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“It’s fine.” I sniff. “I have ice cream. See?”

Ice cream was the previous stage, and it’s bleeding into this one. After my desperate attempt to leave Serendipity Springs and drive to New York failed miserably, I marched into Spring Foods and bought five different pints of the good stuff that’s definitely outside my budget. But not today! Because the icecream stage coincides nicely with the denial stage where I can pretend buying brand name groceries is in my budget. I also bought a large tub of jimmies, the kind of chocolate sauce that hardens on top, and maraschino cherries, which I’ve been eating straight from the jar. I can feel the sticky juice in my neck.

Sophie eyes me carefully, blowing a dark curl back from her face. “How much ice cream did you eat?” she asks, and I don’t appreciate her tone.

“None of your business—that’s how much,” I snap, taking another vindictive spoonful. All my normal silverware was dirty, so I’m using a massive plastic serving spoon, which hardly fits inside my mouth. “I’ll never tell.”

But my eyes betray me, darting to the corner of my room where I’ve thrown three empty pint containers.

“I see,” Sophie says. “And how’s your tummy feeling?”

The facade of stubborn strength I’m trying to show crumbles. “B-better than my heart.”

It takes a good friend to climb inside your heartbreak with you. And the very best of friends who will climb inside not just your heartbreak but your nest of clothing when you most likely have chocolate on your face and definitely have jimmies in your bra.

But that’s Soph.

With careful fingers, she pries the spoon and now-empty carton of ice cream from my hand, tossing them both in the corner with the other carcasses. Then she wraps me up in a giant hug, not even deterred by my stickiness.

“You have chocolate in your ear,” she says after a moment. I can tell she’s holding back laughter.

When you’re in the state I am, only a thin veil separates laughter from tears. My shaky breath gives way to a giggle. “Youassumethat’s chocolate.”

“What else would it—ew. Never mind! Strike the question from the record. We’re going to work from the assumption that it’s chocolate. Because you also have it in your hair. On the plus side, you smell downright edible.”

“Thank you.” I sniff.

“Want to talk about what has you sitting in squalor and barricading your closet?”

“No. I really don’t.” But I do anyway. Because it’s Sophie, and she listens but doesn’t judge. Also, I need to talk through this.

So, I tell her about transporting up to Archer’s closet, finally coming clean about the other time I didn’t tell her about. And that he asked me how I got into his locked apartment, which led to him basically telling me I’m a dirty liar, which led to all the stages of grief, culminating in the clothing pile and the discarded ice cream cartons and the dresser barricade.

When I’m done, I really wish I had the last carton of ice cream, but it’s in the freezer, and I don’t think I could escape Sophie’s tight hug anyway.

“You tried to leave Serendipity Springs?” She sounds impressed.

She shouldn’t, considering how far I made it.

“Yeah. Didn’t make it much farther than last time. Just past the sign saying you’re leaving town. About a mile after that I had to turn around.”

My hands went clammy on the wheel first, then my heart started feeling like it was being squeezed by a vise. Stars danced in my field of vision until it was too hard to see the road. I only realized I had been holding my breath when I turned the car around and found myself gasping for air.

The only plus side is that I didn’t barf.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie says. “But I think you’re really brave for trying. Next time, let me come with you. Please?”

“It’s embarrassing,” I mumble. “I feel so stupid.”

“It’s brave. You’re a warrior. And I’m happy to go alongside you, okay? But I have a question. Archer was being a jerk. Why were you trying to go to him? He should be coming to you. Apologizing. Maybe even groveling.”

I don’t disagree, and it takes a moment to consider my explanation.

“He really hurt me,” I say finally. “But I also understand. I mean, you totally bought into this whole closet thing right away. If our roles had been reversed, I’m not so sure I would have believed you. Not that I would have thought you were lying,” I add quickly. “I trust you. But believing in some kind of actual magic? It’s … a lot. And Archer is soverypractical.”

He’s a lot of other things too: kind, thoughtful, surprisingly funny when he’s comfortable in a situation. Handsome. Tender. I suddenly ache from the force of missing him.

“The man’s middle name should be Logic,” I joke, needing to ease the tightness coiling in my chest.