Page 152 of The Oscar Escape
“Proving his love for you and getting the girl. Welcome to your love-match happy ending.”
Aria frowned. “But I’m supposed to be getting the guy. I had a plan.”
Harper chuckled. “Try meeting in the middle and turning it down a notch, Miss Eat Worms. Give the guy a little slack. He’s been hanging up there for half an hour.”
“Did he tell you he loved me? Did he say he wanted to get back together?” Aria pressed, her heart in her throat.
“Look at the guy, Aria. He’s dangling like a piece of meat over a shark tank for you. He didn’t have to tell us he loves you. We’ve known it for years.” Harper took the notebook from her, said goodbye to the crowd, and exited the stage.
The crane began to lower Oscar toward the ground.
Aria concentrated on the man. He flailed like a drunk descending spider.
“Bend your knees slightly and center your weight around your core,” she called, then grimaced as he drew closer.
He smelled like two-hundred-year-old dead fish guts.
And then she identified the orange item around Oscar’s neck.
The man had on the lifejacket—the stinky, broken-buckled one she’d worn on Del’s boat. Had he brought it back with him from Havenmatch Island? It seemed like a strange item to take home after what had transpired between them.
“Aria?” he cried.
“Yes?”
“Doing the whole crane-bungee-cord entrance sounded way less terrifying when I was crafting this plan. Am I close to the ground?”
She laughed along with the audience. “You’re almost down. I’ll guide you.” She gripped his ankle and let her hand trail along his leg.
Oscar’s feet touched the stage, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “That harness is no joke,” he said, releasing the buckles and shaking out of the confining device.
“Yeah, it hurts like hell. Imagine doing that maneuver in heels while singing.”
“You’re amazing. Fancy meeting you here,” he said, regaining his edge as he drank her in.
“Not really,” she answered, playing it cool. “You sort of crashed an Aria Paige-Grant concert. My last concert.”
“Last concert?” he repeated.
“Yes, Aria Paige-Grant’s last one,” she replied as the sweeping melody brought her back to the ocean. The ballad ended, and the musical ensemble began Georgia Winstegan’s “Of Sea, Sand, and Driftwood.” Experiencing this moment with Oscar was surreal. No, not surreal. Magical, like her parents were there, their spirits woven between the notes.
She allowed her favorite piece of music to wash over her, then turned to the audience. “Denver, this is Oscar Abrams Elliott. He’s my . . .” She trailed off and met the man’s gaze. Instantly, she forgot the crowd. It was as if only she and Oscar existed in this beam of light.
He touched the corner of her mouth. “You’ve got a crumb on your lip. Did you like the sandwich?”
“I loved it. Did you make it?”
His grin answered her question. “It’s the Signature Aria.”
“Was it the one you came up with for me with themo-laysauce and that special cheese? I forget the name.”
Was it crazy to discuss a sandwich after everything that had happened between them?
Perhaps, but it felt like exactly what they were supposed to say to each other—like Oscar’s mom had joined the conversation.
“It’s Cotija cheese,” he explained. “And it turns out I wasn’t the first to come up with it. My mom was. That’s how I knew I needed to be here.”
His mother?
