Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Archer
Limping inside my apartment, I close the door and slump against it, wincing at the contact as I recognize a new bruise forming on my back. I’m exhausted. Being tackled to evade an opossum attack will do that to a person.
So will being unintentionally mauled by a dog who’s trying to play with—or eat?—the opossum climbing your body.
And then there’s everything that happened after: Sara wrangling her dog back upstairs. Willa driving the opossum out. Me blurting out words to her I already regret.
The whole situation was a disaster.
Tomorrow, the first thing I will do is send out an email telling all residents that effective in thirty days, there will be no more pets. None. No dogs, no cats, no fish. No puppies that almost outweigh me.
No animals of any kind.
Then I’ll find some kind of pest control company that deals with opossums—and will actually call me back—to do whatever is necessary to eradicate them.
I shudder, then make my way to the sink, where I remove my suit jacket, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. Why not? It’s already spent a good deal of time on the ground tonight.
Rolling up my shirtsleeves, I scrub my arms up to my elbows with hot water until my skin turns pink. Until I’m sure I have no more animal hair or germs—or possible rabies. Then I turn the water as cold as it can get and splash it on my face.
Did that really just happen?
The opossum. The dog. Willa .
And then the words I blurted to her after the opossum was outside. I wince, remembering what I said. Upon further examination, it was probably timed poorly.
No—timed horribly .
The more I think about it, the more I think I shouldn’t have said what I said at all. Ever.
Is it too late to go downstairs and take them back? I’m not sure Willa would let me in if I knocked right now.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. By the time I’ve dried my hands, it’s stopped. A text pops up before I can unlock it.
Bellamy
Are you okay?
Bellamy
I leave you alone for a few hours and what happens? Disaster.
Bellamy
Should I come back? Do we need to order a rabies test?
Bellamy
Do they have tests for rabies?
Bellamy
Do possums carry rabies?
How could he possibly have heard what happened already? The man is always attentive, always intuitive. But so far as I know, he’s not surveilling the building with cameras and a live feed.
Archer
First, it’s opossum, not possum. Second, they don’t carry rabies.
Archer
Third, how do you already know?
Bellamy
Willa texted me.
Guess that answers the question of whether she’s up.
Why does it bother me that Willa and Bellamy are texting buddies? It really shouldn’t.
But it does.
Especially when I remember the blaze of her blue eyes just before she stormed off a few minutes ago. My gut twists, and as the phone screen darkens, I catch sight of my scowl in the reflection. I text Bellamy again.
Archer
You and Willa are texting now?
Bellamy
Your jealousy is showing. Usually it’s just about cookies.
Bellamy
USUALLY.
That makes me feel only slightly better. Not that I suspected there would be anything romantic between them. I mean, it’s not outrageous for men Bellamy’s age to date women as young as Willa. My father certainly did.
But Bellamy has never expressed romantic interest in anyone ever . Back when I was just a boy and Bellamy had taken over what was my father’s job in essentially raising me, my father told me Bellamy had reasons for being alone—and that it would be rude to ask.
Slowly, I stopped being curious. And I never broached the subject with him, even years later.
I find, suddenly, that I want to know why he doesn’t date. Why he’s never dated, why he seems so content and self-sufficient as he is.
Why someone so warm and so drawn to people would remain alone.
A pang of guilt shoots through me, that after so many years of being an adult and Bellamy being as much of a close friend as I’ve ever had, I never thought to ask him why.
Even so, I don’t like the thought of him being buddy-buddy with Willa. Especially when I basically ruined any chances for me to be close with her.
Bellamy
Kidding about the jealousy. Unless, that is, you ARE jealous.
Bellamy
Are you?
Archer
I’m not.
Archer
But I don’t like the idea of you and Willa having conversations about me.
I wonder if she told him what I said. The fact that Bellamy didn’t start there seems to indicate that she didn’t.
For some reason, this only makes me feel worse about my careless words, uttered while my nerves were still screaming after the opossum incident.
Bellamy
Willa was concerned about you.
Archer
Doubtful. Probably more like she was hoping I might have died suddenly so someone else would take over the building.
Bellamy
Did you really get attacked by an opossum AND a dog?
Archer
Something like that.
Though it was more like the opossum was using me as an escape route and the dog was going after the creature. If anything, I was collateral damage—an extreme case of wrong place, wrong time.
Though I may have been in some way complicit, as the entire reason the opossum was inside the building was because of my attempt to empty the trash.
