The Promise of Amazing

by Robin Constantine

  “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.”

  The pie sat in front of me. If I took a bite . . .

  This wasn’t who I was anymore. It felt wrong to be playing Mia for my own amusement. I couldn’t go backward. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself about getting kicked out of St. Gabe’s, because the truth was—I was the one who screwed it all up. Me. Term-paper pimp. Cheater. No spin-doctoring that. And I needed to figure out how to move forward. I was so damn sick of standing still.

  I reached into my inside jacket pocket for my wallet. Right on the top, in front of my license, was Ruth Caswell’s card from the Camelot Inn. Wren. I would not mess up this second chance fate had tossed in my path.

  “Hey, dontcha like it?” Mia asked.

  “Oh, yeah, Mia, but . . . my buddy just called. I have to run. Just the check,” I said, getting up. She pouted and scribbled on her order pad.

  “Well, if you’re bored later, stop by. I get off at midnight.”

  I took the bill up to the register, ignoring the flirty tone in her voice.

  “Here, I think she wants you to have that,” the cashier said, handing me back my change along with the check. In bold print it said, MIKE, U R HOT, CALL ME! ♥ Mia with her number beneath it. I turned to see Mia, behind the counter, helping another customer. I waved the check at her: “got it.”

  Then I trotted down the steps, crumpled the check, and ignored the bite of guilt I felt as I tossed it in the trash can out front.

  A new plan formed as I slid behind the wheel.

  And it started with Wren.

  SEVEN

  WREN

  “MORNING,” I SAID.

  My father sat stoically at the kitchen table, reading the New York Times. I fixed a bowl of Apple Jacks and sat across from him, wondering if I should bring up what happened last night. He beat me to it.

  “Your mother is already at the Inn for that big wedding today. Brooke spent the night at Pete’s parents’ house. Probably best if things cool down between Brooke and your mother,” he said, eyes still on the paper. He reached for his coffee mug.

  “So you’re okay with it?” I asked.

  His piercing blue prosecutor’s eyes bored into me over his reading glasses.

  “Let’s just say this isn’t what I envisioned for your sister, but I’m dealing with it.”

  “It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think, Grandpa?”

  My father closed the paper, folded it neatly in front of him, and pushed his reading glasses back into his graying hair. Maybe the Grandpa mention wasn’t the best route.

  “What?” I asked, wiping a milk dribble from the corner of my mouth.

  “You do realize this isn’t the best path for her to follow? Or you.”

  “Oh, God, Dad,” I said, blushing. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just—she’s an adult. In a relationship with someone she loves. You and Mom—”

  “Exactly. Your mother and I have been through it. Student loans. Baby food. Sleep schedules. It’s hard enough juggling a new family, but throw in law school? Lots of sacrifices. For both parties. I just hope Brooke can handle it.”

  “Handle what?” Josh asked, breezing in with a trail of frigid air—a full brown paper bag under one arm, the Daily News under the other. He dropped the bag on the island and placed the paper in front of my father. Josh was in the same clothes he’d been wearing last night.

  “How industrious. Out early?” Dad asked, suspicious.

  “Sure, Dad,” Josh answered, winking at me. I knew otherwise, since I’d woken up at 4:00 a.m. in his room, where he’d left me, surrounded by three years’ worth of St. Gabe’s yearbooks. After my first pic of Grayson, I’d needed more. I’d spent the rest of the night poring over Grayson Barrett: The Earlier Years, piecing together what I could about him from the little info the yearbooks gave. He’d had a major growth spurt between freshman and sophomore year. He was captain of the JV lacrosse team and an alternate on varsity when he was a sophomore. He was also in the Key Club and the chess club. Not that it mattered, since I was never going to see him again.

  “Here,” Josh said, putting an everything bagel in front of Dad.

  “Some example you’re setting for your little sister,” my father said, slicing his bagel in half.

  “Dad, don’t be a buzzkill. Had to celebrate Saint Gabe’s huge win yesterday,” Josh said, flopping down in his seat and grabbing a bagel. “I work hard, party harder . . . your motto, remember?”

  I raised my eyebrows at my father as he pushed Josh’s hat off his head, revealing his usual dirty-blond mass of unkempt bedhead.

  “Don’t give away my secrets, Josh. Wrennie’s my easy kid. I’d like her to stay like that.”

  “Great,” I said, pushing away my bowl of cereal. “Why don’t you just call me boring?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “You remind me of your mother, always something going on behind those eyes of yours. You think before you leap. Quiet is not a bad thing.”

  “You know what they say: It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for . . . all those secrets,” Josh said, taking a monster bite of his bagel.

  “Not my Wren,” my father said, giving my hand a squeeze.

