The Serendipity (Only Magic in the Building)

by Emma St. Clair

Kissing Willa feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

“You think … I don’t like you?” “Do you?” There’s so much vulnerability in her question, so much raw emotion, fear twining with the glow of hope. I gently massage her shoulders, strong but so small underneath my palms. “Willa, yes. You are …” I search for words. I wish I had the exact ones to explain the way I’m so impressed by her. Enamored. Her bravery in wanting to help me after I’ve been so snappish with her. The skill of her creativity and her ability to make sugar into actual art. Her humor and kindness. “You are so Willa—as in Willa. Not Willow.”

“I, on the other hand, would be highly disappointed if I got Will Smith instead of you.” “Perhaps the best compliment I’ve ever received.” “That is a low bar. I’ll make it a point to raise that bar very soon and very often.”

I keep squinting at him when he’s not looking—on the phone or frowning down at paperwork or something on his laptop—trying to see the jagged edges of where all the pieces of this simple yet complicated man fit together. And I think I could keep doing so forever.