Page 51 of The Getaway List
“Shit,” I say. In all the chaos it didn’t occur to me that they might have gotten that far under her skin last night. But I guess given the history she had with them, it wouldn’t have taken much.
“Yeah. Well. Just so I could make the backslide nice and thorough I let Gunner top off my Sprite. Hence why I was a drunk mess who was apparently determined to make a mess out of everyone else’s night, too.” She pulls in a deep breath. “None of which excuses me turning into a human wrecking ball, but you know. Context.”
I put a hand on her elbow. “I’m sorry about your parents. And Luca. And the whole thing with your shitty ex-friends.”
Mariella’s eyes fill up with relief, like they were threatening to this entire time but she was holding it together for the apology. “Don’t be sorry at me, I’m the one trying to be sorry at you,” she complains, smiling at me.
I smile back, the last of the tension easing out of us both. I lean in and reach out for her and she nearly topples the chair over hugging me back with that surprisingly sharp squeeze for such a small person.
“I hated not telling you about the app,” says Mariella into my ear, just before we let each other go. “Once I realized you didn’t know I told Tom a zillion times how ridiculous he was being.”
“Thank you for trying,” I say. “It sucks he put you in that position in the first place.”
Mariella waves a hand at this, clear that she was more worried for my sake than her own. “I’m sure he was going to tell you soon enough. What was he going to do, put a ski mask on if you ever wanted to meet your boss?”
I laugh out loud at the thought, simultaneously realizing Mariella must not know Tom is planning on leaving. I feel such a large rush of relief that I finally reach for the cupcake and take an inhumanly large bite, and fuck if every dessert isn’t twice as good in this city than it is anywhere else.
“Well, at least he won’t have to raid a sporting-goods store. We talked a bit last night. About why he kept it from me and all, and how it started,” I say, nudging the cupcake toward her.
Mariella scoops some of the icing from the cupcake with the tip of her finger. “Yeah, well. Now you know why Tom and I were only kind of sort of friends when you got here. As gung ho as we both were about working on the app, I don’t think a crowbar could have wrestled any personal information out of him aside from talking about you.”
I feel another uneasy wave of confusion and guilt, the same kind that’s been ebbing in and out of me like a tide all morning. It feels like it goes against everything in me, being upset with Tom when I know in my heart the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt me. But knowing Tom could keep something like this from me also feels like it goes against the whole understanding of my world.
“Did he say anything about why he made the app in the first place?” I ask.
Mariella shrugs. “Honestly, I was more intrigued by the infamous school loner approaching me to ask too many questions. Felt like I was getting to ride out an eighties teen-movie cliché. And I was so burnt out and desperate for friends that Tom could have been a serial killer and I would have been like, you know what, at least I’ll still have a buddy in comp sci for a few weeks before he harvests my organs.”
“Always good to weigh the pros and cons,” I agree.
She’s smiling, but it softens a bit when she says, “Anyway. I’m sorry it came out the way it did. I’m sure he had a better way of telling you, but drunk me blew it sky-high.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure he did. So weirdly, I’m glad you spilled the beans. Better to know now than later.”
I don’t mention everything that hinges on that later—my being here, and Tom being about as far from here as he can get.
“Well, in that case, I’m glad something good came out of it,” says Mariella wryly. She sinks a bit lower into her hands, her eyes flitting to the front door. “That and—well. It made me finally talk to my parents this morning about everything. Not just how serious I am about the app and coming up with other ideas on my own instead of going back to school, but some of the situation with Gunner’s crowd. I just felt like maybe they’d be able to understand more where I was coming from on my plans for this year if they knew.”
“Did it help?” I ask.
She nods carefully. “They were upset. But not for what I did. More just upset that it happened to me. And a little that I didn’t tell them, so they couldn’t help.”
I think of my own mom then, of our last phone call. Instead of talking about it you just up and left. Maybe I can ignore all her warnings and rejections of my plans, but I can’t dismiss that she’s right about that. We never did talk about it.
“Ugh,” I groan.
“What?” Mariella asks, half-amused, half-indignant.
I bury my face in my hands. “You’re being all mature about talking to your parents about things and now I’m going to have to do that, too, huh?”
“Yeah. Shit. Evolving as a human is a bitch.”
I know it’s not just my mom I need to talk to, but Tom I need to hear out. There was more he wanted to say last night and I was too upset to listen. I don’t regret leaving when I did, because it was too fresh to have a meaningful talk about it right on the heels of finding out. But I can’t put it off, for both of our sakes.
It’s strange—I got so used to Tom’s silence over the past few years, but now even a day without speaking to him unsettles me. I hope no matter what happens on the other side of this that we don’t fall into that pattern again. Yesterday I was so confident there was nothing that could happen to lose his friendship, and now it all feels just as fragile as it did before I came.
I reflexively look at my phone the way I did a thousand times over in high school, just hoping Tom might text me back. I don’t have to hope though. There’s already a message from him.
I know you know but I really am sorry. And also I miss you. I know you need some space but I just wanted you to know that, it reads.