  Josh mouthed Grayson behind Dad’s back and put a hand over his heart, batting his eyes in an exaggerated way. I crumpled up my napkin and threw it at him.

  “Cut it out!” I said, getting up from the table. “All this bonding over bagels was fun, but now I have to go to work. Are you coming with me today?”

  “Um, no. Dad and I have a big day of college football planned. Right, Daddy-O?”

  My father sighed, but even he wasn’t immune to Josh’s charms.

  “I’ll give you a ride when you’re ready, Wren,” Dad said, picking up his paper again.

  “Can I drive?” I asked. He nodded.

  I ran upstairs to shower and change. With my hair still damp, I put it in a loose fish-tail braid. The easy kid. There wer
e worse things to be, I guessed. I didn’t dazzle like Brooke or light up a room like Josh, but there was something about me . . . wasn’t there? Something that made Grayson seek me out at school, for more than just to thank me. I held that thought as I went downstairs and off to work.

  When I arrived at the Camelot, I found Mom in her office. She remained silent, going over a contract on her desk, as I walked in.

  “Missed you this morning,” I said, hanging up my coat.

  “I take it your brother chose not to come in with you?” she asked, still focused on her work.

  “Right. Wanted to bond with Dad over football, I guess.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Mom, last night—”

  “Wren, I’m not ready to talk about last night. We’ll get through this, I know, but right now I need to focus on this wedding. It’s deluxe, soup to nuts, so you’d better get to work. By the way, there’s a new waiter. We’re so strapped, I hired him over the phone this morning. Just, you know, keep an eye on him.”

  “I’m on it,” I said, heading toward the Lancelot.

  Eben was busy with the new hire, showing him how to set up the silverware. I tapped on the edge of the table, and they looked up. My jaw dropped.

  “Grayson?”

  “Hey, what’s up?” he responded, reaching for another setup. I tried to mask the surprise on my face. It was unsettling to see him here, on my turf, especially after I’d spent the night before creating a mental dossier about him to entertain myself.

  Eben spoke. “Are you all right?”

  “Um, yeah. I forgot to tell Mom something.”

  I practically bumped heads with my mother as she walked out of her office.

  “I’m walking down to see Hank. Talk to me,” she said, moving like a missile toward a target. She pushed the Down button on the service elevator and glanced back at me. “Well?”

  “Do you know who that new hire is, Mom?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator and it descended with a shudder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s the guy I saved from choking. Grayson Barrett,” I said.

  She nodded as the doors slid open with a clank and jog-walked off the elevator, me trailing behind. “Yes, we did have a conversation about it. Why?”

  I didn’t want to get into his past. She didn’t need to know he got kicked out of school for being a term-paper pimp. Or that he usually wore a barbell through his eyebrow. She also didn’t need to know that being around him made me hyperaware of every cell in my body. The fact that he’d almost died up in the Lancelot should have been enough for him to never set foot in this place again, right?

  “I don’t know. I’m just surprised to see him, that’s all.”

  She ran a hand through her hair and scratched the back of her head in thought. Her eyes were sleepy, bloodshot. I felt bad for questioning her about hiring him. It’s not like I minded that much. I just needed to process the reality of him being here.

  “He seemed nice, polite. Like he needs someone to give him a chance. But I’m so desperate for manpower, I might be blind. Do you think it’s a bad decision?”

  Hank came up behind her, red-faced and about to explode. He pointed to an elaborate tray table.

  “Cupcakes? I’m supposed to arrange five hundred cupcakes on this monstrosity. Idiots. Sie können mich alle am Arsch lecken! Excuse me, Wren.”

  I tried not to lose it.

  “What did he say?” my mother asked. I’d taken two years of German at school, but it was Chef Hank who taught me the best slang.

  “Something about someone licking his ass.”

  She put her fingers up to her mouth, stifling a giggle. It was good to see her happy, even for a brief moment.

  “What’s wrong with cake?” he asked. “Normal, layered wedding cake.”

  “Cupcakes are in, Chef,” I told him.

  My mother placed a hand on my shoulder. “She’s right, Hank. When are you going to get with the program?”

  He tried to keep his hard edges but lost them around Mom.

  “Fine, but if they fall . . .” Hank said, mumbling the rest in angry-sounding German as he walked away.

  “So we’re okay about Grayson? Consider today a trial; if he’s not pulling his weight, let me know,” my mother said, running off after Chef Hank again.

  “Yep. Sure,” I answered, wondering how I was going to keep an eye on Grayson and keep my composure at the same time.

  Half the room was finished with setups by the time I got back. I busied myself with stacking the cold plates for the cocktail buffet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grayson coming toward me.

