The Apartments Novels & Stories

Ethan “How is the purchase of the building going?” I ask, looking through the apartment complex property paperwork. I flip to the last page and read through the realtor’s notes. One building. Three stories. Thirty-five complexes. Ten one-bedroom apartments at 950 square feet each. Twenty two-bedroom apartments at 1200 square feet each. One office area for the management. Built in 2004 “There is another company bidding on the building, but if we want the building, we can offer more than the other group’s final bid is on the third page,” a woman in the accounting department says. I flip to page three and scan it.

One of the main reasons I picked this apartment, although it's at the very top of my budget. And that's even with me getting a discount from Ransom's mom. When she'd decided to add landlord to her resume, I don't think anyone knew she'd be putting in some of the most luxurious apartments over The Cafe that Laurel Springs has ever seen. It's quiet as I park under the carport for the residents in the building. There are only three apartments and, at most, nine of us. I've only met the other tenants in passing, but everyone seems nice and I have a sense of safety with others around.

They also aren’t incredibly overpriced like most luxury apartments or lettings in the city, and as such they have the one thing every person in their right mind would want, a sustainable system. Estel jostles me with her elbow and when I come down from the train of my thoughts, I see four men in black-clad suits and eyeglasses staring at me through the glass doors of the apartment building. They’re inside and I’m outside, and yet it seems like they’re waiting for my command.

If looks could kill, I'd be a goner. Five minutes later, I pulled up to the apartment block Grace lives in and I shoot her a quick text message. The apartment building isn't very big, about five floors with two car parking garages underneath. It has a modern look with white paint and grey and tan trim with a glass stairway leading to the top. The balcony of each apartment is wide enough for a small table and two chairs.

Francesca chuckled at her startled face. "I was just going over these documents," Joan said putting down the Hargreaves financial statement, for the first time since moving in with Francesca, she began taking stock of her aunt cum friend's apartment. Francesca lived in what Joan would simply call modern luxury, she lived in an apartment complex called 'The Coop' right at the center of the NoHo neighborhood of Manhattan, the apartment complex was an assortment of modern facilities and spacious luxury apartments, and Francesca's apartment was breathtaking, a two-bedroom, two baths luxury.

There are only six apartments in the small building, but I doubt any of the resident want to have a man as big and intimidating as Huxley knocking on their door at night. The first two apartments Huxley stops at pretty much give the response I expected. Nothing.

The white apartment door before us bore the number 12054, which, once translated, indicated our location: the 120th floor, apartment 54. As Alex and I stepped out from the capsule taxi to the balcony, it seamlessly closed its door behind us and departed, leaving us at the threshold of our new dwelling. The door to our apartment swung open in response to the proximity of our smartwatches. The apartment, though modest in size, was efficiently laid out, encompassing a living area, kitchen, a queen size bed, and a bathroom all within 30 to 40 square meters (around 400 square feet). It was a compact space.

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. “It’s not for much longer though, right?” Ethan brushed up against me. “Aren’t they almost done with the main building?” I nodded. “Yeah, the tattoo shop, restaurant, and the clothing store between them is pretty much built and done. It’s the apartments above that are taking a bit of time. I have them building six apartments, two over each of the businesses, but the guys keep wanting to customize them to their needs. The only ones who don’t care are Carl and Helen. But they are taking up one and so that doesn’t fucking help.”

The start of summer. The apartment was, objectively speaking, a complete disaster. It was a fourth-floor walk-up in a grimy, industrial neighborhood of Chicago. The hardwood floors were warped, the radiator clanked like a dying engine, and the single window in the main room looked directly out onto a brick alleyway. "The landlord says the water pressure is 'character-building,'" I noted, turning the rusted faucet in the tiny kitchenette. A pathetic, sputtering stream of lukewarm water trickled out.

Willow "Mom, this is like the 100th apartment we've been to, and it's still no good. I'm tired," Cami groans, throwing her head back against the wall behind her, and I glance at the real estate agent who is still going on and on about the perks of living in this two-bedroom apartment that feels more like a shoebox. It's only the fourth apartment we've been to since we started our hunt just after brunch at the diner, but just like the first one, it's not the one.