Page 1 of Griffin

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IVY

Freedom.

I inhale it, savoring the taste as it enters my lungs, ridding me of the stale air I’ve been working in for the past eight hours. Torture, that’s what it is, working to pay bills.

But hey, we all have to join the rat race, right?

I scan the parking lot for my car, wondering why my memory is so bad at twenty-one years old. I parked it eight hours ago — it’s a big parking lot, sure, but when I got here, it was pretty much empty. I’d had my choice of parking spaces, so why didn’t I park close to the store?

I don’t even know.

I wander around a little, my cheeks heating up when I realize I’ve completely forgotten where I’ve parked.

No biggie. I’ll just hang around — aha!

There it is.

My beat-up Ford Fiesta is partially hidden by a monster truck with all the bells and whistles you can imagine, which explains why I couldn’t see it earlier.

I exhale, stretching out my limbs as I stroll toward my car. Two hours of shelf stacking followed by five hours of serving at the checkout deserves a massage, not a mere stretch. It doesn’t help that I’m tall; I have to fold myself like an envelope to comfortably fit behind the checkout.

The Ford is warm and sticky from its position beneath the beaming sun, and even at this hour, it is still low.

I love summer, don’t get me wrong, but stifling heat isn’t my jam.

Flicking the AC on, I start the engine, easing out of the parking space and toward home.

The AC is as slow as shit from a rocking horse, so I roll down my windows, gasping for some air.

It’s no good.

The weather in Hendrix is usually unpredictable, but this stupid heatwave we’ve been having is killing me slowly. I don’t even want to know what temperature it is. All I know is I’m sweating in places I didn’t know you could sweat.

“How is it this hot at six PM?” I mutter to no one in particular. “Global warming. It’s gotta be.”

I drive through the town of Hendrix, smiling at the kids hanging out in the ice cream store.

I used to do that when I was in junior high, me and Shelby. We’d feel so grown up, taking our dollars to the counter and stammering our orders. The best part had been sitting at a booth, waiting for the hot guys to stop by.

I snort at the memory of said hot guys.

Daniel Peterson, Logan Halloway, and Finlay Bentley had driven us girlswild.

Now, where were they?

From memory, Daniel is working on ships, Logan manages the hardware store in town, and Finlay is probably still serving time for stealing cars.

Finlay was the school’s bad boy and, therefore, the most desirable. He only ever had eyes for me, though, and what did I do about it?

Nothing.

Why?

Because my dad said if Finlay touched a hair on my head, he’d blow him away with his shotgun.

Yup, I have a protective father. I turn onto the street that leads me home, yawning as I try to pay attention to the road.

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