Page 22 of Hate It with You

“So why a bookstore?” he asks.

My only response is a shrug as I look out into my bookstore again. I know exactly why, but it doesn’t mean Alex needs to know. I should’ve grabbed my water bottle and run.

Unfortunately, something about watching Alex work with his hands keeps my feet firmly planted.

Alex stops his work and turns to look at me, exhaustion overtaking his face. “Beth, like it or not, I’m your landlord and your neighbor. There’s no harm in getting to know each other. Be a little neighborly. We’re stuck in this situation for the next year after all.”

A scoff escapes my throat. “No, I’m stuck in this situation. You’re the one who created it.”

“And I will buy you flowers until the day you die to make up for it.”

“Until the day I die? Pretty sure you got that phrase wrong.” I smirk at catching him messing up on his words. It’s the least I could do, considering the compromising position he found me in this morning.

“No, I didn’t. Women live longer than men. I’ll make sure weekly flower deliveries to you are written into my will.”

“Oh god, I’ll be stuck with you forever.” I sigh, although a small smile escapes my lips. Alex catches it, a smile of his own spreading across his face.

He stalks toward me, ever so slowly, reaching for a tool in his toolbox when he reaches the desk. He’s stopped just to the side of me, so close that his breath sounds in my ear as we both fall silent. All it would take is for me to move an inch and I’d be touching him.

I hold my breath, avoiding movement for fear of what our connection might lead to.

Leaning down, feigning as though he’s searching for the right tool, he lowers his voice, his words coming out in a breath as he says, “There are worse things.”

As quickly as he’s invaded my space, he’s turning away, carrying a tool in his hand that I don’t recognize, as he walks back to his workstation.

Silence stretches between us as I watch him blatantly not use the tool he just grabbed from the toolbox.

Breaking the tension, I return his own question to him. “Why a boxing gym? You a big fan of violence or is it just a hobby for you?”

Alex’s movements come to a halt. When he faces me, he looks as though I struck him across the face. The expression is fleeting, but I catch it before he returns his expression to the smooth, nonchalant one he’s usually wearing. Though something reminiscent of pain glints in his blue irises as he looks at me.

The glint is similar to the one I’ve carried in my own eyes for years.

His tone is clipped as he responds, “Sure, if that’s what you think of me, then let’s go with that.”

Turning his back on me, he continues working. His lack of an answer is reassuring that I did the right thing by not answering his question. If he’s not willing to be “neighborly,” as he put it, then I shouldn’t have to be either.

“Right, well I—” Before I continue, the bells on the front door chime, and I step back into the store at the sound, leaving Alex behind.

“I just need a signature,” the robust deliveryman says as he steps through the door, with a medium-sized box in his hands.

Signing, I take the package from him and say my thank-yous before heading to the register desk. I don’t remember ordering a package, but I’ve been in touch with a few small businesses that could’ve sent me some samples to stock in my store.

I’m searching for my box knife when Alex appears by my side, holding it out in his hand for me. I must’ve left it in the back room. Nodding my thanks, I take the knife from him and tear into the box. Getting packages is like opening presents on Christmas morning, so this is sure to lift my spirits after a no-sale day.

The peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had for lunch churns in my stomach when I inspect the contents of the box. Any smile previously on my face is wiped away by the presence of a reminder of my childhood.

My breath turns manual as I try and fail to remember how to perform life’s most basic task. I’m unmoving as I stare at the contents inside, afraid to reach out and touch the objects placed in the box.

Inside the cardboard box is an old, ragged, stuffed teddy bear, along with a note with my name scrawled across the front in familiar handwriting.

The same handwriting as the previous two notes.

The teddy bear is one I haven’t seen in years. Not since I was eight years old and it was ripped from my hands. He told me I was too old to have such things.

Once so full of life and color, the caramel-brown fabric has worn, fading over the years. One of the eyes is missing. The cause of the damage is unknown to me, as both eyes were intact the last time this was in my possession. What’s most unnerving is the slice in the fabric of the teddy bear across the neck, stuffing peeking out of it as it lies limp in the box.

Bile rises in my throat at the thought of him keeping it all these years.