The Promise of Amazing (8 page)

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.

“Greg, would you get me some more of that sweet-potato soufflé? If I get up, I’m not getting down again,” she said.

“Sure.” I excused myself and wandered toward the kitchen, pausing in the hallway when I heard Laird’s voice. He was talking to his brother-in-law. About me.

“Why no more Saint Gabriel’s? I thought Kate mentioned something about college scouts? A possible scholarship?”

“How do I put this?” Laird said, his voice rough as though he were struggling. A soft pop of a wine cork followed. “They asked him to leave.”

“Why?”

I wanted to barge in, stop the conversation. I hated the idea of Laird talking about me, but at the same time I was curious to hear his take on it. Would he tell the truth? His voice was low. The
glug, glug
of wine being poured into a glass drowned out the whispers. A vein in my temple throbbed.

“Wow,” the brother-in-law said.

“Wow is right. He was damn good, Coop. Could have had
a free ride. Smart too. We don’t know what he’s going to do now though.”

“Gwayson!”
Grier yelled, jumping in front of me with arms open.

“Hey, Grier,” I said, startling slightly. My reaction didn’t please her; she pouted and stomped away.

There was a controlled silence in the kitchen. I coughed deliberately and walked in, keeping focused on the task at hand. Laird brought out the wine to the dining room. Coop pressed his lips together and lifted his wineglass to me, then exited. I piled way too much sweet-potato soufflé onto the plate and brought it back into the dining room to find that Granny Easton had left the table. She sat in an easy chair by the fireplace, Grier twirling in front of her.

“Mom, I’m gonna head out,” I said, placing the plate on the edge of the table.

“Aw, don’t go,” she said, standing up with her plate in hand. “I baked a pumpkin pie just for you.”

Laird butted in. “Grayson, stay. We’ve hardly seen you.”

I met his stare and bit back the words
As if you care
.

“I have this killer party to go to, lots of people home from school,” I said, giving a general wave to everyone, then leaving the room before anything else was said.

I grabbed my coat. The rack wobbled and landed on the hardwood floor with a
crack
. Grier shrieked. I barreled
through the front door, punching one fist then the other through my jacket.

“Grayson, wait!” my mother called.

Even in the dark, the Chrysler stood out like a rusty spring on the sedate street of Escalades and Beemers. I kept moving forward, pretending I didn’t hear my mother’s footsteps. My fingers just about grazed the door handle when I felt her clutch my shoulder.

“Honey, c’mon. Stay. You’ll have time to make your party.”

“There’s no party,” I said, spinning toward my mother.

“What?”

“Do you know what a douche I felt like when Cooper asked me about lacrosse?”

My mother bristled momentarily at the word
douche
and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She sighed, then peered up at the starry sky.

“Grayson, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen Coop in a long time. He doesn’t . . . didn’t know about your circumstances,” she said, leaning against my car. “He’s such a competitive ass. Always bragging about his kids’ IQs or some exotic place they’ve all been. You were always our trump card. Smart, athletic, and handsome. His kids have zero physical ability.”

Trump card?
I chuckled. Hardly the way to describe me now.

We stood in silence, staring back up at her house. It had
one of those glass storm doors that gave a perfect view of the foyer. Someone had picked up the coatrack. Ryder and Grier tore across the hallway from one side to the other. Silhouettes of people enjoying the holiday moved behind the illuminated curtains. My awkward departure was forgotten. I felt a momentary pang of loneliness; did anyone even care that I was gone?

“I don’t belong here,” I said.

“Grayson, yes, you do. We’re family.”

“No . . . those people in there? That’s
your
family,” I said, taking out my keys.

“At least consider meeting up with us in the city tomorrow. You can—”

“You know that’s not going to happen,” I said, shutting down the idea.

Her eyes welled with tears. I knew I should apologize, but I didn’t.

“Fine. I wish you’d reconsider.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, opening the car door.

