Page 51

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 theworst.

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.Allpets, 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 ofmynightmares.

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 wouldalsobe 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—beingtoohelpful—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, whowouldn’tstop to help a wounded puppy?

Also, Sophie never minds this trait when I’m helpingher.

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.