GROW UP GINGER

A story about leaving and being followed.

Written by Juliana Resende

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No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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CHAPTER SEVEN — His Name

“So, Anna,” he said, leaning against the bar. “What brings you to this club tonight?”

“Just out with friends. My cousin and her friends. They wanted to surprise me.”

“For your birthday.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure you’re having a great time.” His eyes moved over my face the way you study something you’re going to remember. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room.” He tilted his head. “You have a certain kind of energy about you.”

I told myself I was sophisticated enough to know that line was a line, even as part of me filed it somewhere warm and kept it.

“By the way,” he added, “you mentioned your name?”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“I don’t recall. But it’s Anna.”

“Ethan.”

He didn’t extend his hand. He just said it. Like the name was enough.

“You’re very charming, you know that?” I said, and immediately wanted to take it back.

“I will try my best.” He laughed. “So can I buy you that drink now? Or would you like to dance?”

“How about we dance first, and you can buy me a drink after.”

“Lead the way, birthday girl.”

We danced.

I had been to dances before — school dances, weddings, my cousin’s quinceañera. I had moved in the general vicinity of music without ever fully synchronizing with anyone. With Ethan it was different. He led without being heavy about it, the way good dancers do, his hand at the small of my back guiding more than directing. The room blurred. My body knew what to do without consulting me. For three songs we existed in a place that had no other people in it.

When we stopped, breathless, I said: “Can we step up for a second? I’m thirsty.”

“Of course.”

He bought the drinks. Called the bartender by name — Paolo, which made me laugh, internally, at the small-town logic of it all — and brought back two glasses and we leaned against the bar like we’d known each other a long time.

“So what do you do for a living?” I asked.

“Is this an interview?”

“No, just curiosity.”

“I’m an architect. And sometimes I give guest lectures at university.”

“That sounds like two different people.”

“It feels like it sometimes.” He tilted his head. “What about you?”

“Interior architecture, maybe. Or fashion design. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Don’t sell yourself short if it’s something you’re passionate about.”

I smiled at the bar top. It sounded like the right thing to say, and I was still young enough that the right things sounding right felt like evidence of their truth.

The music slowed. He looked at me for a long moment, not saying anything, and I felt the conversation tip from one mode into another — from getting to know you into something more deliberate.

“I’m going to the washroom,” I said, because I needed a second to breathe.

“Sure.”

I walked away. In the mirror I looked at my own face and didn’t quite recognize it. Flushed. Eyes bright. I was eighteen tomorrow and I was talking to a man I had just met and I wanted, very badly, for the night not to end.

When I came back, Bonnie and Olivia were near the door. Megan was nowhere.

“She left with Bruno,” Olivia said. “We’re going somewhere else with some guys. Want to come?”

I knew Bonnie and Olivia’s reputation. Going somewhere else with these particular guys was a thing I did not have the bandwidth for tonight.

“That’s okay. I can wait here. Don’t rush.”

“I know why you want to stay,” Bonnie said, smirking.

They left. I walked back to the bar.

Ethan was sitting where I’d left him, talking to Paolo.

“Ethan,” I said. “Are you going to buy me that drink now?”

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CHAPTER EIGHT — The Zippy

Ethan ordered our drinks and Paolo gave him a small, knowing nod.

“Your friends left you here?” Ethan asked me.

“Yeah. The girls went somewhere with some guys. I figured I’d stay.”

“Well.” His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass. “I’m glad you are here.”

We talked about everything and nothing. He was easy to talk to. He listened, which sounds simple and isn’t. He laughed in the right places. He didn’t fill silences with himself. I found myself leaning closer to him, sip by sip, drink by drink, until I realized our shoulders were touching.

“You know,” I said, before I could think about it, “there’s something about you.”

I tried to think of how to finish the sentence. His breathing was very close to mine. I could feel my own heart in my throat. He was looking at me with that particular attention, the slow, deliberate kind, and I thought: I am going to kiss him.

But before I could, I looked at him.

Just looked.

And then I leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He laughed — quiet, surprised, almost delighted — and then his hand was on my jaw and he was kissing me properly, and the bar disappeared, and the people around us disappeared, and somewhere behind us Paolo politely refused to make eye contact with anyone.

When we broke apart, Ethan whispered against my ear:

“You’re driving me crazy.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“How about we get out of here? Continue this conversation somewhere more private?”

I hesitated. I texted Bonnie that I was leaving with him and would meet them at home.

“Sure,” I said. “But you need to drop me off later.”

“Of course.”

The Zippy arrived. Ethan opened the door for me, and as we slid into the back seat he leaned forward and said something to the driver in Italian — easy and fluent, like water. I watched him do it and thought: he contains entire rooms I haven’t been in yet.

I will be eighteen tomorrow. Everything felt like a door.

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