Ari types in Josh’s number as a new contact on Gabe’s phone. “Thank you and I’m sorry.”
“Where’s your coat?” He turns around to search the merch boxes under the table. “I can’t find it.”
“Here,” Radhya says, grabbing an XXL LaughRiot sweatshirt from the merch table and tossing it to Ari.
“Jesus, that entire outfit really would look better on a bedroom floor,” Gabe opines. “The sparkly tights and LaughRiot booty shorts seemed like a fun idea when we were drinking at my apartment.”
“Thank you. Now my confidence is at an all-time high.” Ari picks up two more proseccos from the table and tosses them back. They burn going down.
“You okay, Twattie?” Radhya holds Ari’s shoulders.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not. I haven’t been okay in a long time and I’ve been pushing it down. But for some reason when I’m with—”
“Save it for Kes—Josh.” Radhya nods at the door. “Nowgo.”
“I love you.” Ari walks backward toward the exit, knocking into at least three people.
“See?” Radhya says. “You’re already saying it.”
“I can’t believe she’s the one doing a dramatic fucking airport run,” Gabe says. “I have a playlist curated for this exact situation.”
29
ARI KNOCKS INTO SOMEONE’S SWEATYback before her right foot hits the sidewalk. Technically, this part of Ninth Avenue isn’t closed but it’s jammed with packs of pedestrians heading south toward Times Square. Why they want to get closer to a giant teeming mass of people with no access to restrooms is a mystery.
“Excuse me! Sorry! Excuse me!” she shouts, as she makes herself small and squeezes between flush-faced revelers in their winter coats.
Ari runs north against the flow of traffic like a character in an 8-bit video game.Right-left-left—no, right. At some point, a trainer at her crappy gym suggested agility training. She’d laughed and wondered when the hell that skill would ever come in handy.
Apparently, Airport Run Parkour is the use case.
Her Fifty-third Street appeals of “Can I please just get around you?” evolve into Fifty-fifth Street commands to “Fuckingmove. MOVE!”
Someone’s cigarette singes the sleeve of the LaughRiot sweatshirt as she bobs and weaves around other people’s handbags and outstretched limbs.
On Fifty-seventh, away from the bars on Ninth Avenue, the throng starts to thin out. She picks up speed, taking full strides: arms pumping, knees high, shoes only slightly slipping on the frosty sidewalk.
By the time she reaches Columbus Circle, leaping over a slush-covered open grate, Ari feels like a goddamned gazelle. A few more blocks sprinting like this and she’ll reach the starting line in, like, seven minutes?
Four seconds later, she gets a stitch in her side.
Shit. Shitshitshit.She slows to a power walk down Central Park West, jamming her hand into her side.
It’s fine. Walk it off.It’s fourteen blocks between the location where she’s currently dry heaving and the spot where Josh is probably feeling personally affronted by fireworks, silly costumes, and effusive joy.
He’s probably mentally reviewing his running strategy right now.
Somehow sweatingandfreezing, she skip-walks into a jog, dodging clumps of pedestrians who are probably heading into the park to watch the fireworks.
This is fine. Keep moving. Gonna make it. Breathe in through the nose-two-three, out through the mouth-two-three. In through the nose, out through the—
Ooh…a pretzel stand that’s not mobbed.
It turns out that it’s possible to run really fast (okay, reasonably fast), while inhaling a soft pretzel and clutching a slippery bottle of blue Powerade.
She checks the time on Gabe’s phone. 11:54.Shit.
It’s like someone turned over the little hourglass timer on a board game. It’s no longer just,how fast can I get there?It’sthis is actually happeningandmy face must be the color of a cherry tomatoandwhat the fuck is going to happen if I actually find him?andhow, exactly, do you confess your love for someone?
