Page 8 of The Serendipity

“You think I’m in your apartment because I have abrain tumor?” Her hands ball into fists and she blinks rapidly, looking both furious and like she’s about to burst into tears.

“I’m just seeking more rational explanations than you magically or science-fictionally portaling your way into mycloset from yours. I don’t think you’re here because of—how did you put it?—wormholes.”

I turn on my heel and stride out of the bedroom and toward the front door. The air is starting to feel thin, and the tightness in my chest from earlier has returned.

Thankfully, Willow follows me out of the room, scurrying to catch up.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” she asks.

“No.” The sooner I get her out of my space and forget how distracting her blue eyes are, the better.

“This could be newsworthy.”

“Definitely not.” The last thing I need is rumors spreading about The Serendipity’s delusional tenants. Or magical wormhole closets in the building.

She scoffs. “Clearly, no matter what I say, you won’t believe me.”

“What’s more believable—that you literally defied the basic laws of physics to transport two floors, or …” I trail off.

“Go on. Orwhat?”

“Or … that you had some kind of blackout or have memory loss or wandered up here sleepwalking?—”

“I do not sleepwalk.”

“Narcolepsy?”

“I don’t suffer from narcolepsy!”

The other options are worse. But she doesn’t look like she’s on any kind of substance. Her blue eyes are too clear, too lucid, too?—

I catch my errant thoughts and halt them in place.

If there is no other medical explanation, we’re left with lying. Which is, to me, the worst option of all. And, considering how she’s doubling down on her story, the most likely.

“Whatever the case, I think it’s time for you to go.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I clutch the doorknob leading out into the hall like it is the last shred of my good sense.

Still, something keeps me from actually opening the door.

Maybe it’s watching Willow, who seems to be vacillating between self-righteous anger and what she finally slips into—resigned defeat.

But then she takes a step closer, and before I can back away, she brushes her fingers against my hand. The touch ignites something—not a spark or flame but a shock of cold, crackling up my arm like electric frost. I’m frozen, my eyes locked on hers.

“What if it happens again?” she whispers.

I don’t like the slump of her shoulders and the vulnerable look in her eyes—the same one she had when I threw open my closet door a few minutes ago.

I prefer her fiery anger.

Not that I should preferanyversion of this woman—only the version that is out of my apartment and banished from my memory.

But something about her fingertips on my hand, something about the rawness in her voice and the pleading look in her blue eyes, has protectiveness rising up in me. Willow seems to remember she’s still touching me and drops her hand, blinking and stepping back.

I swing open the door and step back, allowing her space to exit. “I don’t think we need to worry about it happening again.”

Her fire returns. Throwing me one last glare, Willow stomps out of my apartment and toward the grand staircase. I step into the hallway, needing to be sure she goes.

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