Page 49 of The Escape Plan

We’re sitting on a bench in Oldford Park, right by a pond full of ducks that are staring at me intently. Forget my earlier notion that birds don’t stare at people; these ducks are mega zoned in on us and look ready to strike at any moment.

“Are you sure that it’s safe to sit here?” I shift on the bench uncomfortably as I gaze at the army of ducks lining the edge of the pond, beady eyes trained on us. “And ‘thank you’ is usually the appropriate response when someone brings you lunch.”

“Stop being such a wuss,” she says with a grin, then picks up the huge brown paper bag of food I bought from Relish. “And indeed, thank you very much for the fifty pounds of lunch.”

“Hope you’re hungry.”

I left the sandwich shop ten minutes ago armed with a lobster roll, something called a “grinder”—which the boy made with Miracle Whip instead of mayo—and two back-up subs: a Philly cheesesteak, which sounded delightfully American to me, and a vegetarian sub on gluten-free bread, just in case Keeley has any allergies.

I might have also picked up an assortment of drinks and crisps.

“Starving,” she says as she dives into the bag and selects the grinder sub. I can’t help but grin as she takes a massive bite and then closes her eyes dreamily as she chews.

She looks great again today—her hair’s in a messy ponytail held back with a leopard-print hair thingie, and she’s wearing a baggy short black dress with those Converse sneakers again.

I’ve never paid too much attention to women’s fashion, but I love the way Keeley dresses. It’s like her clothes tell you something about her, show off a part of who she is.

I select the lobster roll for myself and dig in.

The guy working at Relish was right. I’ve been missing out.

This lobster roll is everything I’ve ever wanted in a sandwich. And if it weren’t for the sadistic ducks staring me down, this would be the perfect picnic.

One of the brown ones takes a waddly step out of the pond, black eyes still intent on me, and I try not to flinch. I had no idea that ducks make me uncomfortable until right this second—America is teaching me so much about myself.

“Should we move?” I ask.

Keeley bites down on her lip like she’s trying to contain her laughter. “I’d hate to see you come face-to-face with a coyote or a bobcat if you’re this shaken up by a few cute little ducks.”

“The duck that just got out of the pond has the face of a serial killer, so I have no idea where you’re getting the ‘cute’ descriptor from.” I turn to look at her. “And I was expecting more of a ‘yes or no’ sort of answer to my question.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, we should not move.”

“Okay, well, for the record, if Ted Bundy over there pecks your eyes out, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“Oooh, okay, scenario for you: would you rather fight one hundred duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck?” Keeley responds cheerfully.

“The horses, obviously. How is that even a question?”

She giggles. “I think I’d take the horse-sized duck.”

“You frighten me, Keeley Roberts,” I say.In a good way, I find myself adding.

She grins at me, and as our eyes meet, my heart jumps in my chest.

The sensation is almost shocking, and I forget all about the killer ducks as our eye contact holds for longer than it should. I let myself sink into the dark blue of her irises, just for a moment.

“You’ve… got something…” I reach out to brush away a little spot of sauce at the corner of her mouth.

The pad of my thumb drags along the edge of her lip, and she shivers. The sensation buzzes right through me in a way that feels electric.

Alive.

Her eyes widen, and I pull my thumb away quickly. She looks back down at her sandwich and busies herself pulling a pickle off it.

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