Page 11 of The Escape Plan

It was our belief that one point five donuts each was the Goldilocks amount. Two made me feel sick after, and one wasn’t enough to fully satisfy my sweet tooth.

After we’d eaten our treats, we’d walk through the rest of the park until we reached the library. After greeting Sissy—who’s been part of the furniture here for as long as I can remember—my grandfather would browse the mystery and thriller sections while I perused the middle grade books with even more hunger than I’d had for my donuts.

I inhaled everything, fromThe Babysitter’s ClubandWarrior Catsseries toAnne of Green GablesandLittle Women.

Grandpa and I would sit in the back corner on the second floor of the library for hours, reading our books in the big comfy chairs.

Those perfect Saturdays are one of my favorite childhood memories. They’re what made me want to pursue writing… although I didn’t quite envision my current job when I dreamed of being a writer back then.

To this day, Grandpa is a voracious reader, although he favors audiobooks now as his eyes are failing. Last time I chatted with Amanda, one of the lovely nurses at his assisted living facility, she told me he listened to ten books in the past week.

As for me, I’m still a regular at the library—even on Saturdays. And today, of all days, I can’t think of anywhere better to hide.

For one, the library is blissfully air conditioned. For two, no way am I risking running into Andrew and Lisa again as they skip home together after theirbreakfast sandwich date.

Barf me a river.

My cheeks flare red in a particularly potent combination of rejection and humiliation as I select a squashy-looking orange beanbag in lieu of a real chair. I sit crisscross-applesauce and open my laptop.

I pull up a rather boring article I’ve been working on about a change in local traffic laws. But I’m not focused in the least, my head still swirling in a mess of Andrew and Lisa.

They’ve been best friends forever, and I was always accepting of this. Did my best to strike up a friendship with Lisa too and never let myself slip into the role of “jealous girlfriend” by wondering if the two of them had ever thought about being something more to each other.

I didn’t want to be that person, but apparently, I was naïve not to be.

Before I can stop myself, I’m closing my tab and opening social media, typing Andrew’s name into the search bar, and scouring his profile—trying not to wince at the picture of him smiling into the camera, his brown eyes kind, his dirty blond hair tousled from the wind.

I took that picture. We were on a hike outside of town, and the wind picked up so crazily that we almost blew away. It was a fun day.

In a Relationship with Lisa Stanson.

I feel idiotic. Dimwitted. Stupid as can be.

How long has this been going on between them? Was it happening behind my back?

I moan audibly, clapping a hand to my forehead. This earns me a disapproving “Shh!” from the elderly man reading a book on Chernobyl at a nearby table.

Which actually sounds like a pretty nice destination to escape to, given the circumstances. Right now, I’d take pretty much anywhere on planet earth. Or Mars, potentially.

I’m still half-daydreaming about buying a one-way ticket to Italy (not Chernobyl) and doing a bit of an eat-pray-love thing to “find” myself (minus the love part, of course, because screw love) when my laptop starts chiming with a Zoom call.

I whisper an apology to the frowny man as I stand from the beanbag, digging in my backpack for my headphones.

“Hi, Freya!” I answer the call as I duck into one of the private study rooms along the wall to avoid further scorn from the grump.

“Keeley,” my editor says warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her smiling face fills my computer screen. “How are you?”

“Good, yes, great,” I lie clumsily as I set my laptop on a desk and perch on the edge of a chair.

Freya frowns a little as she takes in my puffy, makeup-less face, but unlike Sissy, she thinks better of mentioning it. “Wonderful. Sorry to call on a Saturday, but I just popped into the office to do a little weekend work and saw you were online, so I thought I’d try you.”

“Sure,” I say with a wry smile. Freya works in Boston at OneWorldMedia’s huge, shiny headquarters. And while she loves to make it sound like her “popping into the office” on the weekend is a rarity, I am totally convinced that she’s a workaholic and would sleep at her office if she was able to.

Freya taps a pen against her cheek as she smiles at me. “So how’s that traffic violation report coming along?”

OneWorld is a huge media conglomerate with a ton of cool stuff under their umbrella. They also have a ton of way less cool stuff, including the management of several municipal websites in this area. I got a job with them right out of college as a remote content writer for the Serendipity Springs town website.

And even though writing about local bylaws and town council meetings to determine stop sign placement is all very exciting (not)you have to start somewhere. I’m grateful to have a job with such a reputable company, with a fantastic boss overseeing my progress.

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