Page 8 of Nowhere to Run

Adrian had begun slipping his letters into my locker, though I hadn’t yet told a soul, keeping them a shameful secret.

She studied me for a moment, then smiled kindly. “You’re sixteen now, hunny. Have you kissed anyone?”

I’d sighed, not exactly embarrassed. Gran and I both knew I could have if I’d wanted.

“I don’t know what I’m waiting for,” I admitted with a shrug.

“Well, don’t be waiting on Prince Charming, hun. That’s just a silly fantasy designed to sell romance novels.” She scoffed. “Real boys—real men? They’re flawed. Selfish. But life isn’t about waiting around–it’s about making your own fun. Go screw up a little.”

I nodded, picturing Adrian’s face. His body. If only he didn’t scare me so much–

“When I was your age,” Gran continued, “I was getting railed by the high school quarterback behind the five-and-dime after my shift.”

“Jesus, Gran!” I practically fell off the couch.

She waved a dismissive hand.

“Oh, quit clutching your pearls. You’re old enough to hear it like it is.”

Her gaze drifted down to her emerald ring, turning it slowly on her finger, her eyes misting slightly.

“Bobby,” she murmured. “We were inseparable. He was a bit older. A real stud, that one.” She fanned herself, as if even the memory was too much to bear.

I blushed but smiled. I loved how genuine she was, how she encouraged me to live my life to the fullest.

“That’s nice, Gran,” I said with a smirk.

Although I secretly longed for a boyfriend, I wasn’t so sure about‘getting railed.’

Ginger sighed, lost in memories. “We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. He took me under the bleachers, behind the bowling alley, in the woods near the track.”

“Gran, seriously?!” I laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me how romantic he was? How he treated you so nice?”

She scoffed. “Sweetie, I ain’t going to sugar coat it for you. High school boys don’t write sonnets—they get handsy in the backseat.”

A smirk tugged at her lips.

“But Bobby held my hand, took me to the dance hall, bought me a corsage. He was proud to call me his. Always wanted to show me off.”

Her eyes gleamed as she looked down at the emerald ring on her hand.

“Gave me this before he left for the war.”

I’d always loved that ring. She let me wear any of her others, but the emerald was off-limits.

“One day, hun. When I’m gone, of course, it’ll be yours.”

Now, I looked down at the ring on my finger, a tear slipping free. I shook my head. Ginger had lived a great life, passing away at a ripe old age. No one could ask for more.

She’d had two children—my mother and my aunt. But they’d been nothing like her.

“So uptight, that mom of yours,” Gran had whispered when I was little, slipping a twenty-dollar bill into my hand at the store.

“Get whatever you want, kid.”

“Mother, don’t indulge Scarlett,” my mom would scold. “I don’t want her developing a shopping addiction.”

Gran would roll her eyes, brushing her off as I skipped toward the toy aisle, the craft sets, the paints.

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