Page 16 of The Jerk in Apartment 1B

See? I remembered Cole’s name. Why can’t I remember the other guy’s?

“Before you go, would you please get your stuff out of the hall?” I ask.

“Is this the place?” one of the movers asks, stopping beside me with a stack of boxes.

“No, it’s down there.” I point to the door of my apartment, which you can barely see with the inflatable chairs stacked up along the wall.

“You gonna move that stuff out of the way?” the moving guy asks.

“I don’t know.” I glare at Towel Guy. “Are you?”

He goes past me into the hall. “It’s not that bad. They could get through.”

“We can,” the moving guy says, “but it’ll take longer, meaning it’ll cost more.”

“I’ll cover the cost,” Towel Guy says. “Cole, let’s go.”

Cole comes out to the hall and Towel Guy reaches across me to close the door, his arm nearly brushing against my chest. He locks his door, then smiles at me. “It’s Scott. Maybe you’ll remember next time.”

He takes off, going down the hall with his friend.

What a jerk! It just proves my theory that all guys are jerks. It would’ve only taken him a few minutes to clean up his stuff—even less if his friend helped—but he wouldn’t do it!

I’m giving him a new name. Forget Towel Guy. Or Scott. He’s now The Jerk in Apartment 1B.

Less than an hour later, all the boxes are in my apartment. I thought I had more stuff, but if I think about it, almost everything in Asher’s apartment belonged to him, even the glasses and plates. All I really have are my clothes, shoes, some jewelry, and my makeup. That’s it for my belongings.

As I sit on the scuffed-up floor, looking around my nearly empty apartment, the feelings I’ve been holding back come rushing to the surface. I cry—sob—not just over the loss of Asher and the life I thought we’d have, but because I let this happen. Instead of keeping some independence, I made my whole life about Asher. Instead of saving up money, I trusted Asher would always take care of me.

I feel like such an idiot. How could I have been so stupid?

CHAPTER FIVE

Trina

At ten minutes to five, I head to my new job. I’m dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, which seemed appropriate for stocking shelves. Frank didn’t mention a uniform, but I noticed the checkout girl wearing a red polo shirt with the store logo so it’s possible I’ll get one of those.

My shift ends at ten tonight, but only because I’m in training. When that’s over, I’ll have to do a full eight-hour shift. I can’t imagine stocking shelves for eight hours. It’s not a very big store. It’s one of those small, neighborhood grocery stores where locals go to pick up necessities like a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk.

“Welcome,” Frank says as I come into the store, a big smile on his chubby face. “Ready to work?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my clothes. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a smock in the back.”

“A smock?” I say, images of old ladies with hairnets coming to mind. People my age don’t wear smocks, and definitely not people with fashion degrees. “Could I maybe skip the smock?” I glance at the cashier, who looks close to my age. “Or maybe I could wear one of those polo shirts, like she has on.”

Frank shakes his head. “Those are only for cashiers. Stock people wear a smock.” He smiles. “You never know when a can of tomatoes might explode. You don’t want it ruining your clothes.”

Great. I have to wear a smockanddeal with exploding cans of tomatoes. Why would they explode? How is that even possible? They’re sealed.

“Follow me,” Frank says, taking off through the store.

I glance at the checkout girl and see her watching me. I smile at her and she rolls her eyes, then looks away. What’s with the eye roll? Was that about me, or was she thinking of something that made her do that?

“Trina!” Frank’s loud voice gets my attention and I hurry to catch up to him.

“Sorry,” I say as he leads me to the break room. “I spent today moving into my apartment. I’m a little tired.”

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