Page 36 of The Escape Plan

I’m so inhumanly sweaty right now, I’m sure I left an imprint on the passenger seat of Mr. Prenchenko’s truck. Despite the air conditioning Beckett was blasting the entire drive here.

But honestly, I’m not really thinking about my full-body glow at the moment. I’m too busy wondering about Beckett and his grandma. I can’t quite believe that I just willingly, openly, shared with him about Gramps and his condition. He, in turn, told me about his own grandmother’s passing, and I could tell by the expression on his face that he’s pretty torn up about it.

I’ve been suspecting that Beckett’s here in Serendipity Springs for more reasons than just to house sit for Mr. Prenchenko. Maybe he’s here to grieve. Get some space. I can totally understand the need for some space from whatever his situation is at home.

After all, isn’t that at least part of the reason I’m applying for this job in Boston? To escape being right downstairs from my ex and the woman he left me for?

It was strange to me, the other day in the laundry room, when Beckett told me he thought Andrew was jealous. I doubt he was right. I mean, why would he be jealous? The guy moved on from me quicker than I could practically even have a freaking shower.

Maybe Becks was just saying it to make me feel better. Which was nice of him.

“Okay,” I say as I lead Beckett past the fresh produce and straight to the back of the store. “First, we need to hit the freezers.”

“I was rather hoping for some apples.” He casts a longing eye at a large stack of bright green Granny Smiths.

I shake my head. “We’ll hit the aisle with the Minute Maid in a bit.”

“Minute Maid?”

“Apple juice,” I explain.

“Right,” he says. “Because that was clear as day.”

I fling open the door to one of the freezers, and a minute later, he’s in possession of a basketful of corn dogs, hot pockets, and Eggos.

“Like onStranger Things,” he says in wonder, examining the box of blueberry waffles.

“Eleven loved them for good reason, trust me.” I throw a couple more boxes of waffles—one cinnamon, one chocolate chip—into his basket for good measure.

Becks eyes his basket warily. “Am I expected to consume all of these, or are we stocking Mr. Prenchenko’s freezer for his return?”

“Consume, of course.” I tsk. “But in the bizarre scenario that you don’t fall in love with them, I’ll happily take any extras if Mr. P is also insane and not a waffle guy.” I add a box of chocolate chip waffles to my own basket. “Speaking of, how on earth did this house sitting thing come about? How do you even know Mr. Prenchenko?”

I’m prying, I know, but I can’t help but be curious. Just as Beckett had questions for me in the laundry room yesterday, I have questions for him, too.

I mean, isn’t that what friends do? Get to know each other?

“I don’t.” He shrugs a shoulder before grabbing a box of chicken spring rolls from the top shelf of the freezer. “As a teacher, I have the summer off, obviously, and a colleague recommended me to house sit for Mr. Prenchenko while he teaches summer courses at the school where we work back home.”

This doesn’t quite satisfy my curiosity as to why a handsome twenty-six-year-old Irishman would want to spend his summer, alone, three thousand miles from home in a random small town. But this doesn’t feel like the time or place to push that, especially if itdoeshave something to do with his grandma’s passing.

So, I just smile and say, “Well, The Serendipity is a pretty great place to be house sitting—the waitlist for an apartment there is a mile long. I was so lucky to get mine. A few people in the building have lived there for longer than I’ve been alive, I think.”

He studies me for a beat before asking, “Do you happen to know how old the building is?”

“Random,” I tell him. “I don’t know exactly, but it’s probably ancient. It has the same sort of look and style as all the OG buildings in town.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, but his brow is furrowed, like he’s deep in thought. I have to wonder, yet again, if there’s more to his being here in Serendipity Springs than just watering Mr. P’s plants.

We walk into the tea and coffee aisle, where Beckett squints in concentration at multiple packages of tea before adding about six boxes to his basket. Then, we cross over into the cereal aisle, and Beckett’s face lights up with pure delight.

“Lucky Charms!” he exclaims, grabbing a couple of boxes to add to his already overflowing basket.

I stare at him in full confusion. “You don’t have Lucky Charms—the most Irish of all the cereals—in Ireland?”

“Nope. I think our government banned them. Too many dyes.”

“What a bunch of bores,” I tease.

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