A mistake I won’t make again. If only I can successfully contact people tomorrow, I can hire personnel for everything The Serendipity needs right now.
Bellamy
And lived to tell the tale. Or should I say … the tail?
Archer
Terrible joke.
Bellamy
Thank you.
Bellamy
Any chance we have CCTV set up in the building?
Archer
No.
Bellamy
Opportunity missed. Once again, I’m happy to come back if you need me. I’m still waiting on my flight. I could always rent a car and drive back? Or wait until the morning?
Archer
That won’t be necessary.
Though I’m honestly tempted to say yes. To beg him to return.
Because if tonight was any indication, I’m apparently incapable of doing the bare minimum on my own. I can’t even take out the trash, and I have no plans to try to do so again. Ever. I’m realizing my limits as to how “down-to-earth” I want to be.
Clearly, the day-to-day of running a building is not in my wheelhouse. I need someone with a different skill set than the one I possess.
The prospect of spending my Saturday trying to hire a building manager is gloomy. I’m used to working on weekends, but not this kind of work.
Bellamy
I do think I might have an idea of someone who could help you.
Archer
Do go on.
Bellamy
Willa.
With a heavy sigh, I squeeze my eyes closed. Willa—the woman I can’t seem to escape.
Even on the days I don’t see her, she lingers in my thoughts. She fills my apartment through the scent of Bellamy’s cookies. And anytime I use my closet, I can’t help but think of finding her inside.
There’s still a nagging discomfort when I think of that situation. That night, I saw Willa as some confused person, or perhaps someone suffering from a delusion. A very pretty compulsive liar.
But after our other interactions, none of those explanations seem to fit.
I may not understand how a sugar cookie business works, but the detail in her confections speaks to a meticulous person. Focused. Attentive and good with details. Not to mention the creativity and the artistry in her work.
Then there was tonight. She offered to help me with the trash, something she didn’t need to do.
And it was Willa who managed to wrangle Archibald off me and back to Sara, ordering them upstairs until we’d taken care of the opossum.
It was Willa who propped open the door and shooed the opossum—which had taken refuge behind what used to be the building’s front desk—outside.
All while I sat stunned on the floor.
Willa helped me up.
And it was Willa who ended up taking out the trash. Though her eyes practically incinerated me after I said what I said, she didn’t tell me to do it myself.
None of these characterize a woman who would fabricate a story to gain access to my closet, at least not for any reason I can think of.
And if that’s not enough, she’s had numerous interactions with Bellamy now—including texts, apparently—and his radar hasn’t gone off once.
In fact, I’m sure if I were to tell him what happened that first night, he wouldn’t believe it. I don’t really believe it either.
Which leaves me confused.
But whatever would explain the appearance in my closet is irrelevant.
Willa is the last person who would want to work for me after what I said tonight.
Even for a paycheck.
Archer
Why Willa?
Bellamy appears to be typing a lengthy message, dots blinking as I wait impatiently. Then they disappear altogether, and I toss the phone onto the island in frustration. It skids across and stops when it hits a familiar box. One of Willa’s.
And yet again, here she is.
I have a hard time believing Bellamy would have left his trash on the counter—he’s the only person neater than I am—but when I peer through the box’s clear plastic window, it’s full of cookies.
There’s a sticky note that reads From Bellamy .
He must have left them … for me?
My phone lights up. Bellamy has sent an audio message. Still eyeing the box of cookies, I press play.
“Sorry. This is easier to say, and I didn’t want to type it out. As to why Willa, she’s lived at The Serendipity for a few years and grew up in town, so she’d be a good asset as far as connections. She’s also a hard worker and makes me laugh. I think you could use a little more of that. Also, I suspect her business is struggling. She hasn’t said as much, but a few comments indicate orders are slow. I suspect that if you offered her a position, she would jump at the chance.” He chuckles. “The only real downside is having to work with you. But I’ve managed for years, so it is possible.”
Though Bellamy is teasing, it’s true that I’ve been called hard to work with. I can be focused to the point of prioritizing tasks over people—especially people’s feelings.
What I said to Willa tonight is a perfect example.
Emotions are, in general, tricky waters for me to navigate. Dark. Murky. Full of unseen hazards.
Often, it’s more of me thinking about how I am supposed to feel than actually feeling anything at all. Probably because I don’t feel a lot of anything. Kids at school called me Robot for years. Which didn’t sting the way they wanted it to because they weren’t wrong.
