Chapter Thirty-Two
Keeley
I got set up 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 way I looked.
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
My nice sweater. 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 know who I’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 I feel confident 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’s Beckett . 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.
Like Ez mentioned, there are a ton of records, which makes sense as Gramps and Ezra always bonded over music. I flick through them, scanning the names of old bands I’ve never heard of, before finding a little metal box tucked at the bottom of a stack of sheet music.
I fish it out, dust it off.
And when I crack it open, I smile.
The first thing I see is a wedding photo of my Gramps and Grandma—him, dashing in his tuxedo with his dark hair slicked back, and her, glowing in a delicate lace veil and copious amounts of creamy satin.
And I mean copious . Her dress looks like it’s been inflated with a bicycle pump.
But her smile is pure radiance. Glowing from the inside. And Gramps is looking at her like she’s a unicorn—rare and mystical and beautiful.
The sight of it pinches under my ribcage, nipping at my heart.
My Grandma died when I was little and I barely remember her, let alone remember how she and Gramps were together. But this picture tells me a thousand words— thousands of words.
They were happy.
I flip the picture over. “1966” is written on the back. A few years after Noeleen and Gramps would’ve parted ways.
My heart beats a little quicker as I continue through the small stack of photos. They’re all snapshots of my grandparents’ early marriage—Grandma wearing a tea-length powder blue dress as she poses by a Ford Mustang, hands clad in short white gloves cradling her swollen belly. Gramps holding a diaper-clad baby. A dark-haired, blue-eyed toddler—my dad—sitting between them on a floral loveseat.
While my Gramps always has a photo of his and my Grandma’s wedding day on his bedside table, I’ve never seen any of these pictures before.
I’m so engrossed that the knock on my living room window almost makes me jump out of my skin.
I look up, wide-eyed, to see the outline of Beckett’s long body crouched on the fire escape.
He beckons for me to come to the window, and I jump up. Open it.
“Hey, did you get locked ou— whoa .”
My question dies on my tongue as I look out on the fire escape.
Or, what used to be the fire escape. Because it now looks like something out of a 90s rom-com movie. You know, the ones set in New York apartments you have no idea how the characters can afford, that seem to set the stage for ultimate romance in the city vibes.
“Beckett, what on earth?” I ask.
In response, he smiles. Extends a hand to me.
I take it, and he helps me step out of my window. And when I’m standing in front of him, his eyes sweep down my outfit, and they flare just like I hoped they would.
Meanwhile, I look around in awe. Fairy lights are strung along the railings, bathing the small space where we usually sit in a golden glow. Paper lanterns surround a cozy blanket on the ground. Soft country music plays from a speaker. There’s a bottle of sparkling wine and a spread of…
I laugh when my eyes land on the food.
“Wait, are those Eggos?” I ask, elated. Because when I asked Becks how he liked the ones we bought at Spring Foods, he said something to the effect of “they’re good… for toastable cardboard.” But he knows I love them.
“They are,” he confirms. “I know how much you’re into breakfast for dinner, little weirdo that you are.”
He’s standing next to me, wearing that gorgeous bomber jacket again, and though he’s smiling and teasing like he usually does, he’s also rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s a little embarrassed. The embarrassment—the sheer effort of all of this—is so incredible that it makes half of me want to pounce on him and kiss him senseless, half want to burst into tears.
I do neither of these things. Instead, I turn to him.
“It’s perfect,” I say. And I mean it. Every single last detail is so thoughtful.
“This is how I wanted to finish our date last night,” he admits. “But the rain derailed my plans.”
“I liked the derailment,” I say softly.
His eyes meet mine, lit by the glow of the fairy lights. The heavy-lidded, heated expression he gives me tells me he’s thinking about what happened between us last night, too. How magically amazing that kiss was. “Same.”
The song playing on the speakers comes to an end, and I blink, breaking the moment. I’m nervous, I realize. Have a stomach full of butterflies over a boy who makes me feel like I’m beautiful.
“Shall we eat?” he asks, gesturing towards the spread of food. There’s more than just Eggos, I realize. He’s got bacon and sausage and eggs and a whole platter of fruit. When he sees me eyeing the strawberries, he laughs. “I had to bring something with vitamins in it to help us avert scurvy.”
