Page 83 of The Serendipity

Bellamy’s eyes widen, and so does his smile. “Meeting the parents already? Wow. I missed a lot.”

“No, no, no—not like that,” I say, though it really is at least alittlelike that. I can’t read Archer’s expression, but I’m hoping this doesn’t feel like too much. “My dad called yesterday, and Archer happened to answer my phone, and one thing led to another, and … yeah. You should come!” I say to Bellamy quickly.

This is a bad idea, mostly because I think my dad would havewaytoo much fun with Bellamy. I suspect the two of them would give Archer and me both a ridiculously hard time—and fully relish every moment of doing so.

“Oh, no,” Bellamy says, starting in on his third—fourth?—cookie. “I couldn’t. But I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

I disappear into the office, giving Archer a last look before closing the door and leaving them to discuss whatever important business things have been stressing Archer out this week.

Underneath all the sweet, happy, kissy times, I’ve detected an undercurrent of something heavier with him. Tension triggered whenever Bellamy calls, or whenever Archer gets a call he refuses to answer. New York area codes. No names saved in his phone. Extra frowny frown as he stares at the screen before sending it to voicemail.

I’m not sure if this is normal or if it’s related to the things with his father or what. Once, the name of a lawyer’s office flashed across the screen, so my guess is at least some of it relates to that. I know the appeal trial is impending, but he hasn’t mentioned it. Or if he plans to go.

His father is one area he’s carefully skirted around in our conversations.

In between the slow lazy minutes or hours we were making out like teenagers, Archer and I talk. Silly things like ice cream flavors (I love any chocolate; Archer rarely eats ice cream because he’s a monster and when he does, it’s raspberry sorbet which I argue doesn’t actually count because it’s sorbet) and pet preferences (I love all animals but don’t feel responsible enough to feed them; Archer likes few animals but would take a cat because of their cleanliness and independence). More serious things like his struggle with reading social or interpersonal cues, my barely surviving business, and going a little deeper into our past relationship failures.

Turns out, we share the common theme of having not emotionally connected with people we’ve dated. And I swear, when our eyes met during that discussion, we shared a sense of knowingthiswas different.

Because it is.

Archer is a juxtaposition of unexpected parts somehow fitting together seamlessly. He’s measured and possesses more careful control than I have in my entire genetic makeup. And yet he kisses me with an unbridled fervor that holds nothing back.

I can still sense the restraint in him, still sense how careful he is with me. Not because he thinks I’m breakable, but more like I’m some precious commodity. He cherishes me, but I also feel like he wants toconsumeme.

The restraint also extends to himself. I know there are things he’s holding back. Nothiding, per se, but more like he’s cautiously extending a little more of himself every day. Testing the boundaries.

It makes me sad, because this feels like the actions of a man who, when he’s made himself vulnerable in the past, was punished for it. Or, at the least, unappreciated.

Archer’s natural resting state may still be serious and at least a little grumpy, but I’ve also heard his booming laughter and witnessed boyish—even roguish—smiles. I keep squinting at him when he’s not looking—on the phone or frowning down at paperwork or something on his laptop—trying to see the jagged edges of where all the pieces of this simple yet complicated man fit together.

And I think I could keep doing so forever.

“Why are you nervous?” I ask, glancing away from the road for a moment at the tense man seated next to me.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

“Your hands look like they’re about to shatter the wine bottle.”

At this, Archer clears his throat and loosens his grip—just the slightest bit—on the wine he’s bringing my parents. We’re on the way to their house for dinner, and Archer looks like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid and take out half a kitchen.

“Hey, that reminds me—you haven’t been eating your ginger mints. I haven’t seen you pull them out in days. Chewing those disgusting things seemed like your destressing go-to.”

Archer’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t like them. I didn’t want to taste like—what did you call them, spicy dirt?—when we were kissing.”

I wish I weren’t driving so I could give him a hug. A tiny, but very thoughtful gesture. “That’s really sweet.”

“I also haven’t felt as stressed lately.” When I glance over, he’s smiling. “For some reason.”

Even sweeter.Though not entirely true. Unless … unless the tension he’s tried to keep a lid on this week would have been worse without me. I don’t like that thought.

“Seriously, though. You’ve got nothing to worry about. My parents are easy. And I’m sure you’ve met the parents of someone you’re dating before.”

“A few times.”

I’m speared with an irrational jealousy over these past girlfriends whose parents—multipleparents—he’s met.

It’stear out someone’s hairlevel jealousy.

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