Page 10 of Solar Eclipse of the Heart

Mackenzie continues to nod. “No problem.”

“And just so you know, I would have made that rule for the other Mackenzie, too,” I clarify. “Also, I don’t drink. But you are welcome to.”

We stare awkwardly at each other for a full minute before he wipes his hands on his pants and then stands. “I guess I should probably start unpacking, then.”

I follow him to my feet. “That’s your room.” I point at the door behind the couch. “It’s got a bed and a dresser like we discussed. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

He heads to his room, and I retreat to mine.

Once I’m safely behind the closed door, I collapse on my bed and stare up at the popcorn ceiling.

I usually spend my weekends on my couch and then treat myself to pad Thai from Sukho Thai or lo mein from C’est Bon. Occasionally, I go for a walk or run a few errands, but my time outside of the research lab is pretty low-key.

My two best friends, Magda and Gopi, no longer live in the city. We met a few years ago during our first semester at the University of Toronto. Our friendship was not forged in the traditional undergraduate ways of our peers—picking out outfits to wear to keg parties and sharing secrets on late-night poutine runs—but through a love of marathon library study sessions and our shared desire to carve out a future career in neuroscience. However, after graduation, Magda moved back home to Poland, where, like me, she works in a research lab, and Gopi went straight from U of T to Boston University, where she completed her master’s and is now pursuing a PhD. Our friendship is kept up through the occasional call or message in our group chat, usually with a link to an article on the newest neuroscience breakthrough, but for the past four years, since graduation, there’s been a notable gap in my social calendar.

I know I should try to fill it. Uncle Larry was always encouraging me to go out. “Humans are social creatures,” he’d prod me as I lay wrapped up like a fleece burrito on the couch. “Not everyone you hang out with needs a science degree, Beans. Some of my best friends came into my life when I least expected it. The universe has a knack for pushing the right people our way when we need them. You just have to be open to it.” Not only had my uncle failed to realize that he was wrong—shared mental models are a key predictor of strong friendships, as they ensure smoother communication and a greater mutual understanding—but he also discounted the fact that although he was an extreme extrovert with a knack for striking up conversations, I am an indoor cat. I don’t want to join a salsa club or play recreational beach volleyball. The thought of walking into a bar by myself makes me want to shrivel up like a raisin.

I have resigned myself to the idea that the way I forge friendships is with like-minded people in forced proximity. Therefore, I just need to sit tight, wait until I move to Liverpool in January, and spend forty hours a week with a carefully curated group of individuals who also get excited about genomics.

A phone rings from somewhere in the living room. Mackenzie promptly answers it with a “Hey, man” followed by a “Yeah, things are great.” Then I lose the plot of the rest of the conversation as his voice gets muffled and quiet, and I assume he’s taking the rest of the call in his bedroom.

It’s in this moment that I realize the mistake I’ve made in letting Mackenzie Smith stay.

When I had secretly stalked the other Mackenzie, I liked that she had seemed quiet and kind of a homebody. She didn’t have a ton of posts with friends. She was really into her cat. I couldn’t imagine her judging me when she came home to find me passed out on the couch on top of a bag of All Dressed chips.

The Mackenzie Smith who is currently occupying my apartment clearly has friends. He just got here and already his phone is ringing. Not only that, he’s in a band. And I get the strong sense it’s not the orchestra type of band I had imagined for tuba-playing Mackenzie. Judging by the guitar case in the hallway, it’s probably a rock band, which tracks, as Mackenzie Smith is hot. He’s got that rumpled, rock band musician with puppy dog eyes look. Like he’s just rolled out of bed making you wonder what he’s like in bed.

Oh, god, it’s been less than fifteen minutes, and I’m already thinking about him having sex.

Oh, god, we are going to live together for the next three and a half months—he probably will have sex.

Under my roof.

My roof with its very thin walls.

I make a mental note to buy more earplugs.

I flop back onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, calming myself by remembering why I made the very logical decision to let Mackenzie stay. A roommate is not something I should be panicking about. A roommate can be managed with rules and boundaries and open lines of communication—then, if needed, gentle reminders on color-coordinated Post-it notes.