The Promise of Amazing by Robin Constantine Read Free Book Online Page B

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    FIVE
    WREN
    THANKSGIVING MORNING I HID FROM THE WORLD , safe in the sweet spot of my mattress where all the lingering worries of school, future plans, and foxy term-paper pimps melted away. Not going to the Turkey Day game with Dad and Josh for the first time in six years felt a bit blasphemous, and when my father yelled up the stairs that the Caswell bus was leaving in ten, I resisted the tiniest urge to yell, Wait for me! Instead I rolled over and burrowed deeper under my comforter. Daring to change up tradition. Content to keep the world at bay for at least another hour.
    Yeah, right.
    The biggest reason I was wimping out was because I didn’t want to run into Trevor. And I would have; it was inevitable. I’d overheard Josh on the phone with him finalizing plansto meet up near the concession stand. What if he had a college girl with him? Or worse—what if he didn’t and wanted to hook up? I didn’t want to stutter out small talk or worry if I had snot running down my face or pretend everything was just fine and that we could be friends for my brother’s sake.
    It might have been worth the risk though, for the off chance to bump into Grayson. Who did he hang out with? What team would he root for? Did he even go to the game? I tried to put him out of my mind. He was a walking, talking DANGER flag. Cheater. Liar. Secretive. Hawt . Ugh. It was maddening. Any time I checked off the reasons to avoid him, I’d picture him in front of school, leaning against his faded car. Hands in pockets, swoon-worthy grin, deep brown eyes full of the promise of amazing. And I felt myself getting sucked in by the desire to wrap my arms around him in a different way than the Heimlich.
    The slow creak of my bedroom door pulled me back to the present. I kept my eyes shut, feigning sleep as I heard muted tiptoeing on the carpet. One side of my comforter lifted, and the mattress gave way to the pressure of someone climbing in.
    “Wrennie, wake up,” my sister cooed, scratching my back.
    “Five more minutes,” I protested.
    “Come on, I haven’t seen you in, like, forever. The least you can do is have some cinnamon rolls with me before we become Camelot slaves,” she said. Football and freezing were my mother’s least favorite things, so her own Turkey Daytradition involved scratch-made cinnamon rolls and the televised Macy’s parade before the frenzy of the Camelot buffet. Getting first dibs on breakfast made missing the game even better. Brooke dug more urgently into my sides until I had to give in and giggle.
    “Okay, stop, Brooke. I’m up, I’m up,” I said, batting her ice-cold hands away.
    I rolled over to face her. Her cheeks glowed, the tip of her nose red. Cold seemed to emanate off her skin, but her eyes were playful. Beautiful Brooke .
    “When did you get in?”
    “Only about ten minutes ago. Can’t you feel it?” she asked, putting her hands under the back of my pajama top by my neck. I squealed and shot up out of the bed; the comforter fell to the floor.
    “Nice,” I said.
    “Had to get you up somehow. Why’d you bail on the game?”
    “Do you have to ask?” Brooke had been my breakup guru in the wake of the hump-and-dump. She’d snap me out of crying jags with spontaneous Rollerblading or splurges at Sephora. Telling me over and over again that Trevor, or any guy, was just not worth falling apart over.
    “Meh, you should have worn your cutest outfit and shown him how much better off you are being free,” she said, leaning back on her elbows.
    “I have no cute subdegree clothes,” I said, shrugging on my fuzzy blue robe.
    “His loss, our gain: The Caswell chicks have the house to themselves,” she said, sitting up. “Might not be that way much longer.”
    Our house, which had always bustled with noise and friends, had been quiet with my sibs away at school. My parents and I had fallen into a predictable daily rhythm of