Love is in the Air （And I Hate it）
Luke
I push through the front door of my apartment building and stop dead.
Red streamers droop from the ceiling like bloody party favors.
Pink paper hearts are taped to every available surface—the mailboxes, the bulletin board, even the fucking fire extinguisher.
Cupids perch on the radiators like harbingers of romantic doom via fire hazard.
And in the center of it all, a hand-painted banner that screams Happy Valentine’s Day!
in handwriting so aggressively cheerful, it should be illegal.
I stand frozen in the doorway, my work bag heavy in my hand and my jaw clenched so tight it crackles in my ears.
What the actual hell?
Tomorrow is February 14th. The one day of the year I try to avoid all human contact and any semblance of romance, but apparently, the building has other plans.
“Evening, Luke.”
I turn to see Danny, my landlord, emerging from the rec room.
“What is all this?”
“The annual Valentine’s Day party is tomorrow at seven, right here. Didn’t you hear? Romance is in the air.” He chuckles with a wink.
Romance. Right. Because nothing says ‘romance’ like forced proximity and flimsy paper decorations.
“Great,” I deadpan, heading for the stairs. “Have fun with that.”
“Wait! Your invitation.”
I’m already taking the stairs two at a time—since he’s caught me one too many times waiting for the elevator at the end of the hall—but his voice follows me. “—for our single residents!”
Single. The word hits hard, and I grip the handrail tighter than necessary. Yeah, I’m single. By choice. Because the last time I wasn’t single, I came home on a certain dreaded holiday with roses in hand only to find my girlfriend in our bed with someone else.
But Danny doesn’t know that.
No one needs to know that.
I reach the fourth floor and gather my keys, more than ready to get inside where the decorations and toxic claim of ‘romance in the air’ can’t follow me.
That’s when I see her.
Molly from 401 is crouched in front of my door, sliding something underneath it.
She’s wearing a bright purple sweater that somehow makes everything around her seem brighter.
Her blonde hair falls carelessly out of its ponytail in a way that should be messy but just looks…
soft. She’s even smaller, crouched how she is—she’s already petite, barely reaching my shoulder when standing.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She jumps, flopping to her side. Her head snaps in my direction with wide, blue eyes and guilt written all over her face. A red paper heart flutters to the ground between us.
“O-Oh, Luke, hi. I was just, um… Danny asked me to deliver these.” She scrambles to her feet, gathering the fallen heart and brushing off her jeans. “Invitations for tomorrow night.”
I stare at the heart on the floor with Danny’s cheerful handwriting: Love Awaits You!
Something dark and bitter rises in my chest. Love awaits me? Sure, it does. Right next to disappointment and betrayal and all the other bullshit that comes with letting people too close.
At my silence, her cheeks flush. “I was just putting it under your door. Danny thought—”
“Danny thought wrong.” I bend down and grab the paper heart, crumpling it in my fist. “I’m not interested.”
“It’s just a party,” she says quietly. “There’s going to be food and—”
“I said no.”
“But—”
“What part of ‘no’ is confusing to you?” My words are harsh, but I can’t seem to stop them.
There’s something about this day, this building full of romantic bullshit, this sweet girl trying to drag me into some matchmaking scheme that makes me want to lash out.
“I don’t do parties. I don’t do Valentine’s Day.
And I sure as hell don’t need some amateur cupid shoving invitations under my door. ”
Her face goes pale, and I see the exact moment my words hit their mark.
Good. Maybe now she’ll leave me alone.
“You’re absolutely right,” she says, her voice steady despite the hurt in her eyes. “You clearly don’t need any help in the asshole department. You’ve got that covered all by yourself.”
The comeback catches me off guard, and for a split second I almost smile. Almost. But then she’s walking away with quick steps to her door across the hall, and I’m left standing here with a crumpled invitation and the uncomfortable feeling that I just kicked a puppy.
Something sweet lingers in the air—vanilla and sugar, like she walked straight out of a bakery. And I hate that I notice, or that I find myself inhaling a little deeper when it clings to the hallway even after her door clicks shut.
I shake off the feeling and unlock my door, then step inside. I toss the paper heart toward the trash. It misses and lands on the floor. Son of a bitch. My apartment is blessedly romance-free, all neutral colors and clean lines with no evidence that it’s nearing the worst day of the year.
This is what I want. Silence. Solitude.
No hearts or cupids or well-meaning neighbors trying to fix my life.
So why do I feel like such a complete bastard?
I grab a beer from the fridge, throw a frozen dinner in the microwave, and turn the hockey game on. The commentators’ voices fill the apartment, drowning out the silence that tends to get too loud if I let it.
My phone buzzes on the counter. My brother’s name lights up the screen.
Jake: Still on for tomorrow?
I take a long pull from my beer before responding.
Me: Yeah.
Jake: You sure? Because last year you bailed and I found you drunk in your apartment watching Die Hard.
Me: And?
Jake: Come on, man, it’s been two years. You can’t hide from women forever.
I stare at the text. Two years. Two years since Jake had to physically hold me back while my ex gathered her things, her latest conquest watching from my bed with my sheets pulled up to his chest like some dainty prick.
Two years since I swore off this godforsaken holiday, relationships, and any form of human connection that could end with me heartbroken once again.
Me: Watch me.
Jake: The boat docks at six. I’ll meet you at the bar around eight. I expect you to be on your best behavior so at least one of us can score.
Me: Fuck off.
Jake: Love you, too, little bro. See you tomorrow.
I toss my phone aside and focus on the TV. The Seattle Krakens are getting destroyed.
Fitting.
Hours later, I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The apartment is too quiet now, even with the TV murmuring from the living room. Every time I close my eyes, I see Molly’s face—the way it went from hopeful to hurt in about two seconds flat.
You clearly don’t need any help in the asshole department.
She’s not wrong.
I throw off the covers and pad to the kitchen for water.
The crumpled invitation catches my eye from where it landed next to the trash can.
I pick it up, meaning to toss it properly, but find myself smoothing it out against the counter instead.
There, in the bottom corner in different handwriting—neater, softer—is written: Delivered by Molly, 401.
She signed it like she’s proud to be part of Danny’s matchmaking scheme. Like spreading Valentine’s cheer was something she actually wanted to do. What kind of person volunteers for that?
I crumple the invitation back up, and this time, it makes it into the trash with a satisfying thunk. But I stand there for another moment, looking at it sitting on top of coffee grounds and last night’s dinner container.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to Jake’s stupid bar and drink until February 15th arrives. I’ll pretend this holiday doesn’t exist, romance is dead, and not care about any of it.
But tonight, I can’t stop wondering why a girl like 401 is—
Not my problem, I remind myself as I turn off the kitchen light.
Definitely not my problem.