My father prioritized feelings last on his list, if they even made the list at all. And though I never wanted to emulate him, this passed down to me either by example or genetics. Or both.
If I’m not the best at my own emotions, I am lost when it comes to reading or reacting to other people’s.
Bellamy’s voice is interrupted by a loudspeaker in the background calling for a flight to board. He pauses, and I can hear him shuffling, probably picking up his bags.
“Okay, that’s my flight! Finally. Let me know if you need anything. Think about asking Willa to work for you—at least temporarily. And please, stay away from the wildlife.”
I snort at his last sentence, then I set my phone face down on the counter.
This has all been a disaster. Maybe I should have stayed in New York and dealt with—no.
Even thinking of it gives me a visceral reaction. I couldn’t have stayed. Leaving was the best option, given everything.
Maybe I should have just taken a vacation rather than choosing this particular challenge. Worked remotely from a luxury beach resort until the dust settled and the headlines moved on to the next exciting thing.
In truth, I don’t know how to relax. I’ve never been to a beach resort. Or even taken a proper vacation.
The cookies catch my eye again, and I peel off the sticky note. I’ve turned down every offer from Bellamy to try Willa’s cookies.
But now, left alone with a whole box…
As though he somehow reads my thoughts from afar, my phone buzzes, and I turn it over to see another text from Bellamy.
Bellamy
Last text. You get to have my last batch of cookies from Willa. Enjoy. You’ll thank me later.
Bellamy
And if you’re thinking about not eating them, I could tell how much you wanted to try them that day in the kitchen. One cookie isn’t going to kill your regimented eating.
Bellamy
Maybe you could work cookies into the contract when you hire her. For me.
With a sigh, I type out a quick response, hoping to catch Bellamy before he gets on the plane. Or maybe hoping I don’t.
I don’t want to admit what I said to Willa a few minutes ago. But Bellamy needs to know.
Archer
The only problem with trying to hire Willa is that I might have told her that she needs to pay a rental fee for use of the kitchen.
Bellamy
You didn’t.
Archer
It’s a valid requirement and a legitimate business expense for her.
Bellamy
If you could see me now, my head is in my hands and I’m groaning. My seatmate probably thinks it’s because I’m afraid of flying.
Bellamy
Can you apologize? Tell her you changed your mind?
Archer
I’m not sorry. And I haven’t changed my mind.
This isn’t entirely true. But I want it to be true. And I need Bellamy to believe it to be true so he’ll stop pushing this.
What is true is that the commercial kitchen should be rented. Her business model should have renting a kitchen built in as an expense.
Assuming Willa has a business model.
Bellamy
Then I wish you good luck. Going into airplane mode now. I’ll talk to you before the meetings next week. Enjoy the cookies. They’ll probably be your last now.
Bellamy
And if you’ve made it so she now refuses to make cookies for me, I’ll never forgive you.
My eyes drop to the box of cookies. When I lift the lid, the now-familiar scent of almond and vanilla fills my nose. Somehow, the smell of Willa’s cookies makes my guilt more potent. I try to shove it down, but it won’t quite dissipate.
Though the cookies Willa was decorating in the kitchen the other morning had elaborate detail, Bellamy requests simple iced cookies. But I bet he insists on paying whatever the more elaborate ones cost.
These are a light pink, the color of the tank top Willa wore tonight. Though I didn’t have much time to dwell on it, given the circumstances, she was wearing pajamas again. Bare feet, short sleep shorts, and a tank top.
Only when she knocked me to the ground and we spent a few long moments lying pressed together was I aware of how much bare skin was on display.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, I think my reaction to Willa in that moment might have fueled my actions. Telling her she needed to rent the kitchen space was a defense mechanism—one I very much regret.
Cookies , I remind myself. Right now, let’s just think about cookies .
Without allowing myself to overthink, I lift a cookie to my mouth and take a bite.
They’re decadently sweet, but somehow not overpowering. The perfect balance between soft and firm, with the icing giving the slightest crunch before melting on my tongue.
One bite and I understand why Bellamy is addicted.
Two bites and I’m wondering if Willa’s lips taste just as sweet.
The thought yanks me out of my cookie-induced stupor. I force myself to push away the box.
But I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
It’s only as I’m falling asleep—still trying to shut off my guilty conscience and banish thoughts of Willa—that I realize when I got back tonight, my apartment door was unlocked.