The Serendipity (Only Magic in the Building)

by Emma St. Clair

The Serendipity will

Goodbye, New York. Hello, Serendipity Springs. As easy as that.

“In any case, no pockets. No key.” “And this is my problem how?” I ask. Willow crosses her arms. “Because you’re my new landlord, and that makes me your problem.” She most certainly is.

My closet and I need to have words. “You,” I say, “are a closet. You store clothes and shoes. You tend to attract moths. That is your sole purpose.” I pause. “The clothes storing, I mean, not the moths.” The closet, being just a closet, does not respond. “You are not a T.A.R.D.I.S. or a portal. You aren’t even a Narnian wardrobe. There is no Mr. Tumnus or Turkish delight inside you.” I shake a finger at it. “Remember your place. You have one job, and it is not to somehow transport me into the closet of a very attractive man who now thinks I’m some kind of stalker and who also has the power to evict me. Do we understand each other?”

“He thinks I’m either a cat burglar or a woman with narcolepsy. Or worse,” I tell the closet. Normally, I don’t speak to inanimate objects. But normal flew out the window thirty minutes ago. “He suggested I might have a brain tumor. And it’s all your fault.”

I can’t explain it and you can’t explain it, but it happened.” “Yes,” I say, feeling confident. Even if I have no idea how my closet managed to bend the space-time continuum.

I’ve been lucky. And I think Archer Gaines is the physical embodiment of my luck running out.

As he saw me, he slowed to a stop, and then all my focus shifted to not tripping or falling over or saying something stupid. The good news: I did not trip or fall or say something stupid. The bad news: I couldn’t locate words at all.

His love had limits.

He really thought that putting me in an impossible position would somehow be the thing I needed to break through my anxiety. Joke’s on you, pal. Anxiety disorders don’t respond well to pressure.

“I’ll be okay. I will.” “Duh. You’re Willa freaking Smith, a single tiny vowel away from being Will Smith. You can do anything.”

The lobsters wave their antennas at me, almost like they’re offering up encouragement. If one of them pops out of the tank and starts singing “Kiss the Girl,” it won’t shock me. Not after the last ten days of coincidences and unexplained phenomena.

“And just about anyone is better at dealing with people than me.” I can’t help it. I snort. Then cover my mouth.

Go to therapy, they said. It will be great, they said. They’re all a bunch of dirty, dirty liars.

“Don’t downplay your accomplishments. Honor them. Repeat them. Then build on them.”

Willa’s eyes are so blue. I don’t think I’ve seen a sky that compares. Even as her pupils expand, ink bleeding over a page until there’s only the smallest ring of navy at the edge.

“You didn’t ask, but I’m telling you yes—you can kiss me.” I don’t wait for another invitation. Kissing Willa feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done. The bravest … and also the most dangerous. I’ve counted no costs, run no risk analysis. Zero projections for long-term success. The only thought in my head as my mouth moves hungrily against hers is Why did I wait so long? Not as in, so long since we’ve been in this bathroom, but why—and how—did I wait so long in my adult life, how did I live without this kiss? Without Willa?

“I like to have a little fun with the telemarketers,” he explains. “He looks forward to this all day,” Mom says proudly, the way you’d talk about someone winning a distinguished work award. “You know how they are—always calling at dinner,” Dad says. Archer looks fascinated and slightly confused. “I don’t know, actually.” Apparently, telemarketers fall under the umbrella of things like juice boxes that Archer’s never experienced. So when the next call comes, right after Mom and Dad explained how this works while I tried to remember why I thought bringing Archer to dinner was a good idea, both Dad and Archer jump up. “No,” I whisper, as Mom cackles.

Look at me—emulating a bad poet instead of a good businessman.

I’d like to borrow a toolkit from a professional thief so I can pick the locks Archer has around himself. Actually, forget the fancy tools. Give me a sledgehammer and a blowtorch.

“How would you respond if someone you love lies to you?” I only realize what I’ve said after the brief flash of shock Bellamy quickly hides. Love. I love Willa. Not past tense but present.

“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.”

“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.”