Page 80 of The Escape Plan

I smile.

Becks

Without even knowing what we’re doing?

The next message that comes through makes my smile even wider.

Keeley

Not worried. If our last date was anything to go by, this one will be great craic.

Keeley

Did I use that word right?

My response is simply the truth.

Becks

You were perfect.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Keeley

I got setup on a blind date once in my freshman year of college.

It didn’t go well. He was a preppy, clean-cut type—which I have no problem with, in theory—but he seemed to have a bit of a problem with the wayIlooked.

In my defense, I was nineteen. A broke student who only knew other broke students. Every date I’d been on up to that point had been sharing popcorn at a movie or getting cheeseburger spring rolls at The Cheesecake Factory and forgoing a main course or dessert in case the guy wanted to go Dutch—because I had to make sure my checking account would survive my half of the check.

So, on the day of my date—which was organized by my roommate at the time, who was lovely but the definition of a total girlie girl, AKA nothing like me—I put on my makeup and dressed the way I usually did for dates. I turned up in black leggings, Converse, and a forest green sweater

Mynicesweater. The one without the pasta sauce stain on the sleeve.

Unfortunately, after I shook hands with my date—who was wearing a blue button-down shirt, khakis, and Sperry topsiders—I came to find out that he’d booked us a table at Aria.

A nice restaurant not usually frequented by broke students.

I ordered a starter-sized salad and made precisely one hour and seventeen minutes of stilted conversation with the guy before thanking him for a lovely evening (which wasn’t entirely accurate, but manners don’t cost a thing) and getting my butt out of there as fast as possible. I never saw him again.

Now, as I look in the mirror and finish my mascara, I smile at the memory of that awkward date. Tonight is the first time since then that I’m going on a date with no idea of our destination.

But I do knowwhoI’m going with. And because of that, I also know that it won’t matter how I dress. What I look like.

I’m confident that, no matter what, Becks just wants to spend time with me. He has no regard for what I look like or how I’m dressed. So, I’m wearing clothes Ifeelconfident in: the cute purple tee and ripped jeans I was wearing the day we got locked in the library room together. When he saw me that day, his eyes flared in a way that made my insides turn to Jell-O.

I hope to inspire the same reaction in him tonight.

When I’m done getting ready, I go to the living room to wait.

Becks was a little elusive with details, simply telling me that he’d “come get me after it gets dark.” The sun’s just set, so I figure that should be soon. In the meantime, I curl up on the couch with Bert the capybara.

Then, I spy the box sitting on my coffee table—the one Ezra gave me last night. Becks rescued it from the back of his truck earlier and dropped it off at my apartment with my blue sweater I discarded in the vehicle, which was fluffy and dry and folded neatly and smelled like fabric softener.

Because of course Beckett washed my sweatshirt for me—he’sBeckett. The man’s always thinking of other people.

I can’t hear any footsteps in the hallway, and there are no new text notifications on my phone, so with a shrug, I reach for the box and pry the lid off.

---