Page 55 of The Serendipity

I don’t want to feel sympathy or empathy or any other -pathytoward Archer. And yet the man seems to be constantly drawing my unwanted feelings to the surface.

Like the attraction I felt tying on his apron or when we were lying on the floor during the possum incident. That was someintensechemistry—until I remembered who I was chemistry-ing with. Definitely didn’t want to feel that.

Or any echo of it now, staring at Archer across a lobster tank and underneath a merchicken mural.

I don’t want to be attracted to Archer, and Ialsodon’t want to have compassion for him.

“Were you talking to the lobsters?” he asks.

“I, um … no? Okay, fine. Yes.” I glance back into the tank, where the lobsters are now ignoring us. “A little. They’re good listeners.”

“Do you always talk to your dinner before eating it?” he asks.

I blink at him. His stern, handsome face only shows the slightest hint of amusement in the tiniest curl on one side of his lips. “Another joke from you. I think you met your quota for themonth. Anyway, I don’t eat lobster. Or anything I have to look in the eyes.”

“You’re a vegetarian?”

“Not technically. Not fully. Just”—I give the lobsters another look—“if I have to face my food.”

Which is partly because watching so many cute cow videos on Instagram makes it hard to eat hamburgers, but also because I’m on a tight budget.

“Areyoubuying lobsters?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. I’m getting a little attached. These are myemotional support when you run into your ex and also your sworn enemy you’re also attracted tolobsters.

“I don’t even like seafood,” Archer says. “But I can’t find anything in this store. I’m just walking in circles.”

One glance at his cart shows me it is completely empty, save a lonely head of cabbage. “You found the cabbage. That’s a start.”

“That’s not lettuce?”

I’m starting to wonder if Archer has ever set foot in a grocery store before today. “No, it’s not lettuce.”

He stares at the cabbage like it’s a complicated math formula. “But I can still eat it in a salad.”

“Not unless you’re making a slaw. Do you want some help?”

Archer’s frown becomes frownier. “I can figure it out.”

“I’m sure you can,” I say, though the cabbage he thought was lettuce tells a different story. “But I’m here and?—”

“Willa?”

Turns out, not even lobsters can shield me from Trey. Because here he is, standing at the end of the lobster tank, placing me in the most awkward non-love triangle possible between my ex and a man I barely know but whose closet I’ve magically transported to twice.

I would give my right arm to step into my closet right now and be magically transported to anywhere but here.

On the plus side, there is no rush of strong, painful feelings as I square my shoulders and face my ex for the first time in four years. There’s no longing for what we had, no sense of regret. Not even nostalgia, if I’m being honest. Overall, I feel a surprising but pleasing lack of deep feelings as I come face-to-face with my ex-almost-fiancé.

But the momentispainfully and potently awkward. It practically shimmers in the air as Trey and I size each other up.

With his hair pulled back, Trey’s face looks rounder. Or maybe that’s just the result of a lot of French food? I remember once feeling like I could get lost in his eyes, which now look to me like a very forgettable basic brown. I’m having a hard time remembering why I fell for him—and especially why I stayed with him for so long.

I know we had good times, but even as I try to locate a bright, happy memory, they all seem a littlemeh.

“Hey, Trey.” I barely restrain myself from addinglong time no see, but unfortunatelydoblurt out, “Ha—that rhymes.”

I briefly consider climbing into the lobster tank, but instead I plaster a smile on my face that feels half deranged while trying to decide what to do with my arms.

Why is it that anytime I’m in an uncomfortable situation, my arms suddenly become the only thing I’m aware of? I cross them over my chest, which looks too defensive and confrontational, but when I drop them, it feels like they’re dead weight attached to my body. Like Frankenstein arms, sewn on from some other person.

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