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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For her.

You found your way out. This is for everyone still looking for the door.

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A note before you begin:

This story contains themes of coercive control, emotional manipulation, stalking, and kidnapping. If any of these topics are difficult for you, please take care of yourself first.

You matter more than any story.

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PROLOGUE — "Not a Coincidence"

The night I met Ethan, I texted my cousin my location pin and thought that made me smart.

I wasn’t wrong, exactly. It just wasn’t enough.

I’m telling you this from the other side. So when I describe his eyes finding mine across a crowded room and call it electric, I need you to remember: warning and welcome wear the same color.

The summer I turned eighteen, I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted my own life to start.

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New Venice does something to the light at dusk — turns it amber and forgiving, makes everything look like the beginning of something good. The club was called Glow High, and the sign above the door flickered like it was deciding whether to stay on. I remember thinking it was a bad omen. I remember deciding to go in anyway.

Inside, the bass hit like a second heartbeat, violet light fell across the crowd, and I stood at the bar holding a drink that was too sweet and trying to look like someone who belonged there.

The door opened.

I felt him before I saw him — the room adjusting, subtly, the way crowds do around people who