Page 26 of The Getaway List
“This is … a choice,” she says.
I jut my chin toward Tom. “I’m cosplaying as this guy for the summer. All my clothes are back home.”
It’s actually come in handy for the past few days’ worth of activities, which have included and are not limited to sweating, sweating, and—surprise—more sweating. I’ve loved every second of biking around the city shadowing Tom for random dispatches for delivery training, but summer in New York makes me feel jealous of fried eggs, because at least at some point they get to get taken off the pan. This city just sizzles until nightfall.
It’s worth the copious amounts of sunscreen and chugged Gatorades, though, getting to see the city at full throttle. In the past few days alone we’ve gone as far up as the Apollo theater in Harlem and so far down into FiDi I could see the Statue of Liberty from Battery Park. We had one flower delivery where we got stuck between a couple loudly and colorfully breaking and then making up in the West Village; we bequeathed an absurd number of Spider-Man toys to a confused but pleased woman on the Upper East Side; we even swung by a Broadway stage door to deliver cookies to an understudy who was debuting that night.
I’ve also made an enemy out of every stubborn pigeon in this entire city, but have already lost enough battles to know I won’t win the war.
“Oh, absolutely not. No offense, Tom.” Mariella lets my hands go, reconsidering. “Actually, full offense, Tom. How can you live here and get away with having no sense of style?”
“Because he’s good-looking,” I say, before he can answer.
Tom sputters on soda, but Mariella nods sagely. “So are you, but fuck this. You’re a New Yorker now. Your clothes should be your style. We’ll go thrift shopping. Find you some Riley fits that don’t have holes in the armpits.”
I’m even more grateful for Tom’s questionable hand-me-downs then, because I was looking for an excuse to hang out with Mariella one-on-one anyway. Not that I’m in any way dreading today’s group excursion, which is equal parts tourist trap, workout, and unrepentant nerdery—we’ll be walking the entire six-mile loop of Central Park with Tides of Time guides in hand, mapping out all the places the characters have been on the show.
Satisfied with solving my fashion conundrum, Mariella glances at the vase on the counter and says, “At least Tom has good taste in flowers, if not clothes.” At which point we have to confess we have no idea who sent them to me, which delights Mariella so much that it’s clear it wasn’t her doing, either.
“Oh, to be young and in New York and living out a rom-com trope,” says Mariella, leaning dramatically into the counter.
“Speaking of, did you ever figure out who sent you those chocolate bars?” I ask.
Mariella makes a pfft noise and says, “Why bother? Whoever it was clearly didn’t know jack shit about me. Not like whoever sent you these.” She fluffs the colorful, chaotic bundle of flowers with the top of her hand. “They captured your whole essence.”
She looks to Tom as if she’s looking for his agreement, but he’s picked up his phone and is suddenly very busy skimming the group chat again.
“We’d better head out,” he says, picking up a backpack so full that if he dropped it I’m not entirely certain it wouldn’t crash through the floor all the way to the lobby.
“Please let me carry literally anything,” I tell him.
Tom obligingly hands me the map.
“Anything but that.”
Chapter Eight
Central Park is so ridiculously beautiful that even though I’ve been in it a dozen times already, I fall out of step with Mariella and Tom taking it in. Crossing the street into the park is such an abrupt shift that it feels like I have my feet in separate worlds—one of them this humming, electric city full of stakes that feel even higher than the buildings in it, and the other so green and bright and lush that I can’t quite convince my brain that it’s real.
Luca is already waiting for us when we arrive at the designated meeting spot on Central Park West, clad in a pair of running sneakers, track shorts, and an honest-to-god neon green sweatband around his head. He sees us and shoots his arm up to wave so enthusiastically that his body does an unintentional little jump with it.
“Oh, he’s adorable,” Mariella says at once. “I’m going to kidnap him.”
“You’d be doing him a favor. He’s desperate to cure his writer’s block and needs a good story,” I tell her.
“I don’t know how much writing he’ll get done from my front pocket, but maybe he’ll manage.”
Luca bounds over to me and gives me a quick hug, saying, “So my mom bought me some books on scriptwriting and plotting the other day and I’m still marking them up but you have to borrow them when I’m done,” then moving on to hug Tom and saying, “Oh, jeez, you’re tall, not-Riley,” which causes Mariella’s brows to quirk in confusion just as Luca turns to her and then suddenly, abruptly freezes.
“Hi,” says Luca. I didn’t think he was capable of being monosyllabic, but nothing else comes out of him.
Mariella extends out her hand, flashing a warm smile. “Hey. I’m Mariella.”
Luca’s eyes flit from her hand to her face, and inexplicably his expression seems to flatten. Like even his freckles have gotten less stark.
“Luca,” he says, taking her hand just the same.
Mariella lifts her other hand to press both of hers on either side of his, still beaming with a full-wattage smile that Luca is apparently immune to. If anything he seems to have gone slightly catatonic. I look over to Tom, whose eyes are already on mine with the same confusion in them, when our phones all start buzzing with texts from Jesse.
