The Getaway List by Emma Lord

Author:Emma Lord
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter Fourteen

A few hours later Jesse, Tom, and I have ducked up the slim stairwell to the karaoke joint in the East Village that he and the band slept in the night they got locked out. It’s deceptively larger on the inside, dim, blue-lit hallways thrumming to disjointed beats that swell and muffle every time someone opens or closes a door. We don’t have to wait long until Mariella and Luca arrive together, which is not too surprising—she told me the two of them were going to check out some street art in Bushwick. What is surprising is that Mariella seems uncharacteristically subdued, her eyes grazing the floor, and Luca is looking around at all of us with mild “help me” eyes.

When I glance over at Tom, his eyes are already on me with the same unease brewing in them.

Mariella’s managed to smile by the time we’re looking back, though. “Is this a birthday party, or are we luring Hansel and Gretel to their deaths?” she asks, looking at the mountain of candy on the table with the binders full of songs.

“Neither of the above. This is, in fact, a ritualistic humiliation of Tom Whitz, who needs at least three Take 5 bars in his system before he’ll let loose enough for Disney karaoke,” I say, hoping to get a laugh out of her.

But Mariella’s already distracted again, aiming a pointed look at Tom that I can’t quite read. I take this as a sign I should leave Tom on Mariella detail, seeing as she’s still technically more his friend than mine.

“Hey, I think I’m gonna grab some soda from the bar. Anybody want some?” I ask, and then without waiting for anyone to answer, I say, “Luca?”

“Yes, yeah,” he says, following me out.

I don’t have to wait too long until we’re out of earshot, considering a group is screaming Miley Cyrus’s “The Climb” loud enough to wake the dead down the hall.

“So did I imagine the weird vibes when you and Mariella walked in?” I ask.

“No,” says Luca, half-relieved and half-miserable to be asked. He fiddles with his watch, staring back at the door to our room. “I think she’s mad at me? And I don’t know why, which is bad because I say a lot of things, so I can’t figure out which thing might be the one she got mad at? But whatever it was I think it was from some other day, because she was like that when we met up.”

“Then it’s probably got nothing to do with you,” I say fast, because Luca looks like he’s one thought spiral away from drilling a hole in the floor.

“Or maybe it does and I can’t figure it out because I’m a monster.”

I pat him comfortingly on the shoulder and say, “All right, that’s a little dramatic, even for a writer.”

Luca’s spirits lift marginally at that. While we’re waiting for the bartender to finish pouring an alarming number of lemon drop shots for a bachelor party to get

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