Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Willa
I’m still fuming mad the next morning, my rage building over time instead of subsiding. It’s less like the embers of a cooling fire and more like the very center of an inferno.
“After everything I did to help him,” I grumble to Sophie, who hums in agreement as she mixes a bag of compost into the raised bed in front of her. We weeded that one first, and now it’s nothing but rich, black dirt.
She took one look at my face this morning when I pounded on her door, said “I know exactly what you need,” and then brought me up here to the roof to help prep for spring planting. Sophie insisted that helping her turn over the flower beds would be cathartic. And I guess it kind of is?
But mostly, it’s revealing the depths of my rage as I yank up another weed by the root. Every time I toss another one in the compost bag, I imagine I’m throwing it in Archer’s face.
Very cathartic indeed.
I pause, setting down my gloves to stretch. My forearms and my back are aching, muscles screaming in the best way possible. Tomorrow, my body might regret this. But today, I’m all in.
“You’re doing great. I could use this kind of help on the regular.” She brushes a dark curl back from her face with her forearm since her hands are filthy. I don’t tell her there’s already a streak of dirt across her cheek.
It suits her. Soil is to her what sugar and flour are to me—the hallmarks of our most natural states. She’s beautiful up here, dirt under her nails and sun on her cheeks. I bet she’d say the same about me in the kitchen with flour in my hair.
Which reminds me of Archer’s announcement last night that he’ll be charging me to use The Serendipity’s kitchen.
I have tiny moments when I’ll forget, feeling good and strong as I do this manual labor, the chilly morning air combined with the warm sun invigorating me. Then I remember, and the anger blazes hot across my skin.
Though that could be the sun. We’re having a surprisingly warm day, and it’s almost enough to lift my mood.
“Tell me again about the possum.” Sophie giggles. “It really came inside the building?”
I’ve told her twice already, each time remembering a few more details and embellishing others. It makes me happy to think of Archer shrieking as the possum clambered up his body, using his expensive suit like a ladder.
One thing I don’t mention in any of these retellings is the intense moment when we found ourselves face to face on the floor. Or the attraction I still feel, even now, underneath my anger.
I wouldn’t have wanted to admit feeling anything for him in the first place, and I certainly don’t want to admit it now .
But then I think of how my breath caught when his eyes locked on mine. The heat of his body so close to mine. The angles of his face softening and his breath catching.
A pang of longing followed quickly by bitterness overwhelms me. I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of electric charge and chemistry with a man.
I yank out a weed with a little too much force and almost fall backwards.
Why him? Of all people, why did this happen with Archer Gaines?
He’s the bane of my current existence, not a man sparking to life a fiery attraction that has been dormant since Trey.
The thought sends me back into a rage spiral as I recount the possum story for Sophie again, this time emphasizing how ridiculous Archer sounded, with his high-pitched screams.
“I managed to drive it out the front door using a stool I found behind the front desk.”
“Like a lion tamer,” Sophie says, a note of pride in her voice. “Willa the possum tamer.”
I do a fancy bow. “At your service. And right after that ,” I finish, a sharp bitter edge creeping into my voice, “is when Archer told me he’ll be charging me a monthly fee for the use of the kitchen.”
Effectively putting not just one but all the nails in the coffin of Serendipitous Sweets. Archer didn’t say how much he’ll charge, but it doesn’t matter. Even with Bellamy’s recurring weekly orders, any extra monthly expenses will push me too far into the red, beyond my current precarious situation and into one that’s hopeless.
Sophie’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you think maybe he likes you?”
I think of the moment when his gaze fell to my lips. Of the way he jumped to help me in the kitchen and let me tie a frilly pink apron around his waist. Of how he sometimes calls me Willa the Person.
Then I tie a cinderblock to those thoughts and toss them into a mental Mariana Trench.
“This isn’t third grade when a guy pulls your pigtails because he really has a crush on you. We’re adults. And he’s just a jerk.”
Even as I say it, I don’t really know if I believe it. There is something more to Archer. I’ve seen glimpses of it, and of course, there’s what Bellamy said.
But then again, Archer is ruining my business, so I don’t need to wonder if there’s more to the man. Or care. On the surface, he’s a jerk, so we’ll stick with that.
“I don’t know,” Sophie says. “Do we ever mature beyond that? Or do we all just find different, more adult ways to do the same things?”
The question makes me irrationally angry. “Archer does not like me. If he did, he wouldn’t be putting me out of business.”
All traces of humor leave Sophie’s face. “I’m sorry, Willa. Truly.”
