Page 4 of Petals and Plot Twists
Willa livesa few doors down from Peter’s second-floor apartment, so I stop on my way to his place and knock on her door. She knows a thing or two about “strange things at The Serendipity,” and she’ll probably have an opinion on Mr. Hathaway’s twinkle-eyed suggestion.
Last month, Willa had a series of mysterious experiences when she went into her own closet and somehow wound up two floors away in adifferentcloset.
That closet belonged to Archer Gaines, our very grumpy building owner, who is now Willa’s not-as-grumpy boyfriend.
We still have no idea how she was basically transported from one closet to the other, but the why is completely obvious.
Willa and Archer were meant to fall in love.
Considering Willa’s experience, a mystery flower in the rooftop garden is mere child’s play. Not that my flowerismagic, or even anything extraordinary. I’m just saying, considering The Serendipity’s history, I’m not willing to rule out the possibility.
I wait outside Willa’s door for almost a minute before remembering that she and Archer are going out tonight, something I know because she swung by my apartment to borrow a dress. Apparently, Archer wanted to take her somewhere special. I had the perfect thing to loan her—because of course I did. It is my moral imperative as the trusty sidekick to always have the perfect dress hanging in my closet, even if I’m never the one who gets to wear it.
Not that I fault Willa for her happiness.
Nothing made me happier than watching her main character romance play out. And she and Archer really are perfect for each other.
But thinking about their love story does make me a little wistful. Willa wasn’t even looking. Her happily-ever-after fell right into her lap. Or right into Archer’s closet?
Either way, it looks like Willa’s already gone, so I abandon her door and walk the short distance to Peter’s place.
Luckily, he opens on the first knock.
“What took you so long?” he says, stepping aside to make room for me to enter. “I’m hungry enough to eat my arm.”
“The Hathaways came up to the garden, so I talked to them for a bit,” I say. “Then I stopped at Willa’s on my way.”
“I love it so much when you remind me that I’m your second choice.” He grabs my hand, picking it up to study my fingernails. “Please wash these before you touch anything in here.”
I roll my eyes but move into his kitchen to scrub the dirt off my hands. “You’re not my second choice. You’re just not…Willa.”
“Hmm,” Peter says as he sits down at his kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him. “Does not make me feel better.”
I reach for the hand towel sitting beside Peter’s sink and dry my hands. “Shut up. You know I love you the most.”
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t glance away from his laptop as he says, “Just because you’ve loved me the longest doesn’t mean you love me the most.”
Peterdefinitelyhas main character energy.
On my first day of high school in Serendipity Springs, he was randomly assigned to be my lab partner in AP Chemistry. It only took a couple of weeks to realize he wasn’t just the smartest person in our class, he was the smartest in our entire grade—by a longshot.
Still, as smart as he is, he is not your stereotypical nerd. While he isn’t very social, it’s not because he’s incapable of interacting with people. He’s well-spoken and thoughtful and kind, but he doesn’t need people’s approval to feel good about himself. He has this quiet, peaceful confidence that comes entirely from within. I’ve always admired that about him—I still do.
High school Peter didn’t care about being popular or being liked. About going to football games or even the prom. He did his schoolwork. He swam on the swim team. And he ran the math club. That was pretty much it, and that was enough for him.
My tenth-grade self craved that level of confidence, that easy self-assurance, so I made it my mission to make Peter Stone my best friend. I think I thought he might rub off on me, but I also felt safer around Peter than I did anyone else.
It took a few months, but I was persistent. When I invited him over to study for probably the eighteenth time, he finally said yes.
We’ve been best friends ever since, no matter what he says about me liking Willa more.
I drop into the chair across from him. “Not true. And it’s not personal. Sometimes I just need a girl to talk to.”
Orrrrsomeone who won’t scoff at my speculation that my mystery flower might have an origin that isn’t entirely logical. But I choose not to volunteer that particular piece of information to Peter just yet.
He was understandably skeptical when I told him what happened with Willa and her closet. He’s a data scientist. He believes in numbers. In logic. In hard, evidentiary facts. I can’t fault him for his struggle to fully embrace a situation that has no logical explanation.
He no longer protests when I talk about Willa’s experience, mostly because he’s heard WillaandArcher share their own retellings of what happened. He can’t dispute it. But if he can’t explain it, I think he’d rather not talk about it.
