The Promise
When we were in fourth grade, Noah made Gracie a promise none of us forgot.
A group of girls had been discussing school dances.
Gracie listened quietly from the edge of the playground.
Then she asked:
“Do you think someone like me gets to go to prom?”
Before I could answer, Noah crouched in front of her.
“When we’re older, I’m taking you.”
Gracie’s entire face lit up.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
She clapped her hands.
“Amelia, you heard him!”
“I heard.”
I hugged her.
“You’ll always have Noah and me.”
I repeated that sentence throughout our childhood until all three of us believed it.
Growing Up in Cedarbrook
The years passed easily.
Noah rode his bicycle to our house almost every afternoon in Cedarbrook.
He knew exactly which kitchen cabinet contained the cookies.
He helped Gracie with reading.
He listened patiently while she told long stories that wandered through several unrelated subjects before eventually arriving at the point.
My mother, Diane, tolerated Noah’s constant presence with an amused smile.
My father, Richard, rarely looked up from his newspaper when Noah entered.
But Gracie always waited beside the front window for the sound of his bicycle tires.
By the time I was seventeen, my feelings toward Noah had changed.
I never told him.
I barely admitted it to myself.
Instead, I imagined a future while brushing my hair or finishing homework at the kitchen table.
Noah and me.
Gracie living nearby.
The three of us remaining connected exactly as we had always been.
I convinced myself Noah imagined it too.
He stayed on our porch long after sunset.
He always knew when I was pretending not to be upset.
Sometimes our eyes met after Gracie said something funny, and it felt as though we shared a language that belonged only to us.
I waited for him to say something.
He never did.
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