Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Willa
When Sophie finds me, I’ve moved through what I’m calling the five stages of self-destruction. My current level—which I’m labeling a bomb shelter somewhere below rock bottom—involved pulling everything out of my closet. I mean everything . I dumped the contents on the floor of my bedroom in a messy pile resembling something between a hoarder’s stash and a giant bird nest.
I am now sitting in the center like it’s my personal, messy throne. My only loyal subject is the dresser I’ve dragged in front of the closet door. It’s one of those pieces of furniture where the drawer pulls give it the look like a human face, so it’s staring back at me in something like horror.
Fitting .
“Oh, honey,” Sophie says, crouching down beside a pile topped with a handbag and a few unmatched socks. “This is …”
“It’s fine.” I sniff. “I have ice cream. See?”
Ice cream was the previous stage, and it’s bleeding into this one. After my desperate attempt to leave Serendipity Springs and drive to New York failed miserably, I marched into Spring Foods and bought five different pints of the good stuff that’s definitely outside my budget. But not today! Because the ice cream stage coincides nicely with the denial stage where I can pretend buying brand name groceries is in my budget. I also bought a large tub of jimmies, the kind of chocolate sauce that hardens on top, and maraschino cherries, which I’ve been eating straight from the jar. I can feel the sticky juice in my neck.
Sophie eyes me carefully, blowing a dark curl back from her face. “How much ice cream did you eat?” she asks, and I don’t appreciate her tone.
“None of your business—that’s how much,” I snap, taking another vindictive spoonful. All my normal silverware was dirty, so I’m using a massive plastic serving spoon, which hardly fits inside my mouth. “I’ll never tell.”
But my eyes betray me, darting to the corner of my room where I’ve thrown three empty pint containers.
“I see,” Sophie says. “And how’s your tummy feeling?”
The facade of stubborn strength I’m trying to show crumbles. “B-better than my heart.”
It takes a good friend to climb inside your heartbreak with you. And the very best of friends who will climb inside not just your heartbreak but your nest of clothing when you most likely have chocolate on your face and definitely have jimmies in your bra.
But that’s Soph.
With careful fingers, she pries the spoon and now-empty carton of ice cream from my hand, tossing them both in the corner with the other carcasses. Then she wraps me up in a giant hug, not even deterred by my stickiness.
“You have chocolate in your ear,” she says after a moment. I can tell she’s holding back laughter.
When you’re in the state I am, only a thin veil separates laughter from tears. My shaky breath gives way to a giggle. “You assume that’s chocolate.”
“What else would it— ew . Never mind! Strike the question from the record. We’re going to work from the assumption that it’s chocolate. Because you also have it in your hair. On the plus side, you smell downright edible.”
“Thank you.” I sniff.
“Want to talk about what has you sitting in squalor and barricading your closet?”
“No. I really don’t.” But I do anyway. Because it’s Sophie, and she listens but doesn’t judge. Also, I need to talk through this.
So, I tell her about transporting up to Archer’s closet, finally coming clean about the other time I didn’t tell her about. And that he asked me how I got into his locked apartment, which led to him basically telling me I’m a dirty liar, which led to all the stages of grief, culminating in the clothing pile and the discarded ice cream cartons and the dresser barricade.
When I’m done, I really wish I had the last carton of ice cream, but it’s in the freezer, and I don’t think I could escape Sophie’s tight hug anyway.
“You tried to leave Serendipity Springs?” She sounds impressed.
She shouldn’t, considering how far I made it.
“Yeah. Didn’t make it much farther than last time. Just past the sign saying you’re leaving town. About a mile after that I had to turn around.”
My hands went clammy on the wheel first, then my heart started feeling like it was being squeezed by a vise. Stars danced in my field of vision until it was too hard to see the road. I only realized I had been holding my breath when I turned the car around and found myself gasping for air.
The only plus side is that I didn’t barf.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie says. “But I think you’re really brave for trying. Next time, let me come with you. Please?”
“It’s embarrassing,” I mumble. “I feel so stupid.”
“It’s brave. You’re a warrior. And I’m happy to go alongside you, okay? But I have a question. Archer was being a jerk. Why were you trying to go to him? He should be coming to you. Apologizing. Maybe even groveling.”
I don’t disagree, and it takes a moment to consider my explanation.
