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 plans to 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 Day tradition 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 dinner, then heading to our various personal spaces to do whatever. I wasn’t complaining, but it was odd being an only child for weeks at a time. Calm. Empty. Lonely. I knew the change was inevitable, could hear it in my father’s joking as he talked about downsizing and moving to Key West when he and Mom retired and we were all out of the house, but I held on to these moments when Brooke was home, or Josh was back upstairs pounding around and listening to his music too loud. Even if only for a little while, the house felt full and lived-in again.
“We have a good three hours before Josh and Dad get back,” I said, crouching on the floor to see if my slippers were under the bed.
Brooke shimmied her way to the edge of the mattress, toes grazing the floor.
“I’m not talking about the game.”
“Is Pete coming over?” I asked, standing up from my fruitless search.
“Not exactly.” Her lips curled into a sly grin, eyebrow cocked in a perfect seductive C curve. Whenever I tried to pull this Brooke face move, I came off like a weathered pirate.
“Why are you acting so weird?”
“You noticed?”
I had no clue why she was being so cryptic and was not in the mood to coax her out of it, especially with the delicious scent of my mother’s cinnamon rolls wafting up from the kitchen. I scanned the floor again. Success. My slippers sat askew by my closet. I padded over to get them, and shoved my frozen feet into the warm fleece. Brooke just sat there, the same expression on her face, like she was waiting for me to say more.
“Spill, Brooke.”
“I’m pregnant,” she said, slow, the words rising and lingering like helium balloons above my head.
“What?”
She put her finger to her lips and motioned with her eyes toward my open door. I clicked the door shut and perched on the bed next to her, keeping my distance, as if her pregnancy were contagious.
“You’re the first person I’ve told—well, besides Pete,” she said, letting out a deep breath. “So what do you think?”
Brooke had a plan: living in DC. Law school. Midsize firm. Fighting for the rights of the little people. Baby was not supposed to happen until after thirty. And not until she and Peter Hutchins the Third got married in grand style sometime in the fall. Far away from the Camelot. By a lake. With the trees a riot of autumn colors. Me in a champagne-colored, strapless bridesmaid gown. Honeymoon in Bora-Bora in one of those little huts over the water. Yes. “The plan” was that detailed.
My hand still covered my mouth in shock. What did I think? Holy effing shit! is what I thought, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Brooke, who suddenly looked so emotionally naked in front of me, I knew anything other than enthusiasm would knock her down.
“Congrats?” I said.
“You don’t sound happy for me,” she said, pouting.
“Okay, rewind. . . . That’s incredible news! Pete must be over the moon.”
Her face brightened at the mention of Pete.
“I know it sounds crazy, but he is over the moon. We both are. It’s not ideal, I know, but whenever I worry about how things will go, I realize there’s this little piece of us growing inside me, and it’s just so . . .” She fell back on the bed, golden hair splayed out behind her, and finished with a breathy sigh. “. . . sexy.”
“Sexy?” I asked, leaning back on my elbows. “I don’t think you should mention that when you break the news.”
She traced small circles on her belly with the tips of her fingers. “How do you think Ruth and Jimmy are going to react?”
I wanted to say the magic words my sister longed to hear, but really? How was I supposed to know how our parents would react? Brooke was twenty-one, living with Pete, and almost finished with her first semester at Georgetown Law; my father was thrilled at the thought of another lawyer in the family. Whenever he spoke to anyone about Brooke upholding the tradition, he all but gushed. Knocked up and in her first semester might not be gushworthy, but I think she already knew that.
“Fly off the handle? Shit a two-ton brick? What other cliché can we come up with for a nuclear meltdown? When do you plan on telling them?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t want to spring this on them with all that’s going on with the Camelot, but I’ll be showing by Christmas, and I think that would be sort of worse, don’t you?”
“What’s going on with the Camelot?”
