Chapter Twenty-Eight
Beckett
Ezra and Mae live in a renovated Victorian a few neighborhoods over from The Serendipity. It’s got high, sloped ceilings, dormer windows and a wood burning fireplace, the mantel of which now hosts my gifted plant.
I love the place on sight.
I also love Everett the second I lay eyes on him. It’s the first time I’ve met Ezra and Mae’s three-year-old, and his energy is infectious, his cheeky smile adorable. Even after sixty-five rounds playing on his plastic Fisher Price bongo drums with him while crouched uncomfortably on the hardwood floor.
Keeley is out back with Ezra, assisting him with plating the meat, which we’re going to eat inside now due to the cooler weather. I offered to help, of course, but she said she’d do it so I could continue playing with Everett, who apparently digs me as much as I dig him.
Which feels nice, not gonna lie.
“I can grab you a chair, Beckett,” Mae offers for approximately the fifty-seventh time, but I decline with a smile. I don’t know much about little kids—I mainly teach tweens and teens—but I know it’s important to connect with them on their level.
“Do you have any nieces or nephews?” she asks, smiling fondly at her son. “You’re so good with Ev.”
“Not yet,” I say, tapping on the bongo in a rhythm that makes Everett giggle with glee. “But I will shortly—my sister is pregnant with her first.”
“I didn’t know you were about to be an uncle,” Keeley says as she walks through the sliding glass doors from the yard, holding a platter stacked high with chicken thighs glazed with Korean barbecue sauce.
“Yeah, my sister Aoife is due in October.” I grin. “Last time I talked to her, she said she felt like a cross between an elephant and a house, and she was hoping for an early arrival.”
Mae chuckles. “I remember the feeling all too well.”
Ezra comes in with a stack of ribs and announces that it’s time to eat. It feels good to be able to stand and stretch my legs, finally.
“I wanna sit next to you and Kiwi,” Everett declares, smiling up at me. Kiwi might be the cutest nickname I’ve ever heard.
“Deal, little man.”
We all gather around the dining table—me across from Keeley, and Everett perched between us on one end of the table in a booster seat, like he’s the king observing his subjects.
“Thanks again for having me,” I say as Ezra passes me a bowl of glass noodle salad. “I’ve been subsisting on a diet of sugar-coated cereal, thanks to Keeley’s grocery shopping tactics.” I give her a little smirk. “Nice to be reacquainted with some vegetables.”
“Vegetables are overrated,” Keeley declares, then seems to register what she’s currently shoveling onto her plate. “Except for your bibimbap, of course, Mae.”
“Saved yourself in the nick of time there, Keels,” Mae retorts with a wink.
As I fork a mouthful of deliciously hot, flavorful food into my mouth, Keeley, Mae, and Ezra banter back and forth. I love the way they communicate—kind of like my own family, only much, much less chaotic. Oh, and people actually seem to listen when someone else speaks.
Must be refreshing.
I’m enjoying myself thoroughly, and I take a backseat in talking in order to just listen to their conversation… until talk turns to the Indie Music Night.
“You were so good,” Mae says, and I thank her, dipping my head. It’s weird—I never know how to take compliments of this nature. Like accepting them will make me look ego-centric or prideful or self-indulgent.
“Did you know he writes his own music, too?” Keeley pipes up suddenly.
I wave a hand. “Ah, barely.”
“No, seriously, I heard him playing a tune he wrote. It was incredible.”
Ezra’s eyes spark with interest. “Really?”
“Just something I’m dabbling with,” I admit. A few days ago, I might have shrunk away from a question like that, but after performing last night—after asking Keeley out and walking home holding her hand—I’ve been feeling musically inspired.
So much so that I spent most of today working out the kinks in the new melody that’s been moving through my mind. Even adding some lyrics.
“Would you be interested in recording it, Becks?” Ezra asks.
“I’m sure you’re fully booked with lots of actual songwriters with real songs to record,” I say. I know it’s self-deprecating, but honestly, as much fun as recording might be, what would I even do with a recorded song?
“Yeah, we actually had a cancellation for next week that we’ll never fill again in time, so the spot’s yours if you want it. On the house.”
“I—”
“No pressure,” Ezra says. “But it could be a blast.”
“It could be.” Keeley’s voice is soft and accompanied by the sensation of her foot gently pressing against mine under the table. I meet her eyes, and she swallows. “And I’d love to be able to listen to it again after you leave. It was so beautiful.”
How on earth can I possibly argue with that? I think as I gaze into her hopeful eyes.
And honestly, I don’t really have a good reason to say no—save for potential embarrassment that the finished song will turn out rubbish and Keeley and Ezra will hate it.
But something in me, something deep and intangible, already knows that’s not the case.
“Sure,” I find myself saying and then feel an accompanying shiver of excitement. Although I’m not sure how much of that has to do with the idea of recording, and how much has to do with the fact that Keeley is now playing full-blown footsie with me under the table.
Almost experimentally, I press my foot back against hers. Not going to lie, I have never thought of feet as sexy. Not my thing. At all.
But I might be reconsidering that. Because I like everything about Keeley Roberts. Including her feet, apparently.
And for the rest of dinner, as wonderful as Ezra and Mae are, the only thing on my mind is being alone with her later.
I’ve planned a few things that aren’t maybe the most traditionally romantic or popular first date ideas, but they’re things I think she will like. That will show her I’m paying attention. Doing everything I can to see her clearly.
After we’re done eating, I’m happy to be tasked with scrubbing pots. I like that they don’t make me sit down but instead let me help. Like they’ve accepted me as one of their own…
Not that that’s what’s happening here, of course.
My first date with Keeley does not officially start until later this evening, so I really shouldn’t be thinking about being accepted into the family when we haven’t even gone out together yet.
After everything’s cleaned up, Mae gives us both huge hugs goodnight before she whisks Everett upstairs for bath time. We’re about to say our goodbyes to Ezra when he holds up a finger.
“Let me grab you that box of Gramps’s things.” With that, he retrieves a box from the basement—one of those thick legal-looking cardboard boxes, a thin layer of dust on top.
“He gave me this box a while ago, before he moved to Silver Springs. It’s mostly records, but there’s a couple of old photo albums in there, too.” Ezra shrugs as he passes it to me. “Maybe your Gran is in some of the pics or something. Might be worth a look.”
Keeley smiles at her brother. “Cool. Thanks, Ez.”
“Yeah, thanks, man,” I say as well.
I’m grateful for Ezra’s thoughtfulness, and while it’s a long shot that we’ll find anything useful in a box of old records, it’s obviously worth looking through. But honestly, I’m in no rush to look at the moment…
Because right now, I get to take Keeley Roberts on a date.