Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Willa
It’s been weeks since my closet has hurled me through its fickle, invisible, improbably impossible portal.
So, as I’m rooting around in there for my pajama pants after I’ve finished the cookie order, I’m wholly unprepared to find myself suddenly tripping over shiny dress shoes.
A collection of shoes that probably cost as much as the trade-in value on my Hyundai.
This passage from closet to closet felt a whole lot more violent than either time before, and my stomach is churning. I take a moment to orient myself, steadying one hand against the wall as I draw in a breath and wait for my gut to settle. The closet door is cracked, so I’m not in pitch darkness, which is helpful.
What’s less helpful is the fact that Archer is home. Or, at least, he was just minutes ago when I left his apartment.
And here I had just started to convince myself that I had somehow misremembered the magical closet.
That sounds illogical, I know—but does it sound any more illogical than the truth? But as weeks passed with no activity, I started to think it hadn’t really happened. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it. And if I didn’t believe it, then it couldn’t be true.
Kind of like the year my mom said if I didn’t believe in Santa, I wouldn’t get good gifts. To which I agreed: “Yeah, I didn’t believe last year, and I didn’t get much.”
I didn’t understand why Mom and Dad were laughing so hard until years later.
Too bad my childhood Santa theory didn’t work in this situation. Because, believe it or not, I’m now in Archer’s closet. And I can’t see a way around having to explain myself to him.
I stare down at his shiny, expensive shoes. He’ll believe me. He will. Probably?
This isn’t like the first time it happened, when I was just some strange woman appearing in his closet. I’m Willa—Willa the Person. His person.
But if there’s one thing I know to be true about Archer, it’s that he’s rooted in logical thinking. Something the closets in this building, apparently, are not.
And now, in addition to telling him about my agoraphobia, which he handled so perfectly and with so much kindness, I’m going to need to tell him about my magical closet.
Or our magical closets? I’m not sure if his closet is pulling me in or if mine is pushing me out, or if I should just blame the whole stupid building at this point.
How many huge, weird things can a straightlaced, practical man like Archer handle in a single week? I wonder. Guess I’m about to find out.
Maybe I’m lucky and he’s gone down to get the mail or something. I can let myself out and?—
I hear a sniff. No—a sniffle. It’s wetter than a sniff. Followed by a shaky breath. Neither of which are sounds I’m used to hearing from Archer.
Because…those are crying sounds. I know them well.
My panic about having to explain magic disappears, sucked into a deeper vortex of panic these sounds elicit, and I swing the door open and step outside.
Immediately, I see Archer. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies. Because he’s across the room, lying right on the rug with his back to me, still in his suit pants but only an undershirt. His tie and button-down and shoes are scattered in very un-Archer-like fashion around the room.
I’m on the floor behind him before I can second guess. He doesn’t react when I lean over him, curling my body protectively over his.
I drag my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.
“Hey,” I say softly, brushing my lips over his cheek. It’s wet, and my heart throbs with worry. “Hey, I’m here.”
I swallow down all the questions I want to ask when he sighs, a deep release of breath that relaxes his whole body. One of his hands lifts enough to clasp my forearm, hugging it to his chest. I can feel his heart racing, and he’s breathing much too fast.
“Willa,” he says, then sniffs again. His voice is missing the normally deep roughness, the solid command I’m so used to.
What could possibly have happened since I last saw him?
“Hi, boss.” I hook a leg over his until I’m a mix of a spoon and a blanket. I struggle to keep the worry out of my voice. What he needs right now is my calm. “You’re warm.”
He sighs again, then tightens his grip on my arm. “You too.”
For a few moments that stretch like an eternity of worry, I stroke his hair and listen to his breathing, all while wondering what brought this strong man to his knees.
It’s killing me not to just ask what’s wrong. But I’m a little scared of the answer…and even more scared he might not answer at all. After I shared about my agoraphobia, he wouldn’t say whatever he planned to tell me. Now I’m worried it was something much bigger than what he’d let on. I suspected it was about his father’s trial, since he’s going back this week for it. But he hardly mentioned it.
Which maybe means it’s buried deep.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask after a few minutes.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“You don’t have to talk to me about it, but it’s not nothing, Archer.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you.”
I ignore the dagger slicing through me at those two little words: with you . But this isn’t about me, so I swallow my hurt and my pride as I say, “Want me to call Bellamy?”
“ No .”
We sit quietly for a few more minutes, the tension building to a level that feels impossible to bear. I’m a can inside a trash compactor, unable to fight off the crushing pressure.
“Please? You know that you can trust me, Archer. I don’t know how to be here for you if you won’t talk to me.”
He tenses, then releases a slow breath. “You’ve already helped,” he says.
“Have you ever had a panic attack before?”
“Once.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I’d like to borrow a toolkit from a professional thief so I can pick the locks Archer has around himself.
Actually, forget the fancy tools. Give me a sledgehammer and a blowtorch.
“Was there anything in particular that helped you get through it?”
“I like what you’re doing with my hair,” Archer says, and I double down on my head rub. “But you need to go do cookies, don’t you?”
“I do. But this is more important. You are more important.” I pause, keeping up the rhythmic drag of my fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t know if this has to do with the trial this week, but I’ve been thinking about it. About you. I can’t imagine how hard that would be. I wish … I wish I could go with you. Not that you asked,” I add quickly. “But if you wanted me there, I would want to be there.”
