Page 75 of The Getaway List
“We will,” I say into her ear.
She pulls back without quite letting me go, then glances to make sure the others are out of earshot. “I think I’ll be nervous every day you’re up in the city on your own,” she says. “But I feel better knowing you’ve got your little pack here. It’s clear you all care about each other a lot.”
There’s a wistfulness in her tone then, the kind that makes me wonder if that’s what was missing from her New York experience—people who would look out for her the way all of us have. I know she has that here with my grandparents and aunts, but I can’t help but feel an ache for the version of her that didn’t.
She hands me the keys. “Also nobody is allowed to drink. But obviously all of you owe me a bottle of Tom’s aunt’s wine for loaning you the car.”
I salute her, and then we’re off on the open road. The rest of the drive takes four hours, a heap of gas station candy, and nearly all of Taylor Swift’s discography, but before we know it we’re rolling into the parking lot of Ornery Bitch Vines, the sun starting to dip over the large hill of the gift shop and visitor center.
“Oh shit,” says Mariella, perking up just enough at the sign that Luca, who was sleeping with his head propped on her shoulder, startles awake with an endearing snuffle. “You guys might have to leave me here. This lady is my people.”
I cut the engine and put the car in park, but for a few moments nobody moves to get out. Jesse turns to me from the passenger side where he’s been playing navigator/Swiftie DJ for the last few hours, searching my face with a solemnity that I rarely see.
“Maybe Riley should go in ahead of us,” he suggests. “Just to make sure Tom is ready for the full force of our combined friendship.”
I smile at him gratefully. The more we all talked about it over the past few days, the more we agreed this wasn’t necessarily a trip with the intention of retrieving Tom—more just a trip to let him know that we’re here for him, whether he wants us to be here for him from the city or come back to the city with us. We rented an Airbnb not far from here to crash for the night, figuring we could still turn it into a fun night when we give Tom a proper send-off with a combination of all the Getaway List items we ticked off—we’d watch Tides of Time, roast s’mores, sing to karaoke tracks, and eat brownies made from the batter I created for Tom that Luca re-created and brought with him in a cooler in the back.
All this to say that none of us want to pressure him. We’ve all had enough of our decisions made for us to force ours on anyone else’s. But in the event Tom wants to come back and needs a nudge to do it, there is a spot for him in this car and all of our collective Sour Patch Kids–filled hearts.
I walk into the gift shop of the winery, where it seems like things are just starting to wind down for the day. There are a few stragglers still talking merrily at the little counter that serves as a bar, a few more squinting at the wines on the racks, the rest in line to check out at the register. Only it isn’t Tom at the other end of it, but his aunt, looking just as dour and—for lack of a better word—ornery as ever.
I wait in line to talk to her, but her eagle eyes spot me immediately. It’s been five years since she last saw me, at least ten inches of height and a full set of braces ago, but that doesn’t seem to stop her from recognizing me.
“If you’re looking for Tom you better step on it,” she says, more growl than not.
The woman checking out looks a little miffed to be interrupted, but in that moment neither of us cares.
“Why?” I ask.
Tom’s aunt jerks her head toward the visitor’s center. “Kid’s headed out for god knows where.”
My blood runs chillier than all the fancy wine fridges I just passed. I’m not even sure how to process what she’s said, only that it can’t be good. This was supposed to be Tom’s escape. If he’s escaping the escape, well—I’m not even sure what the contingency plan is for that. Only that I’d better move, and fast.
I clamber out of the gift shop, not without noticing a shelf full of angry-looking teddy bears wearing DO NOT TEST AN ORNERY BITCH T-shirts on their fuzzy bodies, and spill into the visitor’s center. The place is empty with all the tours wrapped up for the day. The only signs of life are coming from a slightly ajar door with a thin stream of light coming out of it, one so unassuming that I almost dismiss it for a supply closet.
Then a shadow crosses over the stream of light, and the shape of Tom appears in the doorway.
We both startle at the sight of each other. It’s almost like the start of the summer, when I showed up every bit as unexpectedly at his apartment door, only it’s nothing like that at all. This time there isn’t a flutter in my ribs, but a hammering. This time there isn’t a thrill, but a bone-deep, impossible relief.
This time when Tom sees me, he bursts out laughing, so hard that it doubles him over before I can even reach him. Then suddenly I’m laughing, too, without even knowing what the hell we’re laughing about, especially because Tom’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder like he’s about to jump into a getaway car and leave his life all over again.
He pulls me into him for one of our bone-crushing hugs, somehow the least stunned of the two of us despite the fact that I just party-crashed his new life from eight hours away. I’m so relieved to see him in his corporeal form that I can’t even make a Tides of Time joke about it; I’m still laughing but somehow trying not to choke on the well of emotion working its way out of me at the same time. I’m so grateful I caught him before he left. I’m worried to think where the hell he was planning to go.
But when he pulls back he doesn’t look like a guy on the lam. His eyes are shining with amusement, his lips curled into a wry smile. “What on earth are you doing here?” he asks.
“That depends,” I say.
“On what?”
I press my lips together. “On how kidnappable you are today,” I quip, trying to keep it light. “Also I should warn you there’s an entire carful of our friends in the parking lot.”
I’m prepared to play the whole thing off as a joke. To let him know we’re totally fine to just spend the night goofing off in the Airbnb and reminiscing and bullying Tom into being more active in the group chat before rolling off with the sunrise tomorrow. Except Tom’s smile goes soft, his eyes warm. He’s looking at me the same way he did in that photograph of us on the roof—like I’m something cosmic and bright, and he can’t believe I’m here.
He nudges the backpack on his shoulder. “Is there room for one more?” he says. “If we’re headed in the same direction, that sounds way more appealing than another cramped bus.”
My eyes flood with tears, my entire being threatening to spill over with the relief of it before my brain can fully catch up with his words. I pull enough of myself together to point a firm finger at him just the same, the words coming out choked: “You better not be fucking with me right now, Tom Whitz.”
He takes my hand between the two of his and squeezes it lightly. “Nah. It turns out I’m extremely kidnappable today.”
