Page 14 of The Getaway List
Mariella’s smile of recognition is so captivatingly wide and warm that I’m worried it’s going to cause a traffic accident.
“Well, if it isn’t Tommy boy!” she says, leaning in to hug Tom and somehow managing it despite the foot of difference between their heights. She keeps her eyes on me throughout, adding, “I was gonna say, I don’t think I’ve seen this dispatcher before.”
I wonder how often she gets sent stuff from admirers if she’s familiar with the full roster of dispatchers, but after thirty seconds of her blunt charm I have no trouble guessing that the answer is “a whole lot.”
Tom steps back after she releases him and says, “We saw the message come in and it was close, so we just grabbed it. I didn’t realize it was you, though.”
“Wait,” says Mariella. She takes my hand and lifts up my arm as if to examine and make sure I’m not a puppet or a robot. I’m too amused by this turn of events to protest. She sets my arm back down and says to Tom, still examining me, “Tom Whitz, with a real live friend?”
I laugh because Tom’s got those in spades, but it tapers off because Tom’s cheeks flush so fast that I’m not entirely sure if it’s a joke. Tom recovers, letting out a wry “Very funny,” then turns toward me and says, “This is Riley.”
“Get the fuck out! I didn’t think I’d get to meet the Riley,” Mariella says, one side of her mouth curling. “Nice to meet you. I’m the Mariella.”
“Oh. Hi,” I say.
Off my blank look she swats at Tom and says, “Really? Your girlfriend has no idea who I am?”
Tom lets out an undignified noise of protest and says, “I never said she was—I mean, Riley and I aren’t—we’re best friends.”
Mariella’s smirk deepens. “All right, all right, don’t get your backpack straps in a twist.” She turns to me and says, “Mariella Vasquez. Former classmate of Tom’s, present menace to society, future world-renowned photographer.” Then she adds in a faux whisper, “He mentions you a lot.”
“Bad things only, I hope,” I say back.
She cackles. “We’re going to have fun. I didn’t realize you were moving here.”
“Oh, I’m just here for the weekend,” I admit, with a reluctance that only seems to be getting stronger by the hour.
She throws an arm around my shoulder, squeezing as if she is the city itself claiming me. “We’ll fix that. And when we do you have to let me take your picture.” She pats her messenger bag, which is every bit as colorful as her top, and covered in enamel pins—one of a cat in a bandana and a cowboy hat, a heart-shaped one with the Puerto Rican flag, one with a logo of a brownie that is oddly familiar. Poking out of the top is a camera bag that looks brand-new in comparison. “I like your vibe.”
I have no earthly idea what kind of vibe that might be, but rather than question it I turn to Tom. “I regret to inform you that you’re not my best friend anymore. Mariella is replacing you.”
Tom shakes his head. “Unfortunate, but inevitable. Also, since when are you into photography?” he asks Mariella.
“Since a month and none of your business ago, Tommy boy,” says Mariella. She turns back to me. “I needed some better hobbies. Anyway, Tom’s got my number. Hit me up. Unlike Tom I actually know how to have fun.”
I tilt my head at Tom curiously, but he brushes past that comment as deliberately as the “real live friend” one. “Joke’s on you,” he says. “We’re going clubbing tonight.”
Mariella’s smile flickers, her arm going loose on my shoulder. Tom quickly clarifies, “We’re seeing a show at the Milkshake Club.”
She brightens so quickly that I might have imagined the flicker altogether. “Excellent idea. I’m in.”
She releases me then and heads off down the street, only looking back to blow a sloppy kiss in our direction. “See you two tonight!”
I blow a kiss back and Tom lets out an exasperated laugh like he’s already looking a few hours into the future and knowing full well he’s about to become a dance-floor third wheel.
“You’re okay with that?” Tom asks just the same.
“The more the merrier,” I say, genuinely meaning it. What I don’t say is that it’s a relief to see Tom has a friend in New York at all. It’s occurring to me that Tom never really talked much about friends here—we talked so rarely these past few years that we mostly caught up on each other’s lives and moms and not much else.
But I’m probably worrying for nothing. Tom is Tom. He makes friends by breathing.
“Hey,” I say anyway, not sure what I’m going to ask first. Maybe why Mariella implied Tom doesn’t seem to get out much, or why he seemed off this morning, or why he didn’t seem to have any plans this weekend at all when I crash-landed onto his new planet.
But just then Tom’s phone buzzes again. “What do you say?” he says, holding up the notification to another delivery. “You want to go a few more rounds? Could be a fun way to get in some sightseeing.”
Is it a little on the nose to avoid a problem by literally running away from them all over the city? Maybe. But Tom’s eyes are gleaming again like they did back when we were full-time partners in crime, and the pull of it is too strong to resist.
So strong, in fact, that I can’t help letting out a slightly hysterical whoop of laughter once we’ve collected bike helmets from Tom’s place and are flying down the bike path in Central Park on rented Citi Bikes.
