Page 5 of Hate It with You

Opening the door to my back room that doubles as an office and storage closet, I’m sure to jiggle the handle three times. It’s something I’ve learned needs to happen in order for the door to work, another repair I’ve had to add to the list. When the door pops open, I’m met with light again. My quaint desk sits to the left, tucked away in the corner. It’s another item I thrifted, the scratches on the top of the desk covered by scattered binders, loose papers, pens and this morning’s tea mug.

To the right, three large storage shelves line the walls in the shape of a U. They came with the building and I’m more grateful today than I have been these last few months that I didn’t need to build these shelves.

Just in front of me sits another door, leading to the back stairwell. Another plus of this place: the apartment entrance is behind the shop. Sure, there’s an exterior door, but it’s hidden behind the building. Security is one of my top priorities, especially now that I live alone, and given my upbringing…I’m happy it’s not necessarily obvious I’ll be living upstairs.

Moving into the stairwell hallway, I lock the door behind me. Two similar doors sit on either side of mine, a few feet away. My bookshop is located in the middle of two other businesses, mine sharing a wall on both sides. The business and apartment to the left of my bookshop have been empty since I moved in.

The other business, the one the landlord owns, is some sort of gym from what Theo was able to tell me. If he hadn’t, the bass bumping from it every morning gives it away. I pay it no mind as I’ve blasted my own music as I slowly work on piecing together my shop. So far, I’ve heard no complaints from the landlord, and I plan on keeping it that way.

I take the stairs up to my apartment one step at a time, groaning at the pain in my legs from sitting on the hard floor for too long.

When I’ve made it to my apartment, I’m locking the door behind me when the note slips out of my sweatshirt pocket. As it falls to the floor, the folded piece of paper opens, revealing the words written inside.

I’ve missed you, Elizabeth.

My hands begin to shake as I reach down to pick up the note. The handwriting looks far too familiar for my liking. Especially considering there’s only one person who calls me Elizabeth.

He’s in jail. It can’t possibly be him.

Shaking my head to ward off the anxiety, I sigh, tossing the note on the kitchen island to my left. My mind must be playing tricks on me. I’m sure this is just some stupid prank or a weird coincidence. Maybe the last renter’s name was also Elizabeth.

I make my way to the bathroom to begin preparing for my shower, doing what I can to forget about the strange note and focus on the month ahead.

One more month of hard work and it’ll pay off. My bookstore will finally be open, and my days will be spent surrounded by fictional worlds, fictional friends, fictional families. A dream come true.

In my experience, fiction has always been better than reality.

2

BETH

Ilay here at 4:23 a.m., wide awake, staring at the ceiling above me. Like most nights this past month, I only got a few hours' rest before my body jolted awake again, stress maintaining its control over my bodily functions.

The sun will rise in only a few hours, my bedroom currently covered in darkness. Only the moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains hung on the windows on either side of my bed provides the faint outline of my sparse bedroom furniture.

I’ve been working nonstop for the past month since the day I fought with the bookshelves to get them pieced together. I haven’t allowed myself to rest, and my body is withholding a good night’s sleep as punishment.

Today is the day.

My bookstore will officially be open to the public in a short seven hours, so I’m not sure I’ll be falling back asleep anytime soon. Nervous isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel. Anxious doesn’t encompass enough of my worries, and excitement threatens to send me into a never-ending spiral toward impostor syndrome.

Sitting up, I fluff my pillow with more aggression than necessary, plopping back down on my bed dramatically when it does nothing to calm the storm of feelings inside me.

One look at the clock sitting on my small nightstand has me sitting up in bed when I catch sight of what’s lying next to it. The note that was left on my door a month ago. I haven’t received anything else since, so I’ve tried to pay it no mind.

Yet something about the note is making it difficult to ignore. Something about it feels familiar.

Grabbing the note, I read it again and again, until I can’t stomach the look of it anymore and toss it on my nightstand. It’s something I’ve done more times than I’d like to admit in the past four weeks. I know I should, but I can’t seem to throw it away.

Pulling my eyes away from it, I grab my phone, admitting defeat over getting any more sleep this morning. When I unlock the screen, I notice two missed texts from Sienna.

Sienna

Can’t wait for tomorrow! It’s going to be great. Theo and I are so excited.

Have you finished unpacking yet? I can help you! We both know how you are with organization…

I roll my eyes, though a smile spreads wide across my face. We can’t all be type A like Sienna, but I’m not as bad with organization as she says I am. Although she caught me red-handed with the whole “still needing to unpack” thing. I’ve been here for months, and boxes are still spread throughout my apartment.