colder fast, and Maggie was glad for the warmth of her sweater dress as she walked to the T. It was getting dark, too, the sun dipping below the skyline, and the streetlamps dotted the sidewalk in golden rings of light as day gave way to dusk. Maggie focused on the sights to ground herself, not wanting to let her bubbling anxiety take over.

She made her way through the T turnstile into the station proper. Her track was underground. Before hitting the stairs and leaving cell service forever, she did a quick check of her phone. One new email popped up.

A reply from Giselda Shaw.

Maggie had to grab the handrail for balance. She looked around her, then at her watch. She had to catch this next train if she was going to be on time. She opened the email, then hurried down the stairs to wait for the train and read.

Dear Maggie,

Sorry for my delay in writing back to you. I received your email last night and I’ve been thinking about how to respond. I wasn’t surprised by what you said about Arnold and the Pimpernel. I wish I was surprised, but it’s textbook Arnold Chauvel. If you’re interested in the Pimpernel yourself, you should have the whole story and not whatever Arnold told you.

The train roared up, sending hot exhaust fumes into the platform, and Maggie paused to board, phone in hand and heart in throat. She found a seat near the corner, checked the number of stops she had to go—three—and kept reading.

I was engaged to Arnold for only a few months. He’s wealthy and charming and we’d been dating for about six months when he proposed. It was fast, but we were in love. There were red flags: men with money are usually accustomed to getting their own way. I was generally happy, though. But as time went on, I wanted more independence, and he resisted. One significant sticking point was sexuality. I wanted to explore more. He didn’t make me feel good about that. When I was particularly upset, I secretly went to a play party, and there I met your Pimpernel.

The Pimpernel was a delight. He talked to me for over an hour. He let me ask him everything about BDSM and kink, and how he got involved, and what he enjoyed. He asked me about my fantasies and what I was hoping to get out of the experience. I never told him my name, and I never told him I was engaged. We had a fun evening together and I went home with a lot to think about. I looked up the Pimpernel, found out where he would be attending another party a couple of weeks later, and went there to see him again. It cemented that I wanted kink to be a part of my life. He gave me advice about talking to my partner and finding common ground.

Maggie kept reading as the train slowed at the first stop, then lurched back into motion.

For the next few months, I tried to get Arnold on the same page as me, but he wasn’t interested. He was happy with our sex life and didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t. Finally, I admitted to Arnold that I had gone to kink events without him. He was furious, as you’d expect. I’d thought from the beginning that this might end the relationship, and it did. Maybe I was a coward not to end it earlier. He insisted that I was leaving him for this Scarlet Pimpernel. He couldn’t understand that I was leaving him for me. I gave him back the ring and tried never to see him again.

He kept seeking me out. One time he ambushed me at a restaurant to beg me to come back to him. It wasn’t pretty. He admitted to tracking my phone. I tried to press charges, but nothing came of it. He continued to be a nuisance for several months, and now, I guess, he’s trying to go after the Scarlet Pimpernel. I don’t think he ever believed me that I wasn’t leaving him for the Pimpernel. In his mind, I think, a woman can only leave a man for another man, not for herself.

Another stop. The doors opened, closed, and the train continued. Maggie raced through the end of the long email.

I’m doing well now. I’ve never put all this down in writing before, but I’m past the point of caring who knows things about me. The Pimpernel isn’t harmful, at least not as far as I’ve seen. He’s a kind guy. He was a great listener, too. Not to mention his skill with the flogger. If you’re wondering if you should pursue something with him, I say go for it. Just a word from a stranger who’s been there.

As for Arnold, I can’t say much in writing, but I’m confident he’s going to get what’s coming to him. He can’t get away with everything forever. Stay tuned.

—Giselda

Maggie closed the email and stared out the window until the train finally surfaced, coming into an above-ground station. Her thoughts raced, but her body felt settled. Giselda had confirmed her best thoughts about the Pimpernel and her worst thoughts about Chauvel.

Now all she had to do was actually go to dinner.

The Docksider was a medium-sized restaurant on the harbor, with a charming “old Boston” feel, nothing intimidating about it. Still, it felt like it was looming over Maggie as she approached, her breath shallow and her heart pounding. How would she recognize him? You’ll know, he’d said, and maybe he’d do something silly like wear a Zorro mask or carry a giant bouquet of roses, something ridiculous and obvious to put her at ease.

The heavy door closed behind her, and she scanned the restaurant. It was busy for a Monday, many tables full, no Zorro masks or bouquets in sight … and then her gaze fell on a familiar face.

Maggie stared at Blake across the restaurant, her mind suddenly filled with static. She went cold, and hot, and cold again, and she put a hand on the wall to steady herself, not wanting to pass out, her mind tripping over itself now to put the pieces together even though nothing made sense.

Because somehow, Blake Peabody was the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Blake was such a nice guy. Such a nice guy. And the Pimpernel was … what? Well, he wasn’t nice. He was kind, and flirtatious, and funny, and a bit dorky, with his emojis and his puns … just like Blake, of course, of course … but he was also wicked, and merciless, and he’d done terrible and wonderful things to her—and he’d been right down the hall for all of it.