“Would you?” “Maybe. But first we have to go to prom.” “What’s prom?” “A dance when we’re almost grown-ups.”
Ethan held out his pinkie. “Promise?” I hooked mine around his. “Promise.”
Twelve years later… Ethan remembered every word. By then, we had survived different classes, my parents’ d.
i. v. o. r. c. e, his endless attempts to teach me baseball, and my first heartbreak.
That night, Ethan showed up with ice cream, gave me his heart-melting smile, and announced: “I told you that guy was an idiot.”
So when senior prom arrived at Willowcrest High School in Bellmere, going together didn’t feel like fulfilling some childhood promise out of sympathy.
Ethan was my best friend. There was nobody I would rather go with. That evening, he arrived wearing a suit and bow tie, holding my corsage and grinning like he had just won the World Series.
Mom opened the door. The instant she saw Ethan… something changed. Her smile disappeared.
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