Page 55 of The Escape Plan

“You’d better be kidding, Roberts.” He pokes me right under my ribs, perfectly hitting that sensitive spot that makes me giggle and squirm.

“Kidding!” I hold up my hands, and his fingertips graze over my side again as he pulls his hand back.

“Good.” His eyes dance in the fractured moonlight. “And as for what I’m doing, I’ve signed up to give some guitar lessons at Ezra’s shop… and then I also intend to find out exactly why our grandparents broke up, because now I’m hooked on this story like it’s a serial soap opera or something.”

“Our very own cross-continental family drama to unpack.” I smile, happy he is on the same trail of thought as me. “I was wondering if I could go see Gramps to ask him about Noeleen… I’m not too sure how to approach the subject with him.”

“We wouldn’t want to upset him,” Beckett agrees, and I’m grateful for his sensitivity.

I get the sense that this is important for Beckett, that being here and connecting with a part of his grandmother’s life he didn’t know about until recently means a lot to him.

Now that I know him a little better, I also get the feeling that his looking into her time here in Serendipity Springs is potentially a form of delayed grieving for him, and that if and when he gets the answers he’s looking for, he’ll be able to come more to terms with the loss.

“Agreed,” I say. “But it really would be nice to know what happened. If anything, it’s a lot more interesting to learn about my grandfather’s long-lost love than to write an article about my own failed love life—which I’m beginning to think I’m going to have to do, because apparently this building is full of happily-ever-after love stories.”

The Hathaways are super in love, Cash and Nori met here, and heck, even Andrew seems to have found the right person for him…

“Gosh, even our grandparents fell in love when one of them was living in this building.”

Becks tilts his head at me. “Wait, what if you wrote your piece about Noeleen and Douglas? You could write about how she lived here in the building, but their love didn’t last, so the legend is flawed, at best. You could even tie it to us, if you like. How Douglas’s granddaughter now lives in the building too, and it also brought her no luck in love… and Noeleen’s grandson is the biggest single sad sack to ever walk the planet.”

“Is that a direct quote I can use?” I ask, laughing. But my heart is picking up speed.

“I think the alliteration has a real ring to it.”

“But seriously, Becks, all joking aside, are you sure you’re okay with me using your—and your grandmother’s—story for something like this?”

Because while I was feeling entirely opposed to writing about love before, I don’t really feel that way anymore. Throughout the course of this conversation, I realized that I’ve made my peace with my ex, and I’m no longer writing this article to escape my situation, but rather for the sole purpose of furthering my career. Of shaping my life the way I want it to look—living and working in Boston, while still remaining close with my family here and visiting them often.

He shrugs. “Sure. She loved being the center of attention, this would totally have given her a kick, knowing you’re researching and writing her story for publication.”

“I’ll have to talk to Gramps first,” I say, still mulling it over. “I’m not sure how much he will comprehend, but I’d feel like I was going behind his back by not asking him about it.”

Beckett smiles. “Maybe he’ll surprise you and have more answers than you think.”

“And even if we don’t get answers on why it ended, it still makes for a great story.” It’s whimsical, like Freya wanted, and though it might not be a fun, sexy story of stars aligning, instead one of star-crossed lovers that tugs on the heartstrings, I think she’ll love the unique angle and how it’s personal to me. This feels like a much more genuine story for me to tell.

And it’s also a great reason to spend more time with Beckett.

Who, as it turns out, I like spending time with.

A lot more than I’d care to admit.

Chapter Twenty-One

Beckett

When I was a teen,my morning routine was to wake my younger siblings and make sure that they brushed their teeth and put on clean(ish) school uniforms. Mam was long gone to work by the time we woke up, and I liked to let Gran—who was getting up there in age by that point—sleep a little longer.

So, I made it my job to make sure the five of us got to school in one piece. Aoife was old enough to help, and she’d braid Niamh’s hair while I made tea and toast for everyone and checked to make sure the younger ones had put their homework in their school bags.

While my siblings ate their breakfast, I’d assemble five brown-bagged lunches, and we’d set off—Aoife to the girls’ grammar school on the hill, where she had a scholarship, Eoin and Niamh to the local primary school a short walk away, and Callan and I to the comprehensive school we’d have to take two buses to get to after dropping the wee ones off.

The morning routine, I didn’t mind so much. I liked helping Mam and Gran and looking after my siblings. My family were—still are—the world to me, and I’d do anything for them.

But the actual going to school part, Ididmind. Very much.

And so, it’s kind of funny that, in adulthood, my morning routine has come full circle with me making myself a lunch and heading off to school every day. This time, as a teacher.

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