Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Iris
I didn’t tell Brooke and Liz about the newspaper.
They would’ve jumped at the chance to talk about magic and matchmaking and my so-called mystical building.
The problem is that I thought about it all day today.
As I sit in my car at a red light a couple blocks from home, I’m still a healthy mix of intrigued and freaked out.
I muddled through work, struggling to concentrate as I tried to find a reason for what I thought I saw that morning. Because if what I think I saw was what I actually saw, then Houston, we have a problem.
Either I’ve started hallucinating. Or my building really is magic.
Hallucinating is more likely, right? Concerning? Sure. But more likely. I’m sure my mind was playing tricks on me. One of my exes, a guy who called himself Ace , convinced me for months that he wasn’t cheating—I just had an overactive imagination.
Maybe that’s all this is.
Only . . . Ace really was cheating. So, that theory doesn’t hold .
Normally, I stick around the school for at least an hour after the final bell, but today, I bolt like I am avoiding a behind-the-school fight. I need to see if the newspaper is still outside my door.
My leg starts bouncing in anticipation as I park my Toyota Corolla in the parking garage next to The Serendipity. If I get upstairs and that newspaper is still outside my door, I’ll march straight down to my grumpy neighbor’s apartment and demand an explanation.
How exactly will that go?
I tried to throw your newspaper, and it basically teleported back to my door. It only moves when I’m not looking, so what’s the deal?!
I groan. Here come the men in the little white coats, asking me to remain calm.
I only now notice that my leg is still bouncing. I put my hands on my knee to try to quell my obvious nervousness.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
I hop out and grab my bag and water bottle from the back seat. I contemplate calling Brooke. She’s been begging for an invite to my place, and maybe I shouldn’t be alone right now. I pull out my phone and start to dial but change my mind and click it off.
If I’m having a breakdown, I need to have it on my own.
That’s great advice, I think.
I try to act natural as I walk into the entryway, but I can feel my eyes darting around and the small hair on the back of my neck standing on end. Once I see that there’s no one else around, I race through the lobby and straight into the stairwell. I bolt up three flights of stairs, skipping every other step, and when I reach the third floor, I stop, hand on the door handle and draw in a very slow, very deep breath.
“Everything is okay.” But I hear the shake in my voice as I open the door to my floor. It’s weird, but a small, tingly part of me wants it to still be there .
I peek around the corner and down the hall, squinting like a child watching a horror movie, not really wanting to see the scene in front of me but compelled to keep looking.
But when I sort out which door is mine, my eyes whip to the floor in front of it, and I let out a relieved sigh.
It’s gone.
My sigh turns to laughter, and I shake away thoughts of delusion.
Hallucinations. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me. That or Matteo noticed it and picked it up on his way out of the building that morning.
“You need more sleep, Iris,” I say out loud as I stick the key in my door, vowing to forego Netflix tonight in favor of actual rest.
I push the door open, and all the good feelings in my body disappear.
On the floor, just inside my door, is a rolled-up newspaper.
Inside my apartment.
Behind the locked door.
I stare at it.
I cock my head and stare at it longer.
In a daze, I slowly turn, close the door, hang up my bag, and then kneel down and gently reach out and pick up the paper.
Not a hallucination. It’s real. I can feel it.
I turn it over and see the same name— Matteo Morgan— on the outside label. I run a finger over it, unsure what I’m looking for. Do I expect the words to come to life? Are the photos going to start to move? Is this paper like some kind of magic fortune cookie, rhyming riddles or predicting the future?
Ooh . Will it make me travel through time? Because I’d really love to find out who Jane Austen was imagining when she wrote Mr. Darcy . . .
Stop it, it’s not real .
I shake it. I stand and move it around like a wand.
Nothing.
It’s just a paper. It’s not exploding in my hand or playing music or turning me into a newt. The only thing special about it is that it’s here, in my apartment.
And while I’m sure there is a logical explanation, I’m also sure that the only person who might know the answer is the man this newspaper belongs to.
I open the door, walk down the hall, and raise a fist to knock. But then I remember my first encounter with him, and I pause. I don’t want to get a reputation as “that deranged single woman who moved in last fall.”
I also don’t want to handle rudeness right now.