Her eyebrows drew together as she rolled onto her side to face me. “You can’t tell me you don’t know. Business is down, and that’s a prime piece of real estate. Mom has been fielding offers for years, but I think now she might be listening.”
I hadn’t thought it was possible to be more shocked after my sister’s announcement.
“But . . . we�
�re busy.”
“Not really, Wrennie. When I worked, there were back-to-back weddings every weekend. Now there’s one or two at the most, right? And what about today? One sitting for the buffet. Last year there were three.”
“Did Mom tell you this?” I asked.
“No one has to tell me anything. The writing’s on the wall. Don’t get so upset. Your weekends can be your own again. No more white, starched shirts with grease stains, no more obnoxious guests, no more having to jump in and save people from choking,” she said, tugging a strand of my hair.
And just like that, Grayson in all his term-paper-pimp glory exploded back into my thoughts, practically sitting on the edge of my bed behind Brooke, his dark eyes saying, Tell her about me. I bit my lip.
“That was pretty amazing, squirt.”
I met the guy, Brooke. He’s charming and scary and so freakin’ hot, I can’t stop thinking about him and the sexy way the top button of his Henley tee was undone.
“What can I say? All in a day’s work,” I answered with a shrug.
“Just think, next Thanksgiving can be normal . . . at home, like in all those holiday songs. Not eating buffet leftovers after serving all day.”
“C’mon, it’s not that bad, Brooke. I kind of like it. You know, I was even thinking maybe one day . . .” I paused. This would be the first time I said it out loud to a member of my family, and while it seemed like a small announcement compared to bringing a new life into the world, well, it was mine. “I could run it. Maybe go to school for business or hospitality or something like that.”
Brooke sat up so quickly, I thought she might slide off the bed.
“Oh, God, no. You don’t want that.”
“Maybe I do,” I answered, slightly put off by her quick and emphatic rejection.
She shook her head. “The best thing you could do is get away from here. Sure, go study business, or hospitality, or whatever you want, but do not plan on staying to run the Camelot. It’s a sinking ship, Wren.”
All I’d wanted was a little spark of support. A Hey, that’s not a bad idea, Wren! Now the thought seemed ridiculous.
“Yeah, because getting away from here has worked so well for you,” I said, patting her tummy.
She put her hand over mine, her eyes serious again.
“So you’ll support me on this? I just need to know you have my back, in case, well, in case it all goes really bad.”
Brooke had never spoken to me quite like this. And I’d never seen her this unsure. I was usually the one going to her for help or just basking in her enchanting Brookeness.
“How is it going to go bad? It’s not like they can ground you,” I said. “And they love Pete.”
“I know, I just . . . their support means a lot. Yours too, squirt,” she said, tucking my hair behind my ear. She sniffed, pressed my hand to her belly again.
“So this means you’re gonna get fat,” I said, pulling my hand away.
“Gee, Wren, thanks!” Her eyes grew round as she gave my arm a pinch. “You know that only means one thing.”
“What?”
She got up to leave and reached for the door. “I’m picking the biggest, gooiest cinnamon roll.”
I shot up. “Um, no you’re not!”
“Catch me,” she said, disappearing before I could even make it to the doorway.
The Camelot Thanksgiving buffet ran smoothly. I kept looking for warning signs of Brooke’s ominous words that it was a sinking ship. All I saw was the Caswell clan working together—well, I was working; Brooke spent a lot of time reconnecting with Eben while Josh, still green from his Thanksgiving Eve bender with his home-from-college buds, tried his best not to puke in the mashed potatoes. Everyone, even my dad, who rolled up his Brooks Brothers sleeves to help plate the sides for the buffet table, was happy, buzzing, joking. No doom and gloom. Nothing out of place to make me think we were in any sort of trouble. Brooke had to be wrong.
Being busy made the afternoon go quickly, and soon enough, the five of us were alone and gathered around a table in the empty banquet hall, a little tired but full of the meal Chef Hank had prepared for us.