She stopped me, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Safe home,” she whispered.

I revved the engine while my mother shut the door. She backed away and stood in front of her house, watching, as I pulled out of the spot and tore down the street, leaving a wake of dead leaves swirling behind me.

I drove until I saw an open diner. Slinking out of Mom’s was such a wimp-ass thing to do, and now regret was seeping in. Should I go back? I thought of her face, her tears, as I’d left. I’d made her cry. That was on my shoulders. No one had asked me to leave. Then Laird and his “that kind of thing can open doors” statement popped into my mind, and any guilt I felt for leaving disappeared.
Did he think I didn’t
know
that?

The diner was dotted with people in booths here and there; a few busboys crowded around an overhead TV and watched the Jets/Patriots game. I took a seat on a spinning stool at the end of the empty white counter, my fingers numb from the cold. Coffee. I needed coffee.

I couldn’t go back to my mother’s . . . to the inevitable looks of pity. No matter how much I kept telling myself that starting over was just what I needed, the fact remained—I pitied myself too. In my lowest moments, I still missed St. Gabe’s. I missed the challenge of taking a class like Philosophy and grabbing a coffee with Luke before Lit in the morning. I missed crushing our opponents on the lacrosse field, walking down the halls like fucking rock stars. I missed it so much, sometimes my fingers got blistered from pounding away the memories on my drums. It was easier to deal with the physical pain than think about the future I might have had if I hadn’t been caught.

A young waitress came over, order pad at the ready. Early twenties, I guessed. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in some crazy do.

“Why would anyone come to a diner on Thanksgiving?” she asked, handing me a sizable menu with a picture of a milkshake on the front.

“My family sucks,” I answered.

Her eyes lit up and she laughed, deep and raspy.

“Hmm, now
that
I can understand. What can I get you?”

“What have you got?”

“Name it, we got it,” she said, leaning on the counter. Her blouse fell open to reveal the lacy trim of her baby-blue bra. She smelled like patchouli, a hint of cigarette smoke around the edges.

“I’d like dessert,” I said, holding her gaze.

Just what I needed. A little harmless flirting to make the world go away.

“We’ve got cheesecake . . . chocolate mousse . . . pie . . . What do you like?”

“Surprise me.”

“A challenge? I’ll take it. Drink?”

“Coffee, black.”

“For real? You
will
be a challenge,” she said, grabbing a cup and saucer and putting them in front of me. “So what’s your name?” she asked as she poured the coffee.

The familiar buzz of the chase coursed through me.

“Mike,” I answered.

“I’m Mia. Mike and Mia, that sounds good, that’s . . . oh crap, what’s that called?”

“Alliteration,” I said.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “Cute and smart. Bet you’re in from college for Thanksgiving.”

Compliment and info dig. I was
so
in.

“See, I’m less of a challenge than you think.”

“Let me get that dessert. Stay right where you are. You’re, like, the most entertaining thing that’s happened in this sleepy, little dump all day.”

Mia kept her eyes on me until she disappeared into the kitchen.

Luke Dobson would be proud. I could almost hear him say,
See how easy it is to get back in the game?

Is this really what I wanted though? Did I want to wedge my way into a girl’s heart to sniff out if she’d be a good hit? Or just a lovely distraction? Mia fit the second bill nicely. She probably lived paycheck to paycheck, so no bank there. But she was as sexy as hell. Killer rear view.

Christ, Grayson, stop lining up her stats
.

Mia came back. She placed a large slab of pumpkin pie in front of me, took whipped cream, and, without asking, put a generous spray over the top.

“How’d you know that was my favorite part?”

“Lucky guess,” she said, taking her finger and swiping a bit
from the top. She put it in her mouth. “I can’t believe I just did that! You make me feel a little wicked.”

The moment was interrupted by the
ding
of the order-up bell and a loud shout of “Mia!” from the kitchen. She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Be right back, Mike.”