Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

“Hair of the dog, Wrennie, best hangover remedy,” he said. “Want one?”

“Drinking . . . here? Don’t you think Mom and Dad—”

“Wren, Golden Girl has screwed up. The parental units are officially checked out for the moment. I could be hosting an orgy up here, and no one would know. Come on, live a little, have a brewski with your big bro,” he said, reaching into the small fridge by his desk, cracking open a bottle, and offering it to me.

I took the beer and leaned against the edge of his desk. “What do you think is going to happen with Brooke and Pete?”

“I thought you learned all that in health class,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Duh, I just meant . . . it’ll be strange, them being married . . . a baby . . . you’ll be an uncle.”

He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Wow, Josh is not an uncle name. Aunt Wren. Sounds like a lady with cankles who bakes great pies.”

“Thanks for that mental picture,” I said, grabbing his senior yearbook. My heart raced. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Grayson might be in there. I plopped myself down on Josh’s very unkempt bed. He’d been back for less than twenty-four hours, and his room—littered with dirty clothing, empty cups, and a plate with a half-eaten sandwich—was as though he’d never left. I punched up the pillows and sat back, trying to sound casual. “Do you know a guy named Grayson Barrett? He went to Saint Gabe’s?”

He clicked at his keyboard feverishly before answering me.

“Got kicked out . . . that Grayson Barrett? I know who he is, but I don’t know him. A bit of a douche nozzle around his lax bros, if I remember correctly.”

“Don’t call him that,” I said, grimacing and casually leafing through the yearbook. The end covers were full of signatures and notes to Josh, reminding him to Stay cool, bro! and Party hard!

“What? Douche nozzle or lax bro? They’re interchangeable,” he said, pivoting in his computer chair with a smirk on his face.

“Josh, stop.”

“Ah, so someone is currr-aaaaving a little boo-tay.”

“It’s not like that!”

“So what’s it like, then?” he asked, getting serious.

I ran my finger along a sweat drizzle on my beer label.

“He’s the one I saved from choking.”

Josh’s eyes registered surprise. “Damn, you should have let him choke.”

“How can you say that?”

“Wren, I’m not serious. Well, maybe a little,” he said, chuckling as he checked his IMs again. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re quite the hero. Doesn’t Barrett, like, owe you his life now or something?”

“Hardly.”

“C’mon, why the interest?”

“We hung out the other day. He seemed kinda cool, I guess. What?”

“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like that.”

“A guy like what? I thought you said you didn’t know him. You know, just forget it,” I said, leaning back onto his pillows and focusing on the yearbook again. I already had my own opinion of Grayson, and I didn’t need Josh reaching into his bag of slang to pull out something more colorful than douche nozzle. That was descriptive enough.

“Well, considered yourself warned.”

“I’m ignoring you, just in case you haven’t noticed.”

I thumbed through the yearbook, went directly to the juniors, to the Bs, scanned down the rows of boys, and found . . . nothing. At the end of the junior section, it read . . . Absent photo day: Grayson Barrett, Liam McNaught, John Skora.

Drat.

I flipped to the sports-and-activities section of the yearbook.

Pay dirt.

There was a full-size picture of Grayson, his face ruddy with exertion. He had his lacrosse helmet under one arm and was pouring water into his partially open mouth with the other. His dark eyes were trained on something. He was leaner, sharper, serious. If I had any doubt whether I was still attracted to him or not, my body answered with an instant hormonal rush that left everything buzzing. He was, in a word, smoking hot. Okay. Two words.

I took another sip of beer and sank deeper into Josh’s bed. The open book fell flat against my chest as I stared at the ceiling, confused. This was crazy. I couldn’t feel this way about someone I’d just met. Especially someone who thought selling term papers was just outsourcing. Business. Was that what he’d been talking about at the deli?

I mouthed his name.

Grayson.

Enjoying the way my tongue hit the roof of my mouth on the last syllable.

Would I ever run into him again?

“THIS IS GRAYSON, KATE’S SON FROM HER FIRST marriage.”

Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker introduced me to yet another member of his family, his voice dropping slightly at “first marriage,” like what he really wanted to say was, This is Grayson, worthless knob. I have no genetic ties to him. It was my first Thanksgiving Easton-style, and I played my role as the good stepson, pumping hands and fielding generic questions about school and life, all the while wishing I could tear the sweater off my back because it was itching like hell.

In the unofficial handshake over “little shit we don’t need to get serious about on legal papers,” Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. Pop’s one condition was that he had me in the morning to go to the annual St. Gabe’s/Bergen Point Turkey Day game to relive his glory days. Then in the afternoon, he’d ship me out to Connecticut to spend the day with them. For one reason or another, the Thanksgiving bondage with Mom and Mr. MFHW never happened. Until today.

Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker’s real name was Laird Easton, which can only sound cool if you’re a surfer dude and not an ass-clown investment banker. The first time we met was at a company outing at Yankee Stadium before my parents’ breakup. I was eleven and caught up in the total awesomeness of being in a luxury box—steak sandwiches, all the soda I could drink, cushy seats. Laird even got me Mo’s signature on a game ball. He shook my hand, told me what a valuable asset my mother was to the corporate-credit department. It was only later that I realized what he should have been saying was, Hey, kid, I’m balling your mom. Here’s a game ball for you. Why don’t we call it even?

Later that year, Mom stopped being Katie Barrett from Bayonne, New Jersey, and became Kate Easton from Darien, Connecticut. A few years later, I unloaded that game ball through Spiro. Luke thought I’d been nuts to get rid of it, but I couldn’t stand having it in my room.

