Page 25 of The Getaway List
“Sorry, what kind of guest?” Tom asks with an amused smirk.
My face burns, wondering why I even brought it up. But of course I know why. Part of me is curious if that’s something Tom’s done before—if he’s ever been serious enough about someone else to bring them here, or go to their place. It occurs to me that even when Jesse and I dated back in the day, Tom and I didn’t talk about it much. For all I know, Tom’s been breaking hearts all up and down Central Park West.
Because that almost-kiss downstairs? That was some suave shit. Like Tom knew what he was doing when he held my face in his hand—like he was poised and practiced and in control. Meaning Tom’s probably kissed people before, which is strange because I’ve never imagined Tom kissing anyone before and now that I am, it is an irrationally displeasing thought. The thought equivalent of stepping on a LEGO. Which, thanks to Tom’s brand of nerdery, I did plenty of times growing up.
Tom’s trying and failing not to laugh at me when he says, “I don’t foresee bringing any dancing inflatable tubes up here.” He purses his lips briefly and then adds, “But if you ever want to—you know—”
“Nope,” I say quickly. “All right, then. I’m adding ‘no watching Tides of Time reruns without each other.’”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Tom, dutifully adding it to the list.
That just about covers it, except for one last thing: “Also no being weird.”
“That’s an extremely broad condition,” Tom points out.
I lean into his counter, sliding sideways against it and accidentally leaning closer to him in turn. He smells like sweat and sunshine and Tom.
“I mean about—you know. Personal stuff. Like if we’re going to be roommates we’re going to be witness to all of each other’s bodily mishaps and nonsense quirks and, like, feelings. So no pretending things are fine when they’re not, I guess.”
There were probably more eloquent ways to put that, but I’m glad I didn’t find them because Tom goes still for a moment, so still that I know he understands my meaning completely.
“No being weird,” he echoes, adding it to the list. He sets the pen down and looks back up, his eyes settling on the flowers. “Oh. These are nice.”
My eyes narrow at him suspiciously.
“Or not?” he says, confused.
“If you weren’t my ‘admirer’ then we’ve got a regular Scooby-Doo mystery on our hands,” I say.
“Someone sent you flowers on the app?” Tom asks, with enough surprise that I know for sure he isn’t committing to some bit. I’m at odds with myself, trying to ignore both the pang of disappointment and the teensy self-important thrill.
“Yes. One of my many suitors,” I quip.
Tom is examining the flowers intensely enough that it feels for a moment like he’s trying not to meet my eye.
“Maybe your mom?” he asks.
I feel a quick lurch in my stomach. “Nah. We’re locked in a super fun stalemate right now where neither of us is texting the other.”
Tom’s brow furrows. “Sounds healthy.”
“I might try again when she cools off,” I say, before he can go all “future psych major” on me. I don’t want him worrying about this when he’s clearly got his own issues with Vanessa to work out. “It’s just if I text her now she’s either going to keep ignoring me or guilt-trip me, and both of those options feel like a hard pass.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with that?”
Not even a little. I may be the one who demanded space, but it’s weird not texting her every other minute of the day. Even when we were at the height of overscheduled, we’d check in so often that it never felt like we were apart. The silence on her end is so loud it feels like a damn echo chamber.
“No,” I say, with a stilted shrug, “but it’ll be fine. It’s just one summer.”
“Riley,” Tom starts, but I cut him off.
“Maybe it was Mariella,” I say brightly, turning my attention back to the flowers. She and I have been texting back and forth all day about Broadway shows we want to join the ticket lottery for, and I’ve determined from her liberal use of caps lock that there is very little in her life she commits to halfway.
Tom searches my face carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether to push the mom point. Finally he says, “Yeah, that seems like something Mariella might do.”
Except it is very much not something she did, which we discover a few days later, when our little Getaway List group reconvenes to tackle item number four. Mariella comes by the apartment early for lunch because her dad “made enough sorullitos to fill the Lincoln Tunnel.” When she explains they’re sweet, cheese-filled cornmeal fritters, Tom and I supplement with our own culinary wiles (read: pulling soda out of the fridge).
After a hello hug that rival’s Tom’s trademark bone-crushing ones, Mariella grabs my hands and takes me in, eyes lingering on the oversized T-shirt with a Falls Creek Middle School track logo emblazoned on my chest.
