Page 96 of The Serendipity

It’s the past tense that does it for me. “Right. My explanation. You mean mylie.”

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

I know he doesn’t believe me. And you know what? I wouldn’t believe me either. I wouldn’t if I hadn’t had it happen to me. I’m not Sophie, who loves the idea of the building being magical, of it throwing Archer and me together.

So much for that idea.

I can’t be mad at Archer because I understand. But that doesn’t stop me from being deeply,deeplyhurt.

I open the door before he can. I need to feel like I’m the one walking out, not like I’m being kicked out.

Even if I can feel the force of a boot right in my sternum.

“I better go.” There are other words I want to say.

Call me.

Let me know if you need anything.

I’m sorry.

I’m telling the truth.

I love you.

I say nothing else. Neither does Archer.

And then I walk away down the hall, down four flights of stairs. By the time I reach my apartment, I’m a sobbing, snotty mess.

Chapter Twenty

Archer

Returningto New York is like trying to squeeze into the suit I wore to my first board meeting when I was fifteen.

I grew eight inches over the following two years, in case anyone’s curious about the fit.

Everything is too loud. Too bright. Too dirty. Strangers brush past me and their shoulders bump mine. Everyone is on a phone—not talking, but looking down at a screen.

“You are a porcupine-poked bear,” Bellamy says, leaning against the back wall of the elevator. I refuse to look directly at him, but there are mirrored surfaces everywhere in here, so avoiding his gaze is like trying to roller skate through a minefield.

“Awhat?”

“You know how people talk about poking the bear? That’s you. But instead of being poked with whatever people poke bears with, you’ve been poked with?—”

“A porcupine. I got it.” I press a finger between my brows, knowing full well it’s not removing the crease that feels like it might be permanent.

“Rough night?” Bellamy asks. “Or rough morning?”

That’s one way to put it. Traveling to the city from Serendipity Springs isn’t the easiest, but today, my private car had a driver who wanted to talk. Then there was a delayed flight out of Boston, and the woman seated next to me in business class had a tiny dog in a travel bag who growled at me the entire flight. Almost enough to make me miss Archibald.

Which reminded me of Willa.

Not that it takes much to make me think of her. But right now, those thoughts are unwelcome. Because I can’t think of Willa without remembering the sincerity in her face when she told me that her closet magically transported her into my apartment.

Why was I surprised by this? Willa is the same woman who swore that’s how she first got into my apartment the night we met. My initial assessment—aside from recognizing something alluring about her—was that Willa was either lying or had some kind of break with reality. Because in no world do I believe in magicalanything.

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