Page 6 of The Getaway List
I glance at his well-fitted jeans and white sneakers, at the mug of coffee on the small entryway table beside him. “You got New Yorkier.”
And Tom evidently decides we’re done with my bit, his eyes watering again when he says, “Come here already,” pulling me in for one of our bone-crushing hugs.
At first the relief of it is so overwhelming that I breathe in the flowery detergent his mom always uses and that earthy, innate Tom smell of him, and all I can think is, We’re back. Like we’ve been wandering a long time and only just found our way home. Only once we sink into the hug, I don’t just see the difference in Tom but feel it, too. I used to be able to wrap my arms around Tom’s lanky frame like we were one and the same, but there’s so much more of him than there is of me. I can’t crush his bones the way we did when we were kids because he’s simply uncrushable now, and I can tell he’s going easy on me, that there’s a quiet ripple of new strength he’s not using.
“Jesus,” I say, burying my head in his shoulder. “It’s like trying to hug Mount Olympus.”
I can practically feel Tom’s smirk as he lifts me slightly until my feet are off the ground.
“And that’s a new trick,” I add.
He lets out a laugh that I feel in my own chest before setting me back on the ground, not quite letting me go. Our arms are still hooked around our middles, grinning at each other. I’m half-afraid to blink, like the earth might just swallow him up for another three years and the next time I try to hug him he’ll be tall as a tree.
He pulls away from me then, only because we both know what’s coming—over the years our secret handshake became less ritual and more law. We take a deliberate step back and then devolve immediately into a nonsense sequence of claps, spins, and gestures, laughing at each other for still knowing every step of it. Laughing too hard, maybe, because it’s such a damn relief that we both do.
We finish it off with the usual thumb to our noses, breathless and giddy, so unsteady with it we nearly fall into each other.
“You’re not even a little surprised to see me?” I ask.
Tom just shakes his head. “I learned to stop being surprised at you approximately a decade ago. This is a very Riley thing to do.”
I flush under my grin, because it hasn’t been lately, but it feels good to hear someone say so. Like settling into an old, broken-in denim jacket that still fits just right.
I bop my head on his shoulder. “Good. Also I hope you don’t think I’m going to start being civil to you just because you got hotter,” I say, shucking off my sneakers and making my way inside.
Tom blinks because evidently I can still surprise him. “Uh, wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Is your mom home?” I ask, and then: “Oh, fuck. You’re rich rich, huh.”
Because the exterior of the building was nice, sure, but having snuck up the way I did I bypassed the lobby completely. A lobby that might have hinted at what I’m seeing now, which is vaulting living-room ceilings and massive windows that look out to the street and Central Park and the rest of the city beyond, the sparks of building lights starting to pop against the blue of the darkening sky. I’ve watched enough NYC-apartment TikToks of people cramming Murphy beds into their walls and using their windowsills as makeshift kitchen tables to know this is next-level real estate.
Tom lets out a breath of a laugh and says, “My mom’s in Aglorapond.”
“Bless you.”
“It’s a fictional island in her next movie. She’s actually in Hawaii for filming.”
I tear my eyes off the absurdly cinematic view to frown at him. “And you’re here?”
Tom tugs the small duffel bag off my shoulder. “Lucky for you, or you’d be sleeping in a pizza box tonight.”
“There’s a bunch of open spots at a hostel downtown,” I say, because as impulsive as the whole “run away from home, except not really because I’m a legal adult” thing was, I didn’t plan to fully inflict myself on Tom and Vanessa without asking.
Tom’s brows furrow. “Riley,” he says, the don’t be ridiculous implied as he walks the duffel down the hall. “How long can you stay?”
There’s a little thrill in the way he asks it—not how long am I staying, but how long I can. I know there’s no world where Tom doesn’t want to spend time with me, but he’s been so distant lately that it’s nice to hear it just the same.
“I was thinking for the weekend,” I say.
Tom nods. “Not near enough time to fully indoctrinate you into the cult of New York’s dessert scene, but I’ll take it.”
“You’re not busy?”
“Nah,” says Tom, as we pass the room that’s clearly his—I’d recognize that faded blue bedspread anywhere. The pillowcases still have little white stars on them. I push the door farther open and he looks just bashful enough about it that there’s no way I’m not letting myself in now.
“You’re sure?” I ask, when I see the fully packed backpack on his bed.
“Oh.” Tom pulls it off the bed and pushes it into the closet. “I just forgot to unpack that from earlier.”
