Page 81 of The Escape Plan

Like Ez mentioned, there are a ton of records, which makes sense as Gramps and Ezra always bonded over music. I flick through them, scanning the names of old bands I’ve never heard of, before finding a little metal box tucked at the bottom of a stack of sheet music.

I fish it out, dust it off.

And when I crack it open, I smile.

The first thing I see is a wedding photo of my Gramps and Grandma—him, dashing in his tuxedo with his dark hair slicked back, and her, glowing in a delicate lace veil and copious amounts of creamy satin.

And I meancopious. Her dress looks like it’s been inflated with a bicycle pump.

But her smile is pure radiance. Glowing from the inside. And Gramps is looking at her like she’s a unicorn—rare and mystical and beautiful.

The sight of it pinches under my ribcage, nipping at my heart.

My Grandma died when I was little and I barely remember her, let alone remember how she and Gramps were together. But this picture tells me a thousand words—thousandsof words.

They were happy.

I flip the picture over. “1966” is written on the back. A few years after Noeleen and Gramps would’ve parted ways.

My heart beats a little quicker as I continue through the small stack of photos. They’re all snapshots of my grandparents’ early marriage—Grandma wearing a tea-length powder blue dress as she poses by a Ford Mustang, hands clad in short white gloves cradling her swollen belly. Gramps holding a diaper-clad baby. A dark-haired, blue-eyed toddler—my dad—sitting between them on a floral loveseat.

While my Gramps always has a photo of his and my Grandma’s wedding day on his bedside table, I’ve never seen any of these pictures before.

I’m so engrossed that the knock on my living room window almost makes me jump out of my skin.

I look up, wide-eyed, to see the outline of Beckett’s long body crouched on the fire escape.

He beckons for me to come to the window, and I jump up. Open it.

“Hey, did you get locked ou—whoa.”

My question dies on my tongue as I look out on the fire escape.

Or, whatusedto be the fire escape. Because it now looks like something out of a 90s rom-com movie. You know, the ones set in New York apartments you have no idea how the characters can afford, that seem to set the stage for ultimateromance in the cityvibes.

“Beckett, what on earth?” I ask.

In response, he smiles. Extends a hand to me.

I take it, and he helps me step out of my window. And when I’m standing in front of him, his eyes sweep down my outfit, and they flare just like I hoped they would.

Meanwhile, I look around in awe. Fairy lights are strung along the railings, bathing the small space where we usually sit in a golden glow. Paper lanterns surround a cozy blanket on the ground. Soft country music plays from a speaker. There’s a bottle of sparkling wine and a spread of…

I laugh when my eyes land on the food.

“Wait, are those Eggos?” I ask, elated. Because when I asked Becks how he liked the ones we bought at Spring Foods, he said something to the effect of “they’re good… for toastable cardboard.” But he knowsIlove them.

“They are,” he confirms. “I know how much you’re into breakfast for dinner, little weirdo that you are.”

He’s standing next to me, wearing that gorgeous bomber jacket again, and though he’s smiling and teasing like he usually does, he’s also rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s a little embarrassed. The embarrassment—the sheer effort of all of this—is so incredible that it makes half of me want to pounce on him and kiss him senseless, half want to burst into tears.

I do neither of these things. Instead, I turn to him.

“It’s perfect,” I say. And I mean it. Every single last detail is so thoughtful.

“This is how I wanted to finish our date last night,” he admits. “But the rain derailed my plans.”

“I liked the derailment,” I say softly.

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