“It’s fine. I mean, no—it’s not. But I’m failing at all the business stuff anyway. He’s just expediting the process.”
I like that Sophie is the kind of friend who doesn’t try to make me feel better with lies or half-truths.
“It sucks. Men suck.”
“Hear, hear.”
“It probably means a similar fate for me soon,” she says glumly. “If he’s making you pay to use the kitchen, he’s not going to fund this garden.”
When she first moved into the Serendipity, Sophie discovered the garden, overgrown and unkempt. Mostly filled with weeds and a few leftover shrubs and things someone else had planted…and neglected. Everything else, she began to overhaul. First, with her own money, saved when she could, and then with a monthly stipend Galentine added once she saw what Sophie had done.
Galentine had been delighted to see the garden restored to its former glory. And Sophie was more than happy to take on an unofficial role as rooftop gardener since, to my surprise, the job of landscape architect takes place mostly behind a desk. There are raised beds with perennials and flowering bushes. Concrete planters Sophie will fill with annuals in the coming weeks. Trellises and arches stretch overhead with creeping vines. Later in the spring, wisteria will bloom, its lilac flowers hanging like clusters of grapes.
I wince, feeling selfish because I’ve only been thinking about my situation. The garden isn’t something she’ll be able to keep up without the stipend. Her financial situation isn’t dire like mine, but with some student loans, she’s not rolling around in extra money. Definitely not the kind it would take to maintain a garden of this size.
She’s right about Archer, of course. His M.O. seems to be business first, people last. If at all.
I wish I could tell her she won’t need to worry about Archer ruining what she’s created here. But I have zero reassurances. I mean, if he could announce he’s going to charge me rent after I helped him with the trash and the possum—and after the moment we shared, which I’m trying to forget we shared—I can’t see him continuing to fund Sophie’s stipend.
“This is a funny looking weed.” I reach for a vine with wide, flat leaves growing up the trunk of a Japanese maple.
Sophie grabs my arm before I can yank it out of the ground. “Leave that one.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure, actually. I haven’t been able to identify it. The mystery is kind of giving me life right now.”
“You’re a weirdo, Soph.”
She gives me a light shove. “Takes one to know one.”
As we move to the next bed, I say, “Trey’s moving home.”
Sophie, made of the stuff of epic best friends, gasps. As she should.
“And he’s engaged.”
Her gasp morphs into a throttled growl of outrage that makes me smile, despite the words I’ve said. It’s the first time I’ve had to say them. The first time since dinner with my parents I’ve thought about them. About him . Trey, my newly-engaged-to-someone-else ex, moving back to Serendipity Springs.
It’s … not so bad. I’m not sure if I’m just strangely numb, if I’ve expended all my emotional energy on the undeserving Archer Gaines, or if I really am that over Trey, but it feels nice to feel nothing.
“No,” Sophie hisses.
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything.”
Sophie loves to gather and store information like it’s ammunition. For what battle, I’m not sure. But when it comes, I want her on my side.
“My mom didn’t tell me much. I guess they met while he was in France, and now they’ve moved back here.”
“A French girl?” Sophie says with a sneer, likely not because of the French but just because it’s Trey we’re talking about.
“No idea. Maybe she’s from Kentucky and he met her on a dating app.”
“Why Kentucky?”
“Why not Kentucky?” I shrug and pull a weed with a huge root system. The sound of it being ripped from the dirt is so satisfying.
Sophie’s button nose, lightly freckled probably from mornings just like this, wrinkles. “Why does Kentucky feel like one of those states that exists but isn’t a place anyone’s actually from?”
“I don’t know, but you’re right. Except Trey’s hypothetical fiancée, I guess.”
“I wonder if she owns horses or has a thick Southern accent. Maybe she’s a debutante who likes to wear fascinators.”
“Those all seem like perfect Kentucky clichés. So, probably yes. All of those. Except … what’s a fascinator?”
“Those little hats everyone wears in England. I’m not sure if that’s what people wear to the Kentucky Derby. I’ve never watched it.”
“Me neither. It’s a lot of anticipation for something that takes two minutes.”
Sophie uses what looks like a miniature rake to level the dirt in the bed we just cleared out, and I slump onto a bench, taking a long swig of water.
“So, you’re feeling okay about the Trey thing? Do we need to talk it out? Hug it out? Maybe go out for ice cream and eat our feelings? You’ve had a lot of blows in one week.”
