Ari barely remembers writing this. Maybe it happened in a fugue state. A sativa haze. A NyQuil-and-tequila fog.
“The truth is…happiness is really complicated. It’s fickle.” Radhya’s face resembles the Chrissy Teigen awkward cry face meme. “People are too worried about being happy. If you want to be happy all the time, just watch cat videos. They’re fucking great.” There’s a very light smattering of chuckles. Gabe makes a smile gesture with his index fingers. “No one should marry the person who makes them happy. Marry the person you want by your side at your lowest p-point. Marry the person you…you never get sick of. Who you always want more from. Who makes you proud to be theirs.”
There’s an unmistakable constriction in Ari’s throat now, remembering where these words came from. Kyle and Cameron nod. She blinks rapidly, staving off the threat of tears. Because, if she’s being honest with herself, the Josh-shaped hole doesn’t actually feel like it’s closing.
“But if you…” She looks down but the phone is useless; the words are illegible now. “If you do happen to find your person, it’s an act of courage to tell them that. To say, ‘please love me back.’ To let someone else hold your heart in their hands, knowing it could—actually, it probably will—end badly. Knowing that they’re going to fuck up. Knowing you’ll both hurt each other. But if that’s your person, it’s worth the risk. Because your person will see the best version of you. They’ll have a whole list of reasons why they think you’re irreplaceable. And they’ll tell you.” Ari feels hot tears slipping down her cheeks. “If you want to watch someone you love grow into the person you know they can be, that’s when you get married.”
A hush falls over the crowd—less a “stunned silence” than an “ummm, is she…done?” vibe.
She doesn’t really care if they think she’s crazy or drunk or incredibly moved by her own words. Somewhere on this island is the person she wants to talk to right before falling asleep. The person who knows exactly how she wants to be kissed. Who wanted to hold her hand and wake up with her and take her out for breakfast and maybe become a better person than he was eight years ago.
Gabe jogs up to the stage, gently removes the mic from her hand, gives her a little shove off the stage, and raises a champagne glass. “To the happy couple!” He signals the DJ and launches into a rendition of “Wonder of Wonders” that’s bombastic even by Gabe standards.
Ari stumbles toward Radhya. There’s an idea gaining momentum, moving in a straight shot through her mind.
“Are you okay?” Radhya asks, handing Ari a prosecco. “That was—”
“Where’s Josh?”
Rad takes out her phone. “I think Briar’s boyfriend roped him into some running thing that sounded cold and miserable. Very on-brand for Kestenberg.” She opens Instagram. “Here, I think she tagged him—”
Ari snatches the phone out of her friend’s hand, swiping away the low battery notification. It’s a photo of smiley Briar and an extremely handsome, also-smiley man in warm jogging gear with race bibs pinned to their outer layers. To Briar’s left, almost out of the frame, as if he’s trying to escape the photo—very much not smiley—is a tall man dressed in all black, like a very athletic cat burglar.
“The race. Central Park.” Ari drops the phone on the merch table. “I need to go.”
“The streets are closed off,” Radhya points out. “And this is, like, the worst night of the year for surge pricing.”
Ari looks around. They’re close enough to Times Square that the sidewalks are crowded, but not completely impassable. “It’s only twenty blocks, I can run it.”
“You can?”
Instead of answering, Ari bends down and tightens the laces on her sneakers. The crowd applauds Gabe as he hands off the microphone.
“That was good, right?” he asks, all smiles as he comes back to the merch table. “New audition song?”
“It was brilliant, Gaston,” Radhya says between sips. “Total banger.”
Ari grabs him by the shoulders. “We need to swap phones. He might have my number blocked.”
“Who?”
“I need your phone. Radhya’s battery is at three percent.” Ari snatches his device out of his hand. “Is your passcode still six-nine-six-nine-six—”
“—four.”
“?‘Four’? Wait, when did you change it?”
“The old code was too easy to guess.” He looks at Radhya. “Did I miss something? She’s taking my phone on New Year’s Eve? On the ultimate ‘you up?’ holiday? When literally everyone is ‘up’?”
Ari tugs at Gabe’s snug LaughRiot shirt. “I think I found the other half of my black-and-white cookie and someone else might be eating it right now. I need to find him.”
“We haven’t even sung ‘The Boy Is Mine’ yet.”
“It’s a romantic gesture,” Radhya explains. “She needs to get to Central Park.”
“In twelve minutes,” Ari adds. “The race starts at midnight.”
“Oh my God.” Gabe’s eyes widen. “You’re doing an airport run? Like a movie?”
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. “Now go.”
“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 SWEATY back 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 “Fucking move. 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.