“He really hurt me,” I say finally. “But I also understand. I mean, you totally bought into this whole closet thing right away. If our roles had been reversed, I’m not so sure I would have believed you. Not that I would have thought you were lying,” I add quickly. “I trust you. But believing in some kind of actual magic? It’s … a lot. And Archer is so very practical.”
He’s a lot of other things too: kind, thoughtful, surprisingly funny when he’s comfortable in a situation. Handsome. Tender. I suddenly ache from the force of missing him.
“The man’s middle name should be Logic,” I joke, needing to ease the tightness coiling in my chest.
“Do you know his actual middle name?” Sophie asks.
This silly question pushes me back into tears. I hate crying. But hating it doesn’t stop my body from doing it anyway. Especially as I think about him giving me his monogrammed handkerchief.
“Oliver. It’s Oliver. But I don’t know so many other things. But I thought I knew him. I want to know those things. I want … all of it.” Sophie rocks me a little as a shuddery breath escapes me. “I’m hurt and maybe a little mad, even though I do understand his reaction. Anyway, I wanted to go to New York because I know he’s got his father’s trial tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t want me to be there, even before the whole closet thing. But I wanted to be there. He’s a good man, and he deserves to have someone by his side.”
The words all come out wobbly through my tears. Sophie just listens and holds onto me like she’s auditioning to be my new favorite sweater.
“What about the closet?” she asks, nodding toward the mess in my room and the dresser blocking the door. “What happened there?”
“I got mad at it,” I say. “I got inside and begged and pleaded for it to just transport me to New York wherever Archer is. I figured it might work. Maybe the key isn’t Archer’s closet as much as Archer himself. But it didn’t work. Stupid closet.” I kick at a bedroom slipper, which bounces off the dresser and lands harmlessly on the floor.
“Aw, sweetie. We don’t know how the magic works, but I guess we can definitively say it’s not like a genie granting wishes.”
“If it were, I’d wish I never met Archer Gaines.”
“You don’t mean that.”
No, I don’t. Not even a little bit.
But I do hate this ugly, dark feeling spreading through my chest. It’s worse than anything I ever felt after Trey and I broke up. Which feels impossible. Maybe your first heartbreak is just a way to prep you for the real one that’s a million times worse.
“I shouldn’t feel this way after a few w-weeks,” I tell Sophie through a broken sob. “It’s not like I’m in love with him.”
“You’re not?”
“No! I can’t be. It’s too soon,” I say, even though I sound like I’m trying to convince myself. Or convince us both. It’s not working on either count.
Sophie hands me a tissue. I’m not sure where it came from, and I don’t really care. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose.
“I’m just not sure love works on a specific timeline,” she says. “Days, weeks, years. I think it pretty much does whatever it wants. Like your closet.”
“Then I hate love too.”
Sophie gives me a tight squeeze, rocking me back and forth. “Don’t say that. Because you know what? I have a feeling Archer is just as miserable as you are. Maybe more. And I bet any minute now, he’s going to walk right through your door and?—”
Sophie is interrupted by a loud thump. The dresser blocking the closet rattles like something hit the door from the other side.
We both freeze.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” Sophie replies in the same soft but urgent tone.
Another thud and what sounds like a muffled groan. Then the door handle twists. It should feel like we’re watching a horror movie.
Except … the tiniest kernel of hope is opening in my chest.
I get to my feet, staring at the knob. Someone on the other side tries to push the door open, but the dresser blocks it. Sophie hooks an arm around my leg and holds on tight, cowering.
But I’m not afraid. Maybe I should be, but I have a gut feeling about this.
“Hello?” I call, hesitant but hopeful. “Who’s there?”
“Willa?”
At the sound of Archer’s voice, something moves through me. A warm liquid unfurls and spreads through my limbs until my hands are shaking. But my steps are firm as I extricate myself from Sophie’s grip and step in front of the dresser.
He must not have left, after all. He’s been upstairs this whole time, and now The Serendipity must have decided it was time for Archer to experience the closet transport.
“I’m here,” I say. “You’re in my closet. Give me a sec. I need to unblock the door.”
“Why is the door blocked?” he asks, and the question makes me grin.
Because he’s not asking other questions like Why am I in your closet? Or How I did get here?
Sophie grabs the other side of the dresser, and together, we make easy work of dragging it back to its rightful spot. Then I stop and stare at the closet door, my hands still trembling.
“I’m going to go,” Sophie whispers, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “But you’d better find me later and fill me in. And make him grovel.”
