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.