Page 17 of The Getaway List
“Is New York Tom, like—shy?” I ask, for lack of a better way to phrase it.
Mariella raises her eyebrows. “Is there some version of him that wasn’t?”
Tom’s milkshake is abruptly plucked out of my hand and the reach of my mouth by none other than Tom himself, who’s smirking down at me. “I see you’ve been sampling.”
“I’m like one of those court jesters that checks for poison, is all.”
“It’d only be right to return the favor,” says Tom, leaning down abruptly to take a sip of my milkshake still hovering in front of my face. His eyes are close, flickering with his familiar mischief again, the kind that’s somehow only more endearing knowing that most people at his ridiculous height have long outgrown it.
We nurse our milkshakes until the band starts to play, kicking it off with—surprise, surprise—a cover of Taylor Swift’s “Welcome to New York.” Jesse winks in my direction at the opening chords and Mariella squeals, pulls my milkshake out of my hand to give to Tom, and pulls me onto the dance floor. We’re in the dead center and the first ones out, leading the charge. There isn’t even a moment to be self-conscious about it before people on the fringes are spilling out to join us, the Milkshake Club coming to life.
Even in those first few minutes it feels like the bright pink lights and the pulsing music are shedding some part of myself away, polishing me into something new. I’ve been waiting so long for a chance to be right smack-dab in the center of my own life instead of waiting on the sidelines. I feel like I’m brimming with potential energy, like even in this moment there are a thousand different things I could do—dance with a stranger, scream the lyrics at the top of my lungs, start a damn conga line—and every single one of them would lead to a different story of the night, and finally, finally, the story would be all mine.
The band transitions into one of their own songs, and I’m surprised it’s one I’ve never heard before. “Wildflower,” Jesse calls it, and it’s pulsing, demanding, the rhythm changing from the verse into the chorus in this catchy, unexpected way that makes your brain instantly crave hearing it again. The first time the pause just before the chorus hits Jesse meets my eye and grins broadly, the stage lights illuminating the absolute joy on his face, the exhilaration in every breath.
“These punks better be on Spotify or I’m suing them for emotional damage. This song is the shit,” says Mariella. She pulls out her camera. “I’m gonna go try and take some pics close to the stage.”
“I’m gonna go mortally embarrass Tom,” I say back.
I’ve let him hover with the milkshakes because he’s never been one for dancing. Not because he’s a spoilsport or anything, but when he enjoys music it’s almost like he gets so into it that he forgets to move altogether. Sure enough I find him staring rapt at the stage, milkshakes essentially melted into goop behind him.
Tom’s eyes brighten when he sees me approach, but he says, “Absolutely not.”
“Life is short, Tom. That meteor from this morning could come down at any moment.”
“You make a compelling point,” says Tom, who I know won’t actually take much convincing. “And yet.”
I lean in close. “The good people of the Milkshake Club deserve to see all three of your dance moves. The ‘checking the fiber content on this cereal’ one in particular.”
Tom laughs, starting to shake his head, and I reach out and seize his hand. I have every intention of using it to yank him the way Mariella yanked me, but seamlessly and instantly our fingers weave together in a way they never have before, locking tight. His eyes meet mine and for a moment we’re both very still.
Tom snaps back first, squeezing my hand and saying, “Fine. But you have to promise not to be intimidated by my skills. I’m still just a mortal man.”
Tom then proceeds to send me and a cluster of other dancers into a fit of giggles by solemnly pretending to steer a grocery cart along while bopping along to an Ariana Grande cover. Every few beats he reaches up to an imaginary shelf, squints at invisible nutrition labels and prices, and either shakes his head or chucks them into his imaginary cart.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me when the song ends, leaning in close. “I picked you up some invisible Pop-Tarts for later.”
A few dancers around us look put out by our closeness, in what I realize with a start might be the third time today people have mistaken Tom for my boyfriend. I laugh at the idea loud enough to mildly alarm Tom, who, of course, is oblivious to all the eyes on him, and say, “My favorite flavor!”
Mariella joins us on the dance floor not long after that, and the Walking JED close the opening act to riotous applause. Jesse wastes no time after the band clears the stage to barrel into us on the dance floor, leaving only briefly to get a well-earned milkshake with the rest of the Walking JED before joining us in our newest dance strategy, which seems to just be jumping up and down in the throng of humans in milkshake-induced sugar highs and attempting not to step on each other’s shoes.
At some point we form a semiprotective bubble of me, Jesse, Tom, and Mariella, when Jesse uses his lanky arms to gather us all in and says, “Shit. I’m sure you guys had plans tonight but I’m so glad you made it.”
I lean into our sweaty circle, grinning cheekily. “We used you,” I admit. “Now that we’ve enjoyed the vocal stylings of the Walking JED we can cross a pivotal item off of the Getaway List.”
“Wait.” Jesse beams between me and Tom with the pride of someone who’s just been told they were nominated for an Oscar. “The Walking JED was on the Getaway List?”
Mariella nudges her petite frame deeper into the circle and says, “There’s a Getaway List?”
Tom’s backpack is hung up on a hook under the milkshake bar, so he leans down to open it as I explain the list to Mariella.
“I think it’s only fair we let Jesse do the honors of crossing this one off,” says Tom.
I nod in agreement. “And Mariella can cross off the ‘Dear, Love’ Dispatch.” I make a spinning gesture with my hand and add, “Now do the Hokey Pokey and turn your tall self around.”
I press the Getaway List against Tom’s back as Mariella grabs a pen off the milkshake-bar counter. Jesse crows in delight at the band’s spot on the list as Mariella lifts herself to the tips of her toes, scrutinizing the rest of it.
“You’re not even halfway through this,” says Mariella, her tone disapproving even as her eyes light up with excitement at getting to check one of the items off.