“Sexy,” I tease, loving how he pronounces the word “vitamin” with an “it” sound in the middle instead of a long vowel like Americans do.
His eyes sparkle. “Yes, I do find the atmosphere on dates tends to be a little sexier when debilitating diseases caused by extreme nutritional deficiencies are not involved.”
“That’s weird,” I reply. “Can I expect any further dates this summer to be nutrient-dense too?”
He places a hand on his chest. “I solemnly swear to get as many vitamins and minerals into your diet as possible until the day I board my plane.”
We grin at each other, and some of my nerves settle as we take a seat on the blanket.
“What were you doing when I came to get you?” Becks asks as he pops the top on the sparkling wine and pours me a glass. He gives me that dimpled grin as he passes me the glass and adds, “I feel like I gave you a banshee-level scaring. Which I’m not going to say wasn’t karma…”
I laugh and bump his shoulder with mine as I reach for a cinnamon Eggo. “I was actually looking through the box of Gramps’s stuff that Ezra gave us.”
Becks turns to look at me. In the glow of the fairy lights, his eyes are more green than hazel tonight. “Find anything?”
I swallow my bite of waffle before replying, “Nothing with Noeleen. But I did find wedding photos of Gramps and Grandma, as well as some family pictures. I’d never seen them before.” I take a sip of wine and hold the liquid in my mouth for a moment, letting the cold bubbles fizz on my tongue. “They looked so happy,” I tell him.
His eyes soften. “I’m glad. Your gramps seems like a good man.”
Just like you are, Beckett McCarthy.
“Was Noeleen happy?” I ask hesitantly, my teeth pressing into my bottom lip. “Did she find love and happiness in her life, too?”
Beckett rests his forearms on his knees, which are drawn up in front of him. “She never stopped believing in love,” he says. “Even though her marriage with my grandfather didn’t work out, she loved my mom and her grandchildren something fierce. She had a lot of love surrounding her.” He screws up his eyes a little. “I don’t think she died having any regrets, if that’s what you mean. I think she and Douglas were happy for a time together, and then both went on to live their own separate, very full lives.”
“Worth the broken heart to have had that time together,” I whisper, mostly to myself. Then, I hold up my glass to him in a toast. “And speaking of time together—to tonight.”
“To you , Keeley Roberts,” he counters, and his dimpled smile is everything. “My favorite neighbor of all time.”
“To an incredible summer with Beckett McCarthy,” I agree as we clink glasses. “Who comes a very close second to Mr. Prenchenko as a next-door neighbor.”
The look Becks gives me is positively sizzling as he reaches out and runs an index finger slowly, sensually across my lips. “I would’ve thought that, after last night, I’d be at the top of the neighbor leaderboard. But I guess I still have some work to do.”
“Ah, Mr. Prenchenko’s a pretty decent kisser, too,” I tease, and enjoy how appalled Beckett looks—in a really cute, jealous way—before he realizes I’m joking.
“Menace.” His voice is somehow soft and rough at once, his thumb still scraping over my lip. “I didn’t think I’d have to compete with a senior citizen with multiple wild boar paintings on his walls for your affections, but maybe my ego got the better of me.”
The tone of his voice, his teasing lilt mixed with something overtly sensual and weighted with desire, sends my stomach into freefall.
“Last night was the best kiss of my life,” I admit.
“I think we can top it,” Beckett says as he takes my wine glass out of my hand with purpose, a man on a mission as he sets it aside.
Knowing what’s about to happen puts my entire body into metaphorical freefall.
Just like that date all those years ago, I’m out of my comfort zone, but this time, it’s not the atmosphere or the person I’m with that’s pushing me there. It’s the fact that this is probably the most romantic moment of my life, and I’m here for it.
These sparks, this crazy crackling energy between us, is palpable as ever. But on a deeper level, that invisible string—the irresistible pull that’s been bringing us together over and over these past few weeks—feels stronger than ever.
We’re connected. And somehow, that makes the risk of letting myself experience romantic feelings for Becks feel like a lifeline.
No, a bungee cord. Because no matter how uncomfortable it is to be outside of my comfort zone—leaning into love when it’s burned me before—this time, there’s something to catch me when I fall.
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, I welcome.
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.