He’s quiet for so long that I sit up a little, looking down at him. Archer rolls onto his back, adjusting me so I’m tucked into the crook of his arm, my head on his shoulder. It’s comfortable, but it means I can’t see his face.
Which is maybe how he wants it. Talking is easier without eye contact.
But he still says nothing.
I’ll admit it; I’m disappointed. It’s selfish to want him to want me there when I know I can’t go. I also hate that he’s not talking to me about what’s wrong. Especially after I pretty much opened a vein earlier in sharing what I did. It’s like being on a seesaw with a hippopotamus on the other side—a complete imbalance of emotional weight and vulnerability.
Give him time , I tell myself, even if it’s the opposite of my instinct, which wants me to pry and beg and force my way inside.
Archer’s lips brush over my forehead. I tighten my jaw, willing it not to wobble or shake.
Archer is the one dealing with something huge right now—whatever it is. Not me. I won’t make this about me.
“Thank you,” he says finally. “I’ll go to New York and deal with it. Then I’ll be back. It will be fine. Okay?”
He’s minimizing. I can hear him talking himself into believing his words, the same way I’ve done with so many things.
In the past almost five years, I’ve never felt so frustrated about my inability to leave Serendipity Springs. It makes me wish I’d started therapy earlier or not fought Judith at every turn. Not told her no when she suggested I try cognitive behavioral therapy, whatever that is.
Maybe, if I’d done more or tried harder, I would have been able to go with Archer now. I could have insisted and tagged along, hiding in his luggage if needed. Just to show my support. But I can’t, and the thought burns.
I know Judith would tell me I’m being too critical. But Judith also would applaud the sudden burning need I have to do whatever work I can to see if it would help.
Because I don’t want to be left in this position again—where I feel like my choices and my agency are being taken from me.
Four and a half years ago, I was crushed when Trey asked me to go to France with him—even though the moment he asked, I knew I wouldn’t want to go, even if I could.
Now, Archer is acting like he doesn’t need me in New York, and all I want is to be with him there.
After a few more minutes of silence, I extricate myself from Archer and he walks me to the door.
“I’ll see you in the morning? I need to get things ready for Steve to start next week,” I say.
Archer’s gaze moves past me. “I think … I might just go to the city a day early.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“I think that’s best.”
Why does it feel like we’re having a fight even though we’re not fighting?
I ignore the feeling and press up on my toes to kiss him. “Hurry back.”
His gaze heats as he chases my mouth, deepening the kiss for not nearly long enough. “As soon as I can.”
Okay, maybe things aren’t so dire. Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic, and Archer just needs more time to open up to me.
But as Archer turns the deadbolt, he pauses and frowns, staring at it. I watch the growing crease between his brows as he runs a finger over the lock.
And it’s at this moment I remember how I got here. My stomach lands somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry room in the basement.
Archer glances at me. “How did you get into my apartment? Did Bellamy give you his key?”
“I—no.” My thoughts are running like a scared mob, trampling over one another.
Make an excuse!
Tell the truth!
RUN!
“I was planning to give you a key tonight but forgot,” Archer says. “I wrapped it up in a box and put it in a drawer—did you find it?”
Such a sweet gesture. I only wish he’d remembered to do it. Because then I could lie and tell him I used my key. Lying would be so much easier.
I shake my head. “No,” I whisper.
His features tense as I watch, like a door slowly closing. “Then how did you get into my apartment, Willa?”
“Before you say anything, let me explain. Please.”
Archer doesn’t say anything. But as he crosses his arms and takes the smallest step back, his body says a lot.
“I guess I shouldn’t say I’m going to explain because, honestly, I can’t explain it. But this is the truth—sometimes, when I walk into my closet, I end up in your closet. And I know how that sounds. I promise, I know. There are rumors the building is magical, and I have no idea if that’s true and I honestly don’t even really believe in magic. If it hadn’t happened to me—three times now, actually—I wouldn’t believe it at all.”
I pause and take a breath, keeping my gaze focused on Archer’s undershirt, which is as clean and pressed as his starchy button-downs.
“Say something,” I plead. “Ask me questions! I’ll answer what I can, even if I don’t know how. Or why.”
I finally dare to look up at him and wish I hadn’t. His face is as closed and impassive as the day I met him, when we had a similar discussion in the same room.
“Three times?” Archer asks, finally. “I know about the first time you claimed this happened and now tonight. You were in my apartment a third time?”
“Y-yes. The night of the possum. I was getting ready to deliver Bellamy’s cookies, but then— poof !—the closet delivered me here. I left the cookies and then ran into you downstairs.”
“My door was unlocked when I came back up,” he says, his eyes still looking at something—anything, it seems—other than me.
“I didn’t have a way to lock it. You believe me?” I ask, sounding as desperate and needy as I feel.
Archer finally meets my gaze, his gray eyes all steel. “I …” He pauses and studies my face. Not with the kind, doting looks I’ve grown used to, but like he’s a scientist and I’m a virus under a microscope. “I’m trying to reconcile this … explanation with the person I knew.”
It’s the past tense that does it for me. “Right. My explanation. You mean my lie .”
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, deeply hurt.
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.