There’s no heartbreak where Trey is concerned, now that I’ve had a few days to settle in with the knowledge. Just an uncomfortable, sad, and still somewhat painful feeling. Like a lingering bruise fading from angry purple to a sickly yellow. It’s still visible and hurts if you press down hard, but otherwise, it’s easy to forget.
Sophie never met Trey. In fact, she and I became friends the first year PT—Post Trey—when it was less of a bruise and more of an open wound I had to tend, carefully wrapping it up every morning in thick layers of self-talk as gauze.
Once I told her the whole story, she agreed that Trey was never the right guy for me.
I think in some ways, I mourned the loss of time and effort, the loss of the idea that I’d found my great love as much as I mourned the relationship itself. The idea of being a young mom, of having my life mapped out.
All gone in an instant— poof!
“I’m feeling okay. Not sad, just awkward. I don’t want him thinking I’m still here and single, like our breakup left me in pieces while he’s clearly moved on.”
An honest answer. I haven’t had time yet to imagine my life here with the possibility I could run into my ex and his new fiancée—and, I guess, down the road, his wife —at the grocery store. Or even the awareness every time I see Mom that she knows all about Trey’s life and how he’s doing from his mom. The idea exhausts me.
“I mean, I’m over him.”
“Of course,” Sophie says. “If you weren’t, I’d toss you in the compost pile.”
I laugh at this, leaning forward until my elbows sink a little into the soft soil I’m turning. The scent of fresh earth, loamy and rich, is a comfort. I much prefer the smell of sugar and vanilla, but I can see the appeal here. I feel better about everything, even if my circumstances have not actually changed. Talking to Sophie and doing something with my hands gives me a fully satisfied feeling.
A mostly satisfied feeling.
“But it’s a reminder, you know? He’s a reminder. Of what I wish I had. What I could have had, I guess. If I were … different.”
Not for the first time, I think about the baby shower cookies for Bronson and the funk they put me in.
Sophie puts down her rake and stomps over to me. Snatching my water bottle, she takes my hands in hers. The dirt on both our palms creates the tiniest friction as she squeezes.
“You are not the reason that relationship didn’t work,” she says fiercely, her brown eyes blazing. “Do you understand?”
“Please don’t make me repeat after you,” I say weakly.
She smiles, but it’s a smile with an edge. “I won’t unless I feel like you need it. But I need you to know that the reason things didn’t work with Trey was that he was a jerk. He revealed his character when he put you in an impossible situation. His proposal wasn’t a proposal. It was a test. And if someone really loves you, they don’t test you.”
I nod because I agree. I know all this. I’ve had to remind myself of it so many times. My therapist says the same thing.
I’ve talked through it with her for the last year, once I finally forced myself to go. And though I still am not fixed—I know that’s the wrong word, but sometimes it feels like the best one—it’s helped me see things more clearly.
Trey’s proposal was dangling the biggest carrot just out of reach of a scared, hungry rabbit. He thought he would be motivation enough to force me past my “issue,” as he liked to call it.
My “issue” is that I have severe anxiety attacks when I try to leave Serendipity Springs.
I’d heard of agoraphobia, but I thought of it as being unable to leave home. Like Sigourney Weaver in Copycat , another 90s movie, like The Fugitive , that my dad loves.
Or loved . It hits a little too close to home now, and he hasn’t watched it since before .
My sophomore year of college, I started having trouble sleeping whenever it was almost time to go back to school. I would spend the ride back to Boston with Trey battling car sickness and irrational worries. Sometimes the feelings eased up once I settled and started classes, but I was never fully okay until I went home to Serendipity Springs.
My junior year, I lost ten pounds I didn’t need to lose, and my grades started slipping. I couldn’t pinpoint what caused the sudden shift or why leaving home was now an issue.
All this anxiety culminated in a full-blown panic attack my senior year when I tried to drive back to school with Trey after Christmas. My parents, convinced it must be something physical like cancer or a thyroid problem, took me to the hospital and insisted on running every test known to man. We met our deductible that year in January.
Conclusion: a diagnosis of agoraphobia. I finished up my final classes completely online from home, and the university mailed my diploma to Serendipity Springs.
Turns out, agoraphobia doesn’t have to be limited to not leaving your house. At its root, it’s an anxiety disorder that often manifests when it comes to being in public spaces or crowded spaces—or, apparently, even leaving a larger, broader area like your hometown.
It doesn’t make sense to me. Not even after therapy sessions—one of my least favorite things—and doing internet research. I even joined an anonymous online forum to connect with other people who deal with varying presentations of agoraphobia.
Some don’t leave their homes, some can’t go to grocery stores, malls, or other crowded spaces. A few are unable to ride in vehicles.