My mother raised her glass of sauv blanc. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to see you all together.”
“Aw, shucks, Mom, any time you want me to quit school and be your permanent child, say the word, I’m all over it,” Josh said, grinning.
“Please no, I’m finally getting some much-needed peace,” my father kidded.
“What, Wrennie doesn’t throw any wild parties?”
“Hey, look what the wind blew in,” my mother said, raising her glass toward the door.
I turned to see a rather disheveled Pete, as if he’d literally been windblown, walking toward our table. Brooke got up and threw her arms around him. My stomach lurched.
Pete shrugged off his coat and hooked it over a chair at the adjacent table. “Hey, Wren,” he said, smoothing down his hair and taking the seat across from me.
With his dark, unruly curls and green eyes, Pete was exceptionally handsome, but he was so goofy once you got to know him that his good looks became less intimidating. I wondered if he knew that I knew he’d knocked up my sister. One thing was for sure: Between Brooke and Pete, this kid was going to be drop-dead gorgeous.
“How was your Thanksgiving? Your parents must have been thrilled you made it home,” my mother said, beaming.
Pete chuckled, but it was guarded. He folded his hands and glanced at Brooke. And then the world moved frame by frame.
I could feel the tremor of what was about to happen but was powerless to act on it. Please, please, Brooke, not now.
A waiter came by and dropped off a carafe of coffee for my father. Mom sat in suspended animation, waiting to hear about Pete’s Thanksgiving. Josh had nodded off, a shock of dirty blond hair partially hiding his eyes. I pinched his leg, and he jerked awake.
“What?”
“We’re pregnant!” Brooke blurted out, grabbing Pete’s hand.
Silence shrouded the table. The only sound was the slow trickle of my father pouring coffee into his cup. That cup became the collective focus of the table—as if we knew that, once it was full, something disastrous would happen. My father put down the carafe more firmly than necessary, then turned his attention to Brooke and Pete, waiting for more. Brooke’s eyes locked on mine—my cue to have her back.
“Holy shit!” “What awesome news!” Josh and I said at the same time.
My mother was momentarily stunned, mouth open, eyes darting between Brooke and Pete. My father spoke.
“What does this mean?”
Brooke launched into what must have been a rehearsed speech, taking turns with Pete who chimed in as he stroked her hand. My heart cringed a bit, watching them both become so squirmy and awkward. Brooke was holding it together as best as she could. Pete looked like he’d rather be hiding under the table, out of my father’s line of vision.
There was a new plan. They were going to get married during winter break. The baby was due in the late spring, so they could both finish their course work. Brooke had already found day care close to campus for the fall. She and Pete would coordinate their classes as much as they could, and while money would be tight, they were sure they could handle it. This was only a blip in their lives. They loved each other, had planned on getting married and having a family anyway. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but that’s how life goes.
Halfway through, my father began kneading his forehead. My mother’s face was a mask, the giddiness from moments ago evaporated.
“Josh, you and Wren should go,” she said, picking at a thread on the tablecloth.
“Mom, we can handle it. It’s not like we don’t know where babies come from.”
Her eyes cut through me. Josh was on his feet, tugging me to get up.
“C’mon, squirt, let’s fly.”
Once we reached home, Josh retreated to his attic room, and I took solace in a hot shower. I knew I should feel lucky that Mom dismiss
ed us—who would want to be in the middle of that conversation? But being sent away made me feel weird, like an outsider.
I dressed in sweats and ventured out to see if anyone had come home. The house was silent, except for strains of Blink-182 coming from Josh’s room. I smiled and opened the door a crack. His lights were on, so I made my way up the creaky, carpeted steps into his lair.
He was busy typing away on his computer. I knocked on the newel post so I wouldn’t startle him. Next to him, on his desk, was an open bottle of beer. Considering his condition, I thought he’d want to lay off the stuff at least for a night. I raised my eyebrows.
“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?”
The Promise of Amazing Page 5
