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“Do you know his actual middle name?” Sophie asks.

This silly question pushes me back into tears. Ihatecrying. 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 Iwantedto 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.