Page 97 of The Escape Plan

Keeley

When we get backto The Serendipity, I unlock the door to my apartment and head straight to the window so I can unlock it and climb out, knowing Becks is right next door doing the exact same thing.

Quick as a cat, I maneuver onto my desk and grip under the window. I tug at it, pulling it upwards.

It doesn’t budge.

I tug again.

Stuck.

What on earth?

For a moment, I wonder if The Serendipity has a sick sense of humor because, all summer, it’s been locking me places with Beckett. But tonight, of all nights, it decides to try to stop me from getting to him?

No. No way.

I pull again, and this time, the window flies open. So suddenly and with such force that I stumble backwards and knock the box of Gramps’s things from where it sits on my desk.

“Oh, come on!” I say in exasperation as papers and records go tumbling every which way.

Beckett’s form appears outside the window.

“Everything okay in here?” he asks, ducking to poke his head inside. Before waiting for my answer though, he easily vaults through my open window—way more cat-like and graceful than I will ever be—and kneels to start cleaning the mess.

“It is now,” I say with a goofy grin. This man, I tell you.

As Beckett and I stack everything neatly back in the box, his fingers linger on a faded LP cover.

I peer over his shoulder at the record, which is called “Moondance” by some old guy named Van Morrison.

He smiles fondly at it, nostalgia sweeping over his features. “This was one of my Gran’s favorites. She used to play it all the time when we were kids.”

“No way,” I say. “Gramps used to play this all the time, too. In fact, I’ll maybe bring it with me tomorrow when I go see him. It might cheer him up.”

Gramps hasn’t been too well lately, so Ez and I decided to go see him in the morning. I kind of wanted to ask Becks to come with us, too, but I know he’ll need to pack.

Pack.

The word hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Definitely,” Beckett replies. “You should do that.”

He passes me the record and then pops the lid back on the box. The two of us then climb out to the fire escape.

I don’t prop my window open like I usually do. In fact, once I’m out, I shut it almost defiantly, like I’m volleying a metaphorical ball into The Serendipity’s metaphorical court.

Your move, building. I dare you.

Outside, we sit down, and I rest my head on Beckett’s shoulder, as I’ve done so many times over the past few weeks. I’m still clad in his jacket, and I savor the feel of his warm presence and comforting smell.

“You feeling a little better now?” he asks me softly.

I nod and shake my head at once. “Mmpf.”

“I get that,” he says.

“It was a good idea to come home instead of staying at the fair. I was about to flood the place,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

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