I nod but don’t watch her go. Because slowly, the knob turns and the closet door pushes open, revealing a disheveled Archer. His eyes are wide and panicked, though they settle a little when they land on me. He has an angry red bump on his forehead where it looks like he hit his head.
I reach out to touch it, then remember the last time we talked and take a small step back instead. His expression shifts, first falling and then gathering into something a little fierce, mouth a firm line and gray-blue eyes sparking with electric intensity.
I’m not sure how I know, but this is Archer in a boardroom, in the middle of a hostile takeover or dropping some big business bomb. Or … whatever one does in a boardroom. Basically, this is Archer elite, and it’s aimed directly my way.
I already feel myself crumbling.
Make him grovel , Sophie said. And though I’m much more a person who forgives easily, I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin. Archer did hurt my feelings. He didn’t believe me—even if I was telling him a story that was admittedly wild.
Now, he’s experienced the truth of the magic himself, and I feel vindicated. So, yeah. I can let him grovel a bit.
“I thought you were going to New York,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest for a little extra bolstering.
But this reminds me of my sticky hands and maraschino cherry skin. Oh, how I wish I was freshly showered instead of wearing yoga pants and remnants of ice cream. Because this version of Archer—intensely focused, serious, and, as always, in an impeccable suit, feels way out of my league.
“I did go,” Archer says.
Frowning, I glance at the open closet behind him. “But … you’re in my closet. You didn’t come from your closet?”
“I came from New York,” Archer says, and my mouth drops open.
“How is that possible?” I whisper. Moving inside the building is one thing but Archer somehow got sucked here from New York? Now, I’m the one struggling to believe.
“How is any of it possible?” he says. Then shakes his head. “Willa, I’m so sorry I doubted you. That I didn’t trust you.”
“So … you’re sorry now that you know I wasn’t lying?”
Archer takes a step forward. When I don’t back away, he takes another until we’re inches apart and I have to tilt my head a little to hold eye contact.
“No,” he says.
“No what ? ”
“I had already decided I was wrong for not believing you. Even if I didn’t quite buy into the idea of magic or understand how this closet thing could be true, I know you . That is all that matters, and I was wrong for not seeing that before.”
Archer reaches out, one big hand cupping my cheek with such gentleness that a whole-body sigh moves through me.
“I was making plans to come back when I stepped into my closet,” he continues. “And now, I’m here. It makes no sense. It defies logic. Honestly, it’s a little terrifying. But I’m so glad. Because even a private plane wouldn’t have been fast enough.”
“You were going to take a private plane?”
“I needed to be here now.” Archer’s thumb brushes over my cheek, I realize he’s brushing away a tear. “Don’t cry, Willa the Person,” he says. “I’m so sorry for leaving the way I did. And for not trusting you. Will you forgive me?”
This certainly seems like enough groveling to me. Throwing my arms around him, I press myself into Archer. One of his hands cups the back of my head and the other spans my lower back, tugging me closer. His warmth, his scent, even the softness of his expensive suit all feel like home. Sliding my hands underneath his jacket, I bunch his shirt in my fists.
“I tried to come to New York,” I confess. “Even though I was hurt. I wanted to be there for you.”
His arms squeeze me tighter. “Willa. You didn’t need to do that. The last thing I wanted to do was put you in that position.”
“You didn’t! I wanted to be there for you. I even begged the closet to take me. When it didn’t, I got mad.”
“That’s why everything is on the floor and your dresser was blocking the door?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“There might have also been ice cream involved. In fact, I’m probably getting chocolate on you,” I tell him. “Or cherry juice.”
“Cherry juice?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
I pull back, craning my neck so I can meet his gaze. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?”
His steely eyes become fire. “Not even a little bit.”
And then his mouth finds mine. From the look in his eyes, I expect to be hurtled into a passionate kiss, but Archer is full of restraint. Tender. As though he’s easing his way back to me. A restart, or at least a fresh one. His lips brush mine as though taking stock of every millimeter of my skin.
I’m dizzy and kiss-drunk, and it only makes me desperate for more. I release his shirt to link my hands behind his neck, tugging him closer until Archer’s careful restraint unravels and we’re locked in an embrace that feels as much like some kind of battle of wills as a declaration of something.
Love. This is love.
I might have denied it to Sophie—and myself—but I know. Not from the kiss, but from everything. It’s just … Archer.
