Page 45 of The Getaway List
“Mariella,” says Tom. There’s a warning in his voice, but a slight resignation, too. Like whatever’s about to happen, he’s already a few seconds ahead of it, anticipating the blow.
He’s right to, because she doesn’t hear him over the sound of me turning to her and saying, “Wait, since when do you work on the app?”
Mariella frowns. “Since Tom asked me to build it,” she says, as if this is obvious.
The room goes very quiet. Scratch that—the room goes very quiet, save for the clunky karaoke-version of the opening chords to “Let It Go,” and Mariella glancing at Tom and saying quietly, “Wait. Shit.”
Luca sets the mic down, laughing nervously. “The way you said that almost sounds like you and Tom made the dispatch app.”
And then I’m not looking at Luca and the mic, or Mariella and her boozy soda, or Jesse, who’s gone very quiet in the corner. I’m looking at Tom, who is looking down at his feet and pulling in a long, slow breath.
“I’m sorry,” says Mariella. I can already hear the tears clogging her throat. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Tom, even though it clearly isn’t. Even though he won’t meet my eye, which suddenly gives this whole scene an out-of-body quality, like I stepped into a weird dream. The tinny Elsa harmonies whining “I am one with the wind and sky” from the machine are doing nothing to help matters.
It’s Luca, surprisingly, who breaks the silence again, just as Mariella presses her eyes into her palms, clearly trying not to cry.
“I think I should get Mariella home,” he says.
He sits down on the couch and puts a tentative arm around her, and she shakes her head but leans into it.
“I better fix whatever this is,” Tom mumbles, half-heartedly holding up his phone. “I’ll be right outside.”
Tom’s eyes barely graze mine before he goes, too fast for me to read them. Luca leads Mariella just after, leaving me and Jesse to start cleaning up the mountain of snacks left behind. We load up the bags without saying anything to each other, listening to the bass beats of other people’s songs bouncing dully off the walls.
“We can take everyone back to our place if you want,” says Jesse. “It’s not far.”
I shake my head. I open my mouth to say something but stop just short of it. It feels like all the words have been stunned out of me.
“I’m sure he had a good reason. It’s Tom,” says Jesse.
If anything this only makes the urge to cry even stronger, so much that I feel like I’m sixteen again, swallowing down tears over Tom in a karaoke room just like this.
Jesse puts a hand on my shoulder. “Offer still stands. The Walking JED always has a Riley-sized spot on the couch.”
I manage to look up and smile in his direction, guilt mingling with my hurt. I’ve been so busy I haven’t even seen the band’s place yet. And Jesse clearly has issues of his own he wants to talk through.
“Thanks,” I say, putting a hand on top of his and squeezing, too. “But do me a favor, will you? Don’t ever let me turn sixteen again.”
Jesse lets out a laugh. “Deal.”
With that I swallow down just enough of the strange, misplaced hurt to pull myself together, grab the last of our stuff, and follow Tom and his secrets out into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Tom and I are quiet the entire subway ride back to his place, but not for lack of Tom trying. I can’t talk to him yet, though. It feels like there are two different voices in my head, one a hum, the other a slither: I love him, I love him, I love him, says one. And then just under it: He lied.
I’m not angry, but I can’t decide if it’s because I shouldn’t be or because I haven’t fully wrapped my head around it yet. It’s like there are two different Toms in my head—the one I trusted, and the one I’m not sure if I can—and I don’t know which one is in front of me.
The moment we emerge up the station’s stairs to the street, Tom slows his pace and says, “Riley.” My name half plea, half apology in his mouth.
I shake my head even as I slow my pace, too. Tom drifts off to the benches by the museum and I follow him there but don’t sit. I just hover there with no idea what to ask, no idea where to start. The hurt is too unsettled, brimming just under my skin like it doesn’t know what shape to take yet.
“I’m so sorry,” says Tom.
And he means it. I can hear the sincerity of it in his voice, feel the weight of it in his eyes. The thing is I don’t think either of us quite knows what he’s sorry for yet, because I still have no idea why he did it.
“If you started this it must have been—what, two years ago?” I finally ask.
