Page 83 of The Escape Plan

The promise of the forever memory of what’s happening here and now.

At that moment, a love song by a country artist I’m a huge fan of starts playing. An acoustic guitar, pretty words, and a gravelly voice that’s fantastic but that doesn’t hold a candle to Beckett’s.

I can hardly believe that I’m sitting here, surrounded by fairy lights in the darkness, a man straight out of my dreams about to kiss me right as my favorite love song comes on.

“I love this song,” I whisper.

Beckett shoots me a crooked smile. Extends his hand to mine.

“Would you like to dance with me?” he asks, grinning at me like he’s waiting for me to shoot the suggestion down.

Which is my first inclination, but instead, I find myself doing something I never, ever do. Or even consider doing. But the moment is too perfect to let this go.

“I’d love that,” I tell him, placing my hand in his outstretched palm.

I can tell by his expression that I’ve surprised him, but he recovers quickly, his lips tipping up at the corners. “I thought you didn’t dance.”

“Tonight, I do.”

He doesn’t waste a moment. Within seconds, he’s on his feet and helping me to mine before he tugs me close to him.

My cheek rests against his chest, and his heartbeat pounds in my ears as his arms wrap around me. We sway to the music together in the darkness, something that feels almost more intimate than him kissing me senseless.

It’s this kind of intimacy I want. No, Iwelcome.

After Andrew and I broke up, I didn’t want to give love any time. I wanted to take control of every situation that involved my heart and avoid anything that looked in any way like love.

But the universe clearly had other plans, basically propelling me into Beckett’s arms. It makes me realize that, sometimes, we don’t get to make decisions about who we meet, or when or if or how we fall for someone. Or how long we might have with that person.

Sometimes, we’ve just got to be thankful for what we’ve got, in the moment we’ve got it. And trust that, no matter how the chips fall, the eventual outcome will be okay.

I look up at Beckett with wonder, and the look he gives me is nothing short of scalding. A searing heat that etches along my skin and sinks into my bones as he slowly, tenderly, touches my face, dragging the back of his knuckles along my jaw and making me erupt in shivers.

I’m endlessly glad that he’s here with me right now. And no matter what the future holds, we will always have this moment.

Just like Noeleen and Douglas had theirs.

And as Beckett leans down to kiss me—another head-spinning, heart-pounding, almost out-of-body-experience kiss—I realize with startling clarity that I know exactly how to end my article.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Beckett

They saybaseball is the great American pastime.

And I get it. Because honestly, it feels like an eternity has passed since Cash and I took our seats in Fenway Park to watch today’s Sunday matinee Red Sox game.

At first, I leaned into the excitement of it all. On my way into the stadium, I bought a baseball cap with a large red B on the front—for Boston, not Beckett—and a keyring boasting a pair of socks. Once we got inside, there were hordes of screaming fans and huge foam fingers and foot-long hot dogs—all of which I photographed and relayed to the McCarthy Clan group chat, to Callan’s delight (“Lethal!”).

But honestly, after three and a half hours sitting in a plastic bucket chair in the splitting sunshine, the initial high has worn off. My arms are as red as the B on my new hat, and my backside is so numb that I don’t think I’m going to be able to stand up when this is finally over.

Cash, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. He’s sitting forward keenly, elbows propped on his knees and his eyes shrewd under his ball cap. A ball cap which does not bear a B, like mine, because apparently, the Red Sox are a big rival of the pro team he used to play for.

As Cash watches, he’s relaying all kinds of statistics that may as well be recited in Mandarin for all I’m comprehending.

Apparently, it’s the ninth (or possibly ninetieth) inning, and there’s a lot on the line for the person who’s about to try to hit the ball with his bat.

He hits it, the stadium erupts in cheers, and I stumble a little numbly to my feet to join in with all the clapping.

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