I drop the paper at Matteo’s door and pivot back the way I came, thankful when I don’t see anything on my welcome mat. I go inside and close the door behind me. “Not going to try to figure out how that thing got inside,” I say out loud as I open the refrigerator and pull out a Dr Pepper. “I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explana?—”
But as I close the refrigerator and turn back around, I freeze. Because there, on the counter, is a stack of identical rolled-up newspapers.
What. The.
I back away from the fridge and go to set the Dr Pepper on the counter but completely miss, and it hits the floor—remarkably not exploding or spewing soda everywhere. I leave it, walking around the stack, studying it.
Then, in an impulsive rush, I gather all of the newspapers in my arms, fumble to open my door, and haphazardly toss the armload into the hallway and slam the door shut.
I feel a slight wisp of cool air move behind me— were those chimes? —and I tense up. Holding a breath, I close my eyes and spin around to face my apartment. I stand there for a second, not sure if I should listen to the part of me that doesn’t want to open my eyes, or the part of me that really does.
Finally, I give in, and the second I do, I stare at what I see—newspapers everywhere.
On my couch. On the side table. There are newspapers stacked on my chandelier. I look over toward the kitchen table, and there is a stack of newspapers on each chair, staged in a mock family dinner.
I barely notice that my Dr Pepper is back on my counter, upright.
I blindly reach behind me and fumble for the door handle, kicking newspapers now stacked around my feet. Pulling open the door, I stumble out into the hallway to confirm that the newspaper I’d just set in front of Matteo’s door is, in fact, gone.
It is.
Something inside me switches.
I’m not scared. I’m not freaked out.
I’m curious. And determined.
I want to find out how this is happening, and I decide that he must have the answers. I leave my door open as I head toward his apartment. Is he some sort of Harry Houdini? Is he the one playing tricks on me?
I answer zero of these questions before impulsively knocking—loudly—on his door.
It’s the middle of the afternoon. There’s no way he’s actually home. Don’t chefs work 24/7? And live in the kitchen? I feel like I read that somewhere.
I take a step closer to the door and lean in, as if I’ll be able to hear anything in what I assume is an empty apartment. As I do, I glance down the hall and see newspapers sticking out of my doorway.
I bang on the door again.
Nothing .
After at least thirty seconds, I give up and walk away. It’s probably better this way. What would I have even said to him?
I walk back down to my door and look inside.
They’re everywhere.
I kick a pile of them back into the entryway of my apartment. As I do, I hear the sound of a door opening down the hall. I spin around and see Matteo step out of his apartment.
Seriously? He could’ve waited another minute before leaving after he just pretended not to be home.
“Hey, did you not hear me knock? I was?—”
He nonchalantly locks his door and starts down the hall in my direction, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. My breath catches in my throat. He looks like he just stepped out of an ad for luxury clothing. Or high-end watches. One of those salons specializing in making people look extra hot. That’s a thing, right?
I’m suddenly self-conscious, which is my least favorite way to feel. I absently run a hand over my shirt and stand up a little straighter, cross my arms, then uncross them and cross them back, trying not to think that he must be a pretty successful chef.
He looks expensive.
By contrast, I look like I work in an elementary school. There’s a very good chance I have peanut butter in my hair.
Matteo doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice me at all. In fact , he walks right past me without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.
This guy !
I’m so stunned, it takes me a slow three-count before I realize that yes, he really did that. He really was that rude to me. Would it have killed him to say hello? That’s just basic human etiquette. Does he think he’s too good to at least wave at his neighbor ?
Yes, we’re essentially strangers, but honestly. Would a simple “hello” have killed him?
I spin around on my heel and rush down the hall behind him. “Hey!”
No response.
“HEY! Excuse me?!”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps walking toward the third-floor lounge area, reaching for the door to the stairwell.
“Hey!” I call out before he disappears. “Do you want to tell me what kind of trick you’re playing?”
Now, he stops, hand still on the doorknob, and finally—finally—glances my way. He reaches up and takes AirPods out of his ears.
Okay, fine, while that does make his lack of acknowledgement a tiny bit more understandable, he does have eyes. Couldn’t he see me standing in the hallway?
He frowns. “I’m sorry?”
His voice is low and deep, and it almost makes me forget that I’m really, really annoyed with him.
“Did you not see me? I was standing right—” I shake my head and scratch above my eyebrow. “Your newspaper?”
