Page 14 of The Escape Plan

After a bit of light furniture rearranging, I’ve pushed a couch up against that wall, so I can look out the window when I’m playing guitar.

I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of that over the next few weeks.

Before I left Dublin, I was filled with a renewed vigor, a fresh purpose. I was going to go to America, visit the same town where my grandmother once lived, and work out what on earth I’m meant to do with my life.

Now that I’m here, it feels… daunting. I don’t know if it’s because I’m overtired and need a nap, or because I started my short tenancy here with the most unusual of elevator encounters, but I feel jumbled. Tangled like a piece of string.

I also know, in my bones, that if I fall asleep now, I’ll be up all night. So instead of lying down, I shower and change into a white t-shirt, shorts, and sneakers.

It’s a beautiful day, and I might as well explore this town. Find out what it has to offer…

Starting with coffee. Being Irish and all that, I’m usually a tea drinker. But today, I think I’m going to need something a little more caffeinated.

I manage to leave The Serendipity without any more awkward elevator encounters, though I do find myself wondering where the towel-clad woman with deep blue eyes—Keeley—ended up today. Still, I push those thoughts aside as I slip my sunglasses on and make my way down the street with the intention of seeing where I end up, no planning necessary.

When I come across a cluster of shops and restaurants, I stop to secure a coffee—an Americano, of course, because when in America…

And that’s when I stumble upon a little music store.

Blue Notes, say the swirling letters on the sign above the slightly tattered blue-and-white-striped awning. There’s a display of electric and acoustic guitars in the window and a poster advertising a local Indie Music Night.

Unable to help myself, I go inside.

“Hey, there.” I’m greeted by a friendly guy about my age with black hair shaved so short, he’s almost bald. He has intense blue eyes that look vaguely—impossibly—familiar, two full arm-sleeves of tattoos, and a huge smile that puts me at ease. “How can I help you today?”

“Hiya,” I reply. “I was just out for a walk and spotted your shop, so I thought I’d come in for a browse.”

“Shop,” he parrots me, his tone delighted. “You’re not from ’round these parts, are you?”

“Arrived here just an hour ago. From Ireland.”

“Ireland,” he says almost wistfully. “Home of U2. Van Morrison. The Cranberries. The Pogues. Thin Lizzy.”

“Some of the best,” I say, liking this guy already. “You a musician yourself…?”

“Ezra,” he offers, sticking his hand out. “Ezra Roberts.”

“Beckett McCarthy.” I shake his hand.

“And yes, sure am.” He smiles. “Drums are my first instrument, but I’ve been playing guitar all my life. You?”

“I’m a music teacher back home in Ireland,” I say. “I teach music theory.”

I don’t mention that the school where I work is a stuffy, overpriced private school, and that most of my students are learning an instrument because a parental figure has forced them to rather than out of interest.

On the side, I give free guitar and piano lessons at a community center in my town. I love to teach kids thatwantto be there, want to learn.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my job at the school—it pays well, has good career security, and I get summers off. But a part of me has always wondered what it would be like to have a full-time gig teaching guitar lessons to kids who are passionate about music.

Kids whoneedmusic, like I did.

“Cool,” Ezra says. “Do you make music, too?”

His question gives me pause, and I finally settle on: “I used to.”

Luckily, he doesn’t press me, and we continue to casually chat about music. After a while, he asks, “What brings you here to Serendipity Springs? You on vacation?”

“Yeah, a kind of extended vacation. I’m house sitting for someone for the remainder of the summer, living in an apartment building a few blocks over. The Serendipity?”

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