  “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. He had his hands in his pockets, and his usual fringy bangs were subdued, kind of pushed to the side, dark eyes more prominent than ever. I dropped a plate and grimaced, waiting for the crash. Thankfully it bounced off the carpet. He bent down to pick it up and handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re surprised to see me,” he said.

  “Well, yeah, kind of,” I answered, putting the dirty plate under the cart. “Are you stalking me or something?”

  “Ha . . . Well, I’d rather think of it as strategically putting myself in your path so we can be friends . . . But if you want to call it stalking, okay.”

  “Okay, but why here?”

  “If you don’t want me here—”

  “No, it’s not that. This is probably the last place I expected to see you, that’s all.”

  “I could use some honest work—gas isn’t exactly free—and, well, I felt like I might have made the wrong impression the other day in the park. And where else would I get to hang out with you?”

  “Hang out? Get ready for a rude awakening,” I said, pushing the cart of plates toward him. “You can start by stacking these plates in rows on this table. Then I’ll think of something else.”

  “You’re sort of my boss—I dig it,” he said, flashing that grin.

  I pressed my lips together and walked away. That grin was pulling me into the deep end of the pool. The scary part, the part that made me search desperately for some other task I could lose myself in, was that there was a small, insistent voice urging me to dive right in.

  I successfully avoided Grayson during the rest of setup. He met me downstairs in the kitchen as we assembled to take the trays of hors d’oeuvres up to the cocktail hour. I got lucky with lobster ravioli. Grayson, on the other hand, was a bit green as the tray of cocktail franks was pushed his way.

  “How’s that for karma?” he asked, grabbing the tray.

  “I’ll trade you,” I said.

  He considered it. “Nah, gotta get back on the horse, right?”

  “On the upside they go pretty fast,” I said, climbing the stairs to the long corridor leading to the main ballroom.

  “So what’s the downside?” Gray asked, keeping up with me easily.

  “Talk to me in about ten minutes.”

  “Hmm . . . sounds serious,” he said. We walked out the double doors into the cocktail reception. I was tempted to follow him, to see how he would handle it, but I went the opposite way. I only made it halfway around the room before my tray was clean. When I went to the back, Grayson was standing there, just beyond the door, tray empty.

  “You must have thought I was a supreme dick at my cousin’s wedding,” he said, falling into step with me.

  “Tough crowd?”

  “No, really. I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head slightly, humorous sincerity lacing his voice. “I had no idea what a hassle people can be. I apologize on behalf of my obnoxious uncles.”

  “No worries. That was a pretty entertaining night. Well, before—”

  “I almost choked to death,” he finished.

  “Definite buzzkill,” I agreed, discreetly checking him out before we trotted down the stairs. He held out his hand for me to go first.

  “Do you know someone asked me what I was se
rving?”

  “Oh yeah, that happens at least once a party,” I said, over my shoulder. “Eben and I have a running game with it—you make up some wild name that makes pigs in a blanket sound exotic.”

  “So what’s the best name you’ve come up with?” he asked.

  Not that the hot-dog name game was a secret Eben and I swore to take to our graves, but what if Grayson thought I was a complete dork? I faced him as we waited in line for our next round of hors d’oeuvres. He seemed sincere, interested.

  “Nitrate-laced mystery meat wrapped in fatty dough,” I said, fighting the blush that was creeping across my face. “But I’ve never said that out loud to a guest. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

  “Nice one,” he said as we reached the serving station.

  A tray of cocktail franks was pushed my way by Chef Hank, an evil glint in his eyes.

  “Figures,” I said, groaning. Gray snatched the tray before I could.

  “I got this one,” he said.

  “Really?” I grabbed another round of ravioli.

  He swiped a hot dog off the tray, tossed it in the air. I held my breath as he executed his trick to perfection, chewing triumphantly.

  “Game on,” he said. “Stay close.”

  I followed him upstairs and back into the crowded ballroom. We worked the right side of the room. I kept my distance from him but stayed within earshot. Sure enough, Grayson walked up to a circle of older ladies, and a moment later one of them asked the dreaded, “Ooh, and what are these?” question.

  In the smoothest, most serious-sounding voice, he answered, “Micro tube steaks in puff pastry.”

  I bit my lip to keep from bursting but shook a little and snorted. Eben caught my eye as he passed by both of us and mouthed, Funny. Grayson kept a straight face, charming the ladies into cleaning his tray.

  We met in the back after my tray was emptied.

  “So how’d I do?” he asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said.

  “Pretty good? I thought that was kind of killer.”

  “Okay, better than pretty good. I nearly lost it,” I admitted.

  “I know. That was the best part,” he said, winking. He was one of those guys who could say things like “I dig it” with a wink and make it seem natural. There was something I still didn’t quite trust about it, about him being here, but he was slowly winning me over to Team Grayson. The cocktail hour had never been this fun.