The insistent ringing of a phone has us pulling apart, panting. Archer reaches in his pocket then frowns. “I think my phone is still in New York.”
“It’s mine,” I say, pressing my mouth to his neck. “We can ignore it.”
But it doesn’t stop. And it’s hard to maintain the mood when I recently changed my ringtone to “9 to 5.” Dolly Parton is great in most situations, but maybe not this one.
“Let me just check,” I say, reluctantly pulling away to find my phone under a pile of T-shirts. “It’s Bellamy. Hello?”
“Is Archer with you?” Bellamy sounds panicked, and I wonder if he was there when Archer disappeared. Did Archer ever tell him about the closets?
I put it on speakerphone so Archer can hear. “He’s right here with me.”
“Hello, Bellamy,” Archer says.
“Oh, good, you came to New York,” Bellamy says. “I hope you brought cookies.”
“Not exactly.”
“You didn’t exactly bring cookies? I think it’s a yes or no question.”
“I’m … not exactly in New York,” I say.
“We’re in Serendipity Springs.” Archer and I wait for Bellamy’s response. It takes a long moment.
Another long silence. “I’m sorry,” Bellamy finally says. “But I’m processing and have a lot of questions. First, how in the world did you get there so quickly? You were just here.”
“That is a long story, perhaps better told in person,” Archer says. “Can you send a plane? I need to be back for the trial.”
“I can, but that’s the other reason I’m calling. I tried to reach you earlier, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“It’s in New York still.”
“You left your phone?”
“Again, part of the long story. What’s the other reason you’re calling?” Archer sounds suddenly impatient, and, with his fingertips tracing the curve of my waist, I feel the same way.
“Your father decided to take the plea deal. You don’t need to testify because there is no trial.”
The relief moving through Archer is palpable, and once again, I lean in to hug him. One armed this time, as I’m still holding my phone in my other hand.
“He sent a certified letter through his lawyer, and I’m not sure if you want to read it.”
“Did you read it?” Archer asks.
“Maybe.”
“Do you think I want to read it?”
“Not right now,” Bellamy says. “It’s sort of half of an apology and half justification and all very, very typical of your father.”
“Leave it on my desk. I’ll get it when I come back.”
“And when will that be?” Bellamy asks. “Do I still need to send a plane?”
Archer’s smile makes my whole body feel fizzy and light. “Can you keep things running there?”
Bellamy scoffs. “I’m the CEO, Archer. The only reason you’re as involved as you are is because you don’t like giving up control.”
“Well, consider this me giving up. At least for a while. I foresee a very, very busy schedule in my future.” His voice is dropping lower with each syllable, and I’m tempted to just chuck the phone in the corner with the empty ice cream cartons.
“You’ve got big plans, hm?” Bellamy sounds amused.
“The biggest,” Archer answers, plucking the phone from my hand. “I plan to spend a significant portion of time showing Willa exactly how much I love her.”
He ends the call on Bellamy’s laughter and then drops the phone into a soft pile of sweaters. I blink up at him, stunned and delighted.
“What?” he asks, lips curling up in the kind of smirk I never could have pictured on his face when I first met him. I trace the line of his mouth.
“Is that how you’re going to tell me you love me for the first time—on a phone call to Bellamy?”
“It wasn’t how I planned it, no. But then, Willa, you’ve been frustrating my plans from the moment I met you.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, distracted by his mouth as he leans closer.
“I’m not,” Archer murmurs, his breath fanning my cheek. “I love that about you. I love your lightheartedness and your free spiritedness and how your apartment can be such a mess but your cookies are so detailed and perfect. You are a wonderfully beautiful contradiction I never knew I needed, and I love you. I love you, Willa.”
“I love you too, Archer. And as much as I want to tell you all the reasons and list them out, right now, I think I’d rather kiss you.”
“That can be arranged.” This last word is said with his lips against mine, and then he’s pulling me up in his arms, carrying me toward my apartment door while kissing me frantically.
“Where are we going?” I ask, giggling as he kisses me again.
“I may love your chaos, but I cannot keep kissing you in the middle of this mess. We’re going to my apartment.”
“Should we just see if the closet will take us?” I ask, and Archer freezes.
He pulls back a little to look at me, the love and care clearly written in his gray-blue eyes. “As grateful as I am for the outcome, I would very much like to avoid closets for a long, long time.”