Page 93 of The Serendipity

What’slesshelpful is the fact that Archer is home. Or, at least, he was just minutes ago when I left his apartment.

And here I hadjuststarted to convince myself that I had somehow misremembered the magical closet.

That sounds illogical, I know—but does it sound any more illogical than the truth? But as weeks passed with no activity, I started to think it hadn’t really happened. Maybe I just didn’twantto believe it. And if I didn’t believe it, then it couldn’t be true.

Kind of like the year my mom said if I didn’t believe in Santa, I wouldn’t get good gifts. To which I agreed: “Yeah, I didn’t believe last year, and I didn’t get much.”

I didn’t understand why Mom and Dad were laughing so hard until years later.

Too bad my childhood Santa theory didn’t work in this situation. Because, believe it or not, I’m now in Archer’s closet. And I can’t see a way around having to explain myself to him.

I stare down at his shiny, expensive shoes. He’ll believe me. He will. Probably?

This isn’t like the first time it happened, when I was just some strange woman appearing in his closet. I’m Willa—Willa the Person.Hisperson.

But if there’s one thing I know to be true about Archer, it’s that he’s rooted in logical thinking. Something the closets in this building, apparently, are not.

And now, in addition to telling him about my agoraphobia, which he handled so perfectly and with so much kindness, I’m going to need to tell him about my magical closet.

Or our magical closets? I’m not sure if his closet is pulling me in or if mine is pushing me out, or if I should just blame the whole stupid building at this point.

How many huge, weird things can a straightlaced, practical man like Archer handle in a single week?I wonder.Guess I’m about to find out.

Maybe I’m lucky and he’s gone down to get the mail or something. I can let myself out and?—

I hear a sniff. No—a sniffle. It’s wetter than a sniff. Followed by a shaky breath. Neither of which are sounds I’m used to hearing from Archer.

Because…those are crying sounds. I know them well.

My panic about having to explain magic disappears, sucked into a deeper vortex of panic these sounds elicit, and I swing the door open and step outside.

Immediately, I see Archer. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies. Because he’s across the room, lying right on the rug with his back to me, still in his suit pants but only an undershirt. His tie and button-down and shoes are scattered in very un-Archer-like fashion around the room.

I’m on the floor behind him before I can second guess. He doesn’t react when I lean over him, curling my body protectively over his.

I drag my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.

“Hey,” I say softly, brushing my lips over his cheek. It’s wet, and my heart throbs with worry. “Hey, I’m here.”

I swallow down all the questions I want to ask when he sighs, a deep release of breath that relaxes his whole body. One of his hands lifts enough to clasp my forearm, hugging it to his chest. I can feel his heart racing, and he’s breathing much too fast.

“Willa,” he says, then sniffs again. His voice is missing the normally deep roughness, the solid command I’m so used to.

What could possibly have happened since I last saw him?

“Hi, boss.” I hook a leg over his until I’m a mix of a spoon and a blanket. I struggle to keep the worry out of my voice. What he needs right now is my calm. “You’re warm.”

He sighs again, then tightens his grip on my arm. “You too.”

For a few moments that stretch like an eternity of worry, I stroke his hair and listen to his breathing, all while wondering what brought this strong man to his knees.

It’s killing me not to just ask what’s wrong. But I’m a little scared of the answer…and even more scared he might not answer at all. After I shared about my agoraphobia, he wouldn’t say whatever he planned to tell me. Now I’m worried it was something much bigger than what he’d let on. I suspected it wasabout his father’s trial, since he’s going back this week for it. But he hardly mentioned it.

Which maybe means it’s buried deep.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask after a few minutes.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

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