Page 41 of The Escape Plan

“That one, indeed,” Mr. Hathaway confirms. “And what a lucky twist of fate that was, because from that day forward, I knew Janey here was the one for me. We got married and moved away for a time, but life eventually led us right back here, where we first met, to see out the rest of our days together.”

“That’s awesome,” I say even as my stomach pinches slightly.

Writing about beautiful, lasting love feels disingenuous to me, given my own experiences. I want stories of heartbreak. Betrayal. Being shunned for the supposed best friend, like I recently was.

Nowthatsounds like the type of thing I can authentically dig into.

Not to mention, these kinds of stories are relatable. They pull at your heartstrings. And they’d be popular with readers—especially single twenty-somethings reading a lifestyle magazine like Evoke who’ve had similar things happen to them.

As adorable as they are, I don’t need happily-ever-afters like the Hathaways have.

“Do you know of a lot of people who’ve fallen in love here?”

Mrs. Hathaway smiles. “Absolutely.”

Again, not the answer I was hoping for.

“Hey,” I say, needing a change of conversational pace. “You said you moved into The Serendipity right after the apartments opened. What was the building before?”

If I can’t get the answers I need for my article from the Hathaways, maybe I can get the answer to the question Becks asked at the grocery store about the age of the building.

“It was a college dorm for Spring Brook.” The elderly lady nods decisively. “Back then, of course, it was a women’s college, and the campus was in the town center. This place housed some of the students.” She smiles fondly. “I imagine they hosted gentlemen callers in the library and held dances in the ballroom.”

“Wow, I had no idea,” I breathe, feeling like this is information I absolutelyshouldhave known. A former Spring Brook student myself, I knew the college historically had been all-girls and that the campus had been relocated to its current spot sometime in the 1960s, but shame on me for not realizing that I currently live in one of the old dorms. “That’s cool.”

“Lots of interesting history ’round these parts,” Mr. Hathaway says with a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I had best be off. We have a date with our bridge club.”

“Enjoy!” I bid the Hathaways goodbye and head towards the front door. And that’s when I hear the music coming from the small library room just off the lobby.

Beautiful, unfamiliar music that I somehow know instinctively ishim.Music that has me ditching my plan to go to the library and instead walking straight towards the sound. Like he’s the Pied Piper and I’m completely under his spell.

Chapter Fifteen

Beckett

My fingers move freelyover the strings, pulling a tune out of me that’s brand new, yet somehow achingly familiar. It’s soft and gentle, yet taut with an emotion I can’t quite name.

It’s that old, still familiar sensation of letting music flow from somewhere inside of me, my body channeling it into something tangible that echoes in my ears.

Moments when I feel most myself.

I can hardly believe this is happening. I haven’t played like this—created like this—since Gran died.

The morning after her wake, I got up and found I’d become numb. Something in me had shut down, and I was on autopilot, both physically and emotionally. And it never really went away.

Instead of mourning in what might be considered the traditional way, I somehow navigated the last year feeling nothing at all. Even when Roisin left, I continued to go about my everyday life without letting myself feel a thing.

It was safe. Stillissafe.

But right now, something is stirring in me that’s been dormant for a long time.

I don’t know why it’s happening, but I do know that I canfeelit.

The same way I used to feel it when Gran was around. Like there’s magic in the air.

When I woke up this morning, I felt…inspiredis perhaps the best word for it. Maybe it’s because I said yes to the Indie Music Night, but something has suddenly shifted.

Until now, I’ve been playing on the couch under the window in Mr. Prenchenko’s place, but this morning, I put my guitar in its case and wandered around The Serendipity like some kind of vagrant searching for a street corner to busk on.

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