Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Willa
Despite the two times I’ve now experienced unwanted closet transportation, I still don’t truly believe in magic. Or luck—good or bad. Not fates or fated mates (though I love both in novels) or even Murphy’s Law.
And yet.
And yet.
And yet somehow, despite wanting to avoid Archer like a resurgence of the Bubonic plague, he is everywhere I am over the next few days.
Yes, I know we live in the same building. But there are residents of The Serendipity I’ve never laid eyes on. And if Sophie and I didn’t make plans, literal weeks could go by without seeing each other.
Despite this, Archer is like a whole game of whack-a-mole, and I’m without a little mallet to knock him back into his mole holes.
I see him on the front stairs twice, so I switch to the back stairwell.
Apparently, he has the same idea. Or he just likes stairs. Because he’s there too.
After the third time we pass each other in the back, I resign myself to using the elevator.
Only to find Archer there too.
Thankfully, it was a short ride filled with tense silence filling the space like a toxic fog.
Archer is running—shirtless again, ugh—when I’m leaving the building.
He’s in the library on the first floor when I stop in to look for a book.
Surveying the pool with those slate gray eyes when I venture into the courtyard on a particularly sunny afternoon.
Oh, and he appears in my apartment by way of a letter taped to my door—a letter announcing a twenty-five percent increase in rent as well as extra fees for the storage units downstairs and the laundry facility.
Because Archer Gaines is the worst.
So why is it that right now, when I find Archer on the first floor getting a very loud earful from Frank, I actually feel bad for the man?
Frank rages, echoed by the macaw perched on his shoulder, while Archer listens impassively.
“Where do you get the nerve?” Frank says, shaking the letter from Archer at him.
“The nerve!” the macaw repeats.
Oh—did I forget to mention that the aforementioned letter also announced a strict no pets policy going into effect within ninety days?
Yeah. All pets, including birds who talk.
Archer doesn’t defend himself—or his indefensible actions—and shows no visible reaction, like he’s impervious to other people’s opinions being hurled at him in a public space, which is a thing of my nightmares.
I agree with Frank (and the bird), but I find myself wanting to step in. To tell Frank to calm down and not to yell (or have his bird yell) in the middle of the lobby. I’m not sure what else I could really say, considering that Archer is ruining our building. There aren’t really words to defend him.
But I have a sneaking suspicion that Archer Gaines is like an iceberg. He might appear icy and cold on the surface, but there’s a whole lot more underneath.
Okay, so the hidden stuff underneath would also be icy and cold if Archer were an iceberg. Maybe I should have picked another analogy.
The point is, I feel bad for him even if I shouldn’t. I think this has to bother him more than he lets on. And I want to help even if I am totally not on his side.
Sophie would tell me this is my toxic trait—being too helpful—rearing its head. She refers to it as wounded puppy syndrome. In this analogy, I’m not the puppy, but the person who stops for every hurt puppy they see. To which I always argue, who wouldn’t stop to help a wounded puppy?
Also, Sophie never minds this trait when I’m helping her .
I don’t stop for Archer.
I don’t help.
I continue to the mailboxes by the front staircase, trying not to eavesdrop as Frank, who’s always been mild-mannered, and his bird, who is more of a loudmouth, rip into Archer.
Not my circus and Archer is not my fancy-suit-wearing monkey, I tell myself.
Heck, the rent hike announcement had Sophie doing a glum midnight visit to my apartment, where she skipped the cookies and went straight to eating icing directly with a spoon as we googled two-bedroom apartments nearby.
So I get it.
“Do you still think Archer is pulling my pigtails because he has a crush?” I asked her.
She only glared. “My theory was way off base. He’s a very bad, no good, horrible man. I think I hate him.”
Though we did a little toast to our mutual dislike of Archer Gaines, I find myself wincing now as someone else joins Frank. Someone with a deeper voice and a much more colorful vocabulary describing what kind of man he thinks Archer is.
