Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sophie
Willa lives a 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 a different closet.
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 flower is magic, 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.”
Peter definitely has 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.”
Orrrr someone 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 Willa and Archer 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.
I give the table a nudge to get Peter’s attention—a totally juvenile move but one I know will work without annoying him because we’ve both been doing it since high school.
Peter breathes out a patient sigh and lifts his gaze to mine, peering at me over the top of his computer.
I grin. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he repeats…definitely not returning my grin, though I see humor behind his brown eyes.
“What’s up? It’s after six o’clock on a Saturday. Are you working?”
He closes his laptop. “Just answering a few emails.”
“How did things go at your parents’ house?”
Sadness flickers behind his eyes, but he quickly masks it. He hasn’t said much about his parents’ planned move but knowing Peter and how close he is to his family, it has to be hitting him pretty hard.
“I brought home most of my LEGO sets,” he finally says.
I let out a little gasp, sitting up a little taller in my seat. “All of them?”
“As much as I could fit in my car without taking them apart.”
I look around his kitchen. “You brought them here? Where are they?”
Peter slips his fingers under his glasses and presses them into his eyes. Then he runs his hands through his light brown hair. “In my office. That’s why my laptop is out here. I don’t have enough room in there anymore.”
I stand and dart through the kitchen, ignoring Peter’s calls to be careful as I fling open his office door.
On every surface. On top of his desk, on every bookshelf, on every available inch of floor space. Peter’s office is filled with LEGO models. Cars, trains, airplanes. Even the super expensive Starship Enterprise that he got for his sixteenth birthday and spent an entire summer putting together.
I feel Peter approach behind me, the heat of his six-foot frame warming my back.
“It looks like so much more in this smaller space,” I say, looking over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says, the word sounding heavy.
I turn to face him. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugs. “It’s finally starting to seem real, I guess.”
I study Peter’s expression, sensing how much he isn’t saying. His parents are selling the house where he grew up, the house they’ve lived in since before Peter was born. They’re selling, and they’re moving. All the way to South Carolina, where they’re planning to live it up as retirees in a state where it only snows once every ten years.
“I can’t believe they’re taking Allison, too,” I say. I step into the room and adjust the wheels on a bright red racecar.
“Allison is an adult,” Peter says. “They aren’t taking her; she’s moving because she wants to. She’s excited about the warm weather, and she needs a new start.”
Allison broke up with her fiancé of two years over Christmas, so sure, I can see her wanting a new start, especially since she and her ex currently work at the same accounting firm. But does her new start really have to be five states away?
I turn to face Peter, pushing my hands into my back pockets and feeling indignant on his behalf.
His parents only told him three weeks ago that they were putting their house on the market. I know he’s feeling things, but I can’t get him to talk to me about it.
I know Peter.
He keeps his social circle small, but once you’re in that circle, he is fiercely loyal, and his family is right at the center of it. His parents are kind and supportive, likable and easy to be around, and his sister is just as amazing. The four of them talk frequently and have family dinners at least a few times a month.
He must hate everything about them leaving, and I’m worried that by not saying it, admitting it out loud, he’s setting himself up for some kind of crash.
But then, what do I know? I speak all my feelings out loud the minute they pop into my brain.
“Peter, you know you can talk to me, right? You don’t have to pretend like their move doesn’t bother you.”
His jaw tightens the slightest bit. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s right for them.”
“Maybe. But it can be right for them and still suck for you. Both things can be true at once.”
He takes a deep breath. “I know. And I appreciate your concern, Soph. But I promise I’m okay.”
I swallow any further protests—they won’t do me any good, at this point—and turn my attention back to the LEGO sets. “So, you got them all.”
“It was either that or the donation pile. This isn’t even all of them. I still have to go back to get the bins of loose pieces.”
“Where will you put those?”
“I was hoping the basement? I don’t keep much in my storage space down there.”
“That should work,” I say. “Or you could keep some at my place. The closet in my office is basically empty.” I leave the racecar and move toward a replica of Notre-Dame Cathedral. “Why not display some around the apartment?” I ask. “Put a few in the living room, a few more in here. Maybe some in your bedroom?”
Peter gives me a wry look. “My LEGO collection is not a flex, Soph. That won’t help my already dismal dating life.”
I roll my eyes. “Exactly how many dates have you invited over in the past year?” I push a hand into his chest, nudging him out of the way so I can move back into the kitchen. I open his pantry and pull out a box of Cheez-Its, dumping a handful of the crackers into my palm. “If you never invite anyone over, it doesn’t matter. A woman can’t be bothered by a LEGO collection she’s never seen.”
“I’ve invited women over,” he says, following behind me. He takes the box of crackers and reaches in for his own handful. “At least two in the past six months. Which I’m pretty sure is two more than you. ”
“I have definitely been out with more than two guys,” I say, yanking the box of crackers out of his hands.
“Yeah? Name them.”
I shove at least twenty crackers into my mouth at once, and Peter smirks like he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Bon, and Babid, and Beb,” I say, crumbs spilling out of my mouth and onto the floor.
“Bon and Babid,” Peter repeats. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to meet them.”
“Don’t judge me,” I say. “You know I’m terrible at dating. But you aren’t. I could list half a dozen women who would love to go out with you, right here on the spot.”
