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“Dad,” I warn, but he’s already up and out of his seat, lunging for the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Archer asks.

“Nothing, really. I just hoped you might not have to witness this.”

But the call is short, with Dad only asking two questions before the salesperson on the other end of the line reads the vibe and disconnects the call.

Grumbling, Dad returns to the table. “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 DadandArcher jump up.

“No,” I whisper, as Mom cackles.

Dad and Archer debate who’s going to answer. The phone in our kitchen is so old, it doesn’t have a speakerphone option. It’s so ancient they should really charge tickets or make it an elementary school field trip destination to see an artifact from another time. Dad finally steps back, pointing to Archer and then the phone.

“Have at it,” Dad says.

Archer runs his hands down the thighs of his trousers and clears his throat twice. At this rate, he’s going to miss the call completely.

“Hello,” he says, and I wonder how it’s possible that this man looks hot even with a mustard-yellow relic of a phone held to his face. It brings out the square in his jaw.

“Don’t say the wordyes!” Dad hisses. “They sometimes record it and then use it as consent for other things!”

But the warning must freak Archer out because he immediately starts saying the very word. “Ye-men. Sorry. No. I used to live in … Yemen.”

I’m laughing so hard that it makes no sound, silent tears leaking from my cheeks. Mom has a hand over her heart, and Dad’s nodding emphatically.

“Sorry. That was irrelevant information. Please continue. I am very interested in hearing about your funding needs and how I might be able to contribute.”

Dad claps a hand over Archer’s back and stands only an inch away from him, leaning in so he can hear what the guy is saying on the other end of the line.

Mom sighs. “I think you’ve found a good one,” she says. “Definitely better than Trey.”

“No contest,” I agree, and I can’t help but hope, as I watch Archer carry on a stilted conversation with a telemarketer, that he’ll respond differently than Trey did when I finally confess that I’m currently trapped in Serendipity Springs indefinitely.

Chapter Eighteen

Archer

Willa wantsto talk to me about something.

How do I know this? Because ever since she strolled out of the office ten minutes ago and announced she was done working for the day, Willa’s been wandering around my apartmentnottalking.

I’m almost positive I know exactly what she wants to talk about. But for now, I’m pretending to be immersed in my laptop screen while secretly watching her. This could easily become my favorite pastime. It’s definitely the best distraction from the fact that I have to leave in three days for my father’s trial.

And Willa isn’t the only one with something she wants to talk about. I can’t shake the idea of asking Willa to come with me. Every time I consider it, my stomach clenches with nerves and my palms sweat, but the idea of being in the courtroom without her makes me feel worse.

She’d come if I asked. I know she would. But I haven’t been able to work up the nerve to mention it. Yet.

Willa’s humming now, circling my kitchen island with her fingertips skimming the surface. Every so often she pauses, pressing her palms flat against the marble, like she’s testing its strength. Or … measuring? With her fingers spread wide, shestops humming and stares down at her hands, lips moving as she counts.

“Need a ruler?” I ask. “Measuring tape?”