A handful are like me: unable to leave the city or town where they currently reside. But it’s not common.
Yay, I’m special!
I have no idea why this started. There wasn’t an event or trigger I’ve been able to pinpoint. My therapist says there isn’t always a singular moment because anxiety doesn’t always follow rules or drive in a straight line.
If my diagnosis was tough for me to wrap my head around, it was impossible for Trey. I still remember the concern on his face when I asked him to pull the car over on the highway as we left Serendipity Springs. My heart was racing, my vision blurry, and I couldn’t get enough air. His concern and worry quickly turned to confusion when, through halting breaths, I begged him to drive me back home.
And when we were unpacking my things from Trey’s car, his confusion took on a tiny undercurrent of anger.
I get it. Really, I do. This sounds made up. I’d never heard of something like this until it happened to me. I could understand why it was difficult for Trey to understand why we went from being attached at the hip to suddenly being in a long-distance relationship our senior year.
We’d never had real tension before that. He wanted to understand. He tried. He was kind.
But I could always sense his frustration rippling underneath the surface. I’m not sure he ever fully believed me.
Which is why, when he got the job offer for Paris right after graduation, he took it without consulting me, then asked me to marry him and come with him. He really thought that putting me in an impossible position would somehow be the thing I needed to break through my anxiety.
Joke’s on you, pal. Anxiety disorders don’t respond well to pressure.
Now, with Sophie’s kind gaze and her warm hands squeezing mine, I feel what I stopped feeling with Trey. Safe. He stopped being a safe haven, someone I could trust.
There was no way I could marry him and go to Paris. No way I would want to when he’d put me in that position. All it did was prove he never really understood. Not if he thought I could just positive-think myself out of the crippling anxiety I faced any time I tried to leave Serendipity Springs.
Trey isn’t a horrible person. I have to believe he thought he was helping. He thought this would set me free, giving me something I wanted so much that I’d be able to do something I hadn’t done in almost a year—to be physically, mentally, and emotionally able to leave Serendipity Springs.
“I’m sorry you’re going through so many things at once,” Sophie says, drawing me back to this rooftop moment.
A breeze lifts my hair, stirring it on my shoulders, and I smile. “I’ll be okay. I will.”
“Duh. You’re Willa freaking Smith, a single tiny vowel away from being Will Smith. You can do anything .”
“Honestly, I feel okay about it. It’s going to be awkward when I see him again.”
“You think you will?”
“Serendipity Springs is too small for us not to run into each other. Or the stupid town magic.”
“Don’t badmouth the town magic. If anything, it’s good magic. Or luck. Or whatever. Speaking of, any more closet teleportation?”
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Sophie it happened again. She’s my best friend. And she didn’t freak out or think I was nuts the first time.
But for some reason, last night when I appeared at her door post possum incident to grab my spare key, I just said I got locked out, not that I transported again.
I feel bad about lying, but I also don’t want to talk about it. Preferably, I don’t want to acknowledge the situation. Maybe if I pretend it never happened, it won’t happen again.
Which feels a little like being a kid and thinking that if your head is under the covers, the monster under the bed can’t eat you.
“No more transporting. And I’d like to keep it that way, so let’s never speak of it again. Doesn’t magic need people to believe in it to work?”
“You’re thinking of Tinkerbell. She told Peter Pan if people stopped believing in fairies, they’d all cease to exist.”
I lift my water in a silent toast. “Let’s do that. We don’t believe in or speak of the magic—in my closet or otherwise—and then it doesn’t exist.”
Or I can forget that I’m lying to my bestie about it.
“I kind of like the idea of magic,” Sophie says. “Happy magic, like Galentine always talked about. She said the building helped her find love.”
“And how many times did Galentine get married?”
“Four? Seven? I don’t remember. That just means the magic did a really good job.”
“Or it’s fickle and unreliable.”
“Maybe you transporting into Archer’s closet is the building’s version of a giving you a meet cute?”
I groan. But I’m also blushing because I’m suddenly thinking about that moment again in the hallway, tucked into Archer’s warm chest.
“Can we be done with the magic talk? I’m hungry enough to eat a whole pizza and don’t want you spoiling my appetite.”
“Fine. Also, pizza will be my treat as a way to thank you for rage-helping with the garden.”
I cheer.
“Once we finish this last section,” she adds.
I groan.
“You’re a cruel, cruel garden taskmaster. But I guess I’ll keep you as a friend.”
Even if I’m not being a fully honest one to you right now .