Well, that’s certainly a new combination of words I never thought I’d hear and never want to hear again.
Still silence from Archer, and my heart feels like it’s constricting inside my chest.
This is all Bellamy’s fault. He’s the one who keeps texting me. They started innocently enough, talking about cookies. The man is slightly obsessed, and I’m here for it. But then his texts shift to ask about Archer.
How is he?
Have you seen him?
I’m not sure he has anyone to talk to, so if you see him, could you check in on him? He’d hate it if he knew I said this.
I think he’s concerned about how Archer’s doing on his own.
Then, this very morning, Bellamy called to place an order for cookies this weekend.
“I guess this means you’ll be coming back soon?” I asked.
“I wish it were sooner. I’m putting out fires, and new ones keep cropping up.”
“So, is this a delayed order, then? Because I still don’t ship.”
“This one is for Archer, but I need you to say they’re for me.”
My skin prickled uncomfortably, both at the idea of Archer eating my cookies and at having to talk to him again. “I’d … rather not lie?”
I expected Bellamy to demand to know why or to argue with me, but instead, he sighed. “Given what he’s been doing, I get it.”
“Okay, good.”
“But…”
“I don’t want a but , Bellamy.”
He chuckled. “I’m going to give you one anyway. Archer could use a little kindness.”
“He certainly hasn’t shown me—or any of the other residents—any kindness. If you’re trying to convince me that he’s got a hard outside with an ooey-gooey center, I don’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t describe any parts of him as ooey-gooey. But I would say there’s more to him than what he shows. He’s had a rough go of it.”
“He’s a billionaire. How rough, exactly, could his life be?”
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. I know—though not from experience—that having money can only shield you from so much. It doesn’t equal happiness or freedom from terrible things.
I’m grateful Bellamy didn’t call me on my harsh statement or my assumptions. “He’s worth a chance. I promise you.”
“We’re not talking chances. We’re just talking cookies.” And I don’t want to even give him those.
I hated how disappointed Bellamy sounded when he said, “I understand. But I’d ask that you still do this. For me.”
“For you … but it’s really for him?” I asked.
“Smart girl.”
“Why? Give me a reason, Bellamy.”
He was quiet for so long, I had to check to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “His story isn’t mine to tell. Just think about it.”
Ugh . Why did Bellamy have to humanize him? Archer fit perfectly into the evil robot villain box in my head. An evil robot villain with fantastic abs, that is.
I keep seeing flashes of humanity. Like, for example, just now, when pretending not to watch Frank and the bird both squawk at Archer, I noticed something.
That little tin of mints Archer is always pulling out of his pocket is in his hand. And as I walked by, he was popping them into his mouth one after another like a chain smoker. Or, I guess, a chain mint-chewer.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Bellamy’s words are getting to me. But I have a sneaking suspicion Archer is not okay. That he is barely managing his anxiety with an iron fist and a thin thread.
It’s something I recognize a little too well.
The yelling finally stops, and Archer rounds the corner to the mailboxes, looking remarkably unscathed from his human and avian tongue-lashing. But his mints are still in hand. Our eyes meet for the briefest second before we both pretend they didn’t.
I retrieve my mail—mostly bills and junk—slowly, watching Archer struggle with the combination. Navigating the little mailbox dials is a rite of passage at The Serendipity. They’re original to the building, which means they’re old and finicky. It usually takes the help of a longtime resident to break in newbies.
I could offer to help. Despite everything Archer has done, I want to.
I’ve just opened my mouth to do so when Roberta catches my eye from her mailbox. Roberta lives on the first floor, and I only know her because she’s always eager to make passing conversation.
And by conversation, I mean gossip.
Today, though, she just gives me a silent shake of the head, as if to say, Don’t you dare offer to help the man ruining all of our lives .
I close my mouth, but I don’t feel good about it. Especially not when Roberta and I both walk away, leaving Archer still fiddling with the dial, another mint crunching between his teeth.