The Yankees game was the first and last time Laird ever went out of his way to be nice to me. Most of the time it felt like he tolerated me simply because I was “Kate’s son from her first marriage.” Anytime he said it, it was like a disclaimer to my presence. The only bright points in the Easton union were my half sibs, Ryder and Grier, who both didn’t give two shits I’d been kicked out of school and treated me like I was Santa with an armload of toys any time they saw me.

Ryder was five, and his only fault was that he was a mini-Laird, complete with side part and upturned polo collar. I loved how he’d come out with this random stuff like “I don’t cry” and “Unown is my favorite kind of Pokémon.” He saved me from a college chat with Mom when I first arrived by shoving his Nintendo DS in my face and begging me to help him battle Zoroark.

Grier was three, and all Mom. Brown eyes and light hair, with a ginormous white ribbon perched on the front of her head. She had trouble pronouncing her Rs, which was pretty adorable. We had an ongoing dialogue where she’d try to get me to pronounce her name correctly, but I would pronounce it just the way she said it. . . .

“No, Gwayson, it’s Gweewah.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Gweewah.”

“No, no, no . . . Gweewah,” she’d say, louder, stomping her foot for emphasis.

“Yes, Gweewah, that’s right, isn’t it?”

She’d put her hands over her eyes and collapse into a fit of giggles until her face was bright red.

If only it were that easy to talk to Wren.

Insane as it sounded, Wren had become a safe haven. A place my mind gravitated to whenever I didn’t feel like dealing with what was in front of me. I replayed that day in the park in my head, how I’d do things differently so she’d give me her number. During calculus. While driving. When I had trouble falling asleep. And now, as I dodged any serious chats during Thanksgiving at Mom’s.

“DinnaweddyGwayson,” Grier said, in one long breath. She grabbed the tips of my fingers with her tiny hands and yanked. I played along, pretending I needed help off the sofa, then grabbed her, spun her around, and set her down. My reward was another round of giggles and a smile from my mother.

“Grayson, sorry I’ve been stuck in the kitchen all day,” my mother said, lacing her arm through mine and leading me toward the dining room.

“It’s cool, Mom. Smells good.”

“We’re so happy you’re here. Ryder and Grier especially.”

“Yep, it’s a blast hanging with them.” They don’t ask me questions about my future.

“Laird’s off tomorrow. Ryder wants to skate at Rockefeller Center like we did last year. Maybe you could stay the night? Join us?” she asked.

“I sort of have plans, but thanks,” I lied.

“Well, if your plans change, please consider meeting us. It would be fun,” she said. When we reached the dining room, she went back to playing hostess.

A giant cornucopia with dinner rolls spilling out of it sat in the center of the Thanksgiving table. Each plate had a folded napkin and a clumsily colored turkey-shaped place card that must have been fashioned by either Ryder or Grier. I sat at the end of the table by my mother. On the other side of me was Laird’s grandmother, who looked old enough to have been at the first Thanksgiving.

“Dinner is buffet-style, everyone. Food’s in the kitchen. Don’t be shy,” my mother said. I slid the napkin and place card off my plate and followed everyone to the kitchen. I stuck to the basics (turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes) and kept thinking that, after eating, I’d be that much closer to leaving.

I tried not to scarf down everything too quickly, but it was hard. The food was mouthwatering. Not that I didn’t get a home-cooked meal now and then from Pop or Tiff, but it wasn’t like this. I was practically humming halfway through my plate. My guard down, I locked eyes with the blond dude sitting diagonally across from me.

“So, Grayson, are you training for the season yet?” he asked, slicing up his turkey and putting a piece in his mouth.

I blanked on his name. Porter? Cooper? Something with an -er at the end. Laird’s brother-in-law. What was he asking?

“I’m sorry?” I said, leaning toward him.

“Your mom told us what a great lacrosse player you are. When does the season pick up again?”

The questions were like getting shot in the head. I froze.

“I don’t play anymore.”

His brows came together in momentary confusion as he turned to Mom, who straightened up in her chair.

“Injury?” he asked.

“No, the school I go to doesn’t have a team,” I said, shoving some more turkey in my mouth.

“You’re at Saint Gabriel’s, no?”

Mom reached for her glass of wine.

“I’m at Bergen Point now,” I answered, making it sound like a school he should know.

“I’m surprised you’re not here in Darien. Blue—”

“Wave, I know,” I said, cutting him off. Darien High School’s nationally recognized lacrosse team. That was one of Mom’s selling points during her campaign for me to move in with them when I was a freshman. Screw Blue Wave. If it meant having to live with Mr. MFHW, I’d choose no lacrosse, every time.

“Have you found any rec leagues?” Laird asked, from his seat at the head of the table.

“No. I’m fine. Don’t miss it,” I answered, scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off my plate.

“That sort of thing can open doors, Grayson,” he pressed on.

Just. Shut. Up.

“Laird, honey, we’re out of the Larkmead down here,” my mother said, lifting up the wine bottle. Laird wiped his mouth and excused himself. My mother launched into a report on their fall trip to Napa—it was a banner year for cabernets—ending the awkwardness.

I stared at my plate, wishing I hadn’t inhaled the food so damn fast so I had something to do with my hands. What did I expect? That my mother and Laird would brag about me getting kicked out of school? Of course no one knew. I reached over for another dinner roll. Granny Easton grabbed my arm.