Leah
It wasn’t working. What started as a search for a roommate had devolved into a running list of people she never wanted to meet again.
When she first re-posted the story to her Close Friends, Leah had tried to stay hopeful—delusional, maybe, but hopeful. Who knew what kind of person might walk into her life and change it for the better? Maybe the gay best friend she never had. Or a chef who was never home, except on Friday nights, when she made spaghetti vongole, or whatever gourmet dish Leah requested. Or someone marginally famous who could introduce her to her future husband at a Netflix premiere, maybe, or some laid-back Fourth of July thing in Malibu.
But it quickly became clear: the market for prospective roommates was… bleak. She’d gotten five or six inquiries from friends of friends, acquaintances of friends, and family members of acquaintances’ friends. Three had made it to check out the apartment. None were invited to stay.
She hadn’t bothered calling back the struggling actress, who turned out to be a divorced mother of three with partial custody, currently booking background work as a barista.
The next girl claimed to be an art dealer, until it came out she was unemployed and merely aspiring to be one.
And then there was the sixth-grade English teacher, whose pronouns changed with the summer equinox and who demanded to know where Leah stood on the Israel-Palestine conflict.
Was this just people her age? Or was it specific to the kind of person who needed a roommate in LA? Because none of them had potential.
Leah needed someone like her—cute, preferably funny, completely agreeable. Someone who didn’t fart, who shared her hatred of Taylor Swift, and could laugh with her about other people—but also knew when to shut up and disappear. Someone who lived quietly, judged nothing, and wouldn’t blink when Leah obsessively rewatched old ANTM cycles and Love Island six nights a week.
She’d all but given up, resigned to the reality that she’d need a second job, something twee like a cute bakery or a whimsical flower shop, or else find a new apartment more in line with her budget.
Neither scenario felt remotely viable. No one would take her seriously as an agent if she was moonlighting for tips, and leaving 222 Corpse Flower for some cookie-cutter shithole with cheap carpet and vertical blinds? Humiliating.
So when she opens the door before work and sees a girl she doesn’t recognize, she decides, just this once, to stay open to the universe.
She’s in her late twenties, maybe. Auburn hair tucked under a Dodgers cap, sunglasses perched on her head. An oversized denim jacket slouches off her shoulders like she borrowed it from a boyfriend.
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“Hey,” the girl says, like she’s picking up a conversation midstream. “I know this is super last-minute. I’m Tina Wexler. I was supposed to come by earlier this week, but… work kinda wrecked my schedule. Hope I’m not too late?”
Leah gives her a once-over, then glances at her watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”
“Perfect.”
“I’m Leah, by the way,” she says, nodding once as she steps aside, just enough to let her in, still reserving judgment.
Tina strolls through the doorway, eyes drifting up to the high ceilings, then out toward the haze-soaked sprawl of LA framed in glass. “This is… unreal. I’ve seen shoeboxes go for triple this price.”
“Thanks. Yeah. It’s not so bad.”
For a beat, Leah just watches her. It almost feels generous, letting this girl stand here. Because… we are the elite.
Leah shakes off the thought. No—she was the elite. But not anymore.
“You work in the industry?” she asks, studying Tina’s outfit like it might answer for her.
“Sort of,” Tina says, meeting Leah’s gaze. “Voiceover—commercials, animation. Pays the bills.” She winks, like it’s worked before and probably will again.
They drift through the apartment. Morning light stretches across the floors; the Calacatta marble in the kitchen practically sparkles, and the freshly mopped hardwood gleams—almost too shiny.
“This would be your room,” Leah says, pushing open the last door at the end of the hall.
“Oh my god,” Tina declares, stepping inside and turning a slow circle. “Is this a bedroom or a Vogue archive?”
She takes it in: the rolling racks, the garment bags, the stacked heels still in boxes. A vanity tray overflows with tangled jewelry and perfume samples. Hardcovers gather dust on the floor.
“Technically, it’s a bedroom,” Leah says, with a shrug that doesn’t quite mask the pride. “It just sort of… evolved into my second closet.”
Tina trails her fingers along a silk blouse, then glances back. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a literary agent,” Leah replies, aiming for offhand as she props herself in the doorway.
Tina’s eyes light up, her grin spreading slow and wide. “Wait, that’s actually cool as hell. Like, authors and manuscripts and book deals?”
“That’s the idea. The whole dying industry.”
“God, that’s cool. You’re basically the gatekeeper of literary culture. You, like, decide what ends up on bookshelves. What people read.”
Leah smirks, half-flattered, half-skeptical. “Too bad no one in LA reads anymore.”
“Well, I do!” Tina grins, then laughs. “Think of all the fun we could have as roommates—reading together!”
Leah laughs too. A real one. She doesn’t even realize she’s smiling. She barely knows this girl, no more than the other strangers her instincts had already dismissed. And sure, she should probably ask more questions. Or at least Google her. But Leah always trusts her instincts. Besides, there’s something about her—the way she carries herself. That easy swagger. Their vibes seem to click. It’s appealing. Attractive. Aligned in a way Leah can’t quite name.
She’s young, she’s hot, she gets sarcasm… just like me. And before she can second-guess it, the words are out: “The room’s yours. If you want it.”
Tina’s grin widens, just enough for Leah to notice the stains on her teeth.
“Uh, seriously? I mean… absolutely! I think I could really love it here.”
They exchange info and a friendly hug, then, just as fast as she came, Tina’s out the door.
Leah exhales, leaning against the wall, Tina’s laugh still echoing faintly in the apartment, too quiet again, now that she’s alone. And in that hush, she can’t say why, but something about the ease, the speed of it all makes her wonder…
Was that real? Was she real? Or worse… Am I making a mistake?