I really could list off six women. Maybe twice that many. Peter doesn’t have the same sidekick curse that I do. He might not be in-your-face-hot like the typical romcom hero, but he’s mastered the sexy professor vibe. The glasses, the dry sense of humor. The enormous brain. The only reason he’s still on the market is because he just doesn’t date enough.
I, on the other hand, have had no shortage of dates. I just can’t seem to make any of them go anywhere.
In my lowest moments, I’m convinced there’s something wrong with me. That it’s a Stewart family curse, and I’m destined to live out my days like my mother, ever the date, never the wife. But I don’t want to be like my mother. And sidekick energy or not, I have a lot going for me. I’m gainfully employed, even if I do have a billion dollars in student loan debt—thank you, Charles Crooksley—I’m funny, I’m a very loyal friend, and I have zero food intolerances or allergies.
I should be the easiest date ever.
But nothing ever sticks.
Willa thinks the problem is that I always seem to pick the wrong guy. As she once so aptly described, my ick detector is broken. The red flags most women sense on the first date don’t even register for me. Not until I’m at least four or five dates in.
If I have been dating less, it’s only because I’m tired of striking out. Of getting excited then having everything come crashing down when I discover the really cute high school gym teacher I thought might be my soulmate has a list of non-negotiables, including a Star Trek-themed wedding, costumes not optional.
I have a strong appreciation of nerd culture. I love Peter’s LEGO collection. And I respect the dedication of the people who dress up in cosplay for midnight movie releases of their favorite franchise films. But I draw the line at walking down the aisle in Spock ears.
“Come on,” I say, finally setting down the Cheez-Its. “You know why I don’t date. You don’t have the same excuse.”
Something flickers behind Peter’s gaze, an emotion I can’t quite read, but then he rubs a hand down his face, and whatever I saw is hidden behind a mask of indifference. “I don’t know why you don’t date,” he says. “I know why you say you don’t date, but I think that’s an excuse.”
“My broken ick detector is not an excuse.”
“Yes, it is,” he argues. He brushes the Cheez-It crumbs from his fingers and moves over to the table to grab his phone. “Do you want Chinese?”
“Yes, please.”
He nods and focuses on his screen long enough to order our favorites, then sets the phone face-down on the counter. His t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, and I find myself wondering if he’s been working out lately. Peter has always had a lanky swimmer’s body, but it definitely seems like there’s a little more bulk to him than I’ve ever noticed before.
“What if you’re just looking in the wrong places?” he asks, snapping my attention back to his face.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “Maybe the guy you’re supposed to be with isn’t on a dating app. Maybe he’s someone you already know.” He lifts a hand and hooks it around the back of his neck. “Someone you work with, maybe. Or…I don’t know. Someone you met in school.”
I frown. “Wouldn’t I have realized it if I had? Felt something? Noticed some kind of chemistry?”
“People change, Sophie,” Peter says easily. “Just open your eyes a little. Maybe you’ll see someone in a new light.”
For a split second, I wonder if Peter is talking about him. Does he want me to see him in a different light? But I quickly dismiss the thought.
It’s not that I haven’t considered it. For a brief stretch during our senior year, I nursed a pretty intense crush on Peter. But after several weeks of dropping what I thought were obvious hints, he didn’t take the bait, so I filed away my crush and leaned hard into the friendzone. And I don’t have any regrets about that. Peter is an amazing best friend, and I don’t want to do anything to mess that up. With how easily I seem to crash and burn with men, I probably would mess things up. Which is all the more reason to steer clear.
“Okay, I’ll try looking at people in a new light if you agree to go out with Miranda.”
“Who’s Miranda?”
“The woman who runs Spring View Nursery. She sells me all my plants.”
Peter grunts. “I’ll go out with Miranda if you spend as much time on dates as you do with your plants.”
I scowl. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“No deal, then,” Peter says. “I’m not caving if you won’t.”
I sigh and push away from the counter. “What do you know about my plants anyway? It’s not like you ever come up to my garden.” I move back into Peter’s office and retrieve the model of Notre-Dame. It’s one of those architectural ones that looks less like a toy. He can absolutely put this one in his living room.
“Only because spring is basically here, and I don’t have a death wish,” Peter says when I reappear in the kitchen. “I’ll go once all the pollen has settled.”
“You should,” I say as I move into the living room. “It looks amazing.” I set Notre-Dame on the top of the low-profile bookshelf behind his couch. “You should leave this one out here. It’s cool enough it won’t scare any women away.”
I turn to see Peter looking at me, hands pushed into his pockets. “Will you go with me? When I pick up the rest?”
It feels big that he’s asking. Peter doesn’t usually ask for anything. Especially not company. If we hang out, it’s because I show up. If we go places, it’s because I drag him there. I know he enjoys my company. He’s told me as much multiple times. But I’m pretty sure he prefers his own company just as much.
Which is why I have to say yes. He wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t really need me.
“Of course I will,” I say.
“Good. Thanks,” Peter says, the sincerity in his expression giving me pause. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” I manage to say. But for the rest of the night, I can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s something else behind Peter’s invitation.
I just can’t put my finger on what it is.