His eyes flicker, but he gives no indication that he understands.
“The newspaper. The newspaper! ” I’m repeating it like he should just know what I mean. It’s like someone playing charades who repeats the same motion over and over and expects you to guess something different.
He still looks confused.
“Putting it in front of my door was one thing, but inside my apartment?” I scoff. “I feel like this might actually be a felony. I don’t know that for sure, but I’m going to find out. Do you have keys to my apartment? Do you know the owner of the building or something? I mean . . . I don’t know how you’re doing it, but you need to stop, because that is a total invasion of pri?—”
“I did what?” He cuts me off. The frown line deepens in his forehead. It’s so deep, I assume it’s a permanent fixture. I’ve known rude people before. I always—always—win them over. It often becomes a little bit of an obsession, which has only come back to bite me once.
Or maybe five times.
I try to remind myself at this moment to not do what I always do.
We’ll see how that goes.
I soften a little when he drops his hand from the stairwell door and takes a step toward me. “What do you mean? What do you think I did?”
His voice is laced with genuine concern—whether it’s for me or something else, I’m not sure—but by the way my body is responding to it, I must have decided it’s for me.
I sigh, realizing in that moment that this is a really stupid thing to accuse him of. I’m blaming my desperation. I need that logical explanation.
“I . . .” I start, but then stop, trying to figure out how to explain this without raising red flags. But Matteo is the only other person who seems to be connected to these newspapers.
Who else am I supposed to ask about them?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes so I’m not distracted by the weight of his attention.
“I put the paper at your door this morning,” I say. “But it didn’t stick.”
“It didn’t . . . stick?”
Now, I look at him. “It didn’t stick. It didn’t stay where I put it. I turned around and it was back at my door.”
There’s that look again. It’s like he’s caught or . . . guilty, somehow, and I know immediately he knows something but isn’t saying it.
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he says flatly, changing his demeanor.
“I don’t believe you.”
He studies me, a little too intently, then shrugs. “Sorry.”
I persist. “You have to know something! Your name is on the paper. Is that even normal? For there to be an address label on a newspaper?”
He shrugs again.
This is infuriating. I can feel that he knows something. Why won’t he just tell me?
“And is it normal for me to come home from work and find a whole stack of newspapers on my kitchen counter?”
At that, his eyebrow twitches. “A stack?”
“A stack ,” I say again. “Was that you? Are you playing a joke on me? Seems a little strange since we just met and you really don’t seem like the joking type, but you know, weirder things have happened. Probably.”
His eyes narrow. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I can prove it to you!” I motion for him to follow me back down the hall. He hesitates so long, I’m actually shocked when he starts walking in my direction.
I reach my still-open apartment door and say, “Here, Mr. Know-Nothing, how do you explain . . . this!? ” Without looking, I hold up my arms as if it’s The Price is Right and I’m displaying a brand-new car.
He peers past me, then looks at me.
“Nice apartment.”
I scoff. “Nice?! What about all of the?—”
I turn around. My apartment is completely empty.
Except for a Dr Pepper on the counter.
“What?!” I exclaim. “No, no, no, this was all covered, there were newspapers everywhere , and they just appeared , and they all had your name on them, and . . .” I rush into my apartment, frantically moving things around, pulling up couch cushions.
“Can I go, or . . .?” He’s standing in my doorway, motioning toward the stairwell.
I stand in stunned disbelief. “Great. Okay. Fabulous. Go back to work.” I push my hands through my hair, frustrated when, as expected, my fingers snag on the peanut butter from Eliana Watson’s sandwich. That’s what I get for leaning in to help open fruit snacks at lunch. The kindergartner thought my hair was pretty, and when she reached out to touch it, she transferred a glob of Skippy straight to it.
I unglue my fingers from my hair and glance up to find that Matteo has disappeared from my doorway.
I sprint over and lean out just in time to see the stairwell door slowly closing, his footfalls retreating down the stairs.
I blow out a tense breath, closing my eyes and shaking my head at the ceiling. I know he knows what’s going on. And even though he seems fixed on not telling me, I now have a new obsession . . . er, project.
Matteo Morgan.
I turn back to my apartment, glance at the counter, and let out a rueful laugh.
There, next to my Dr Pepper, is a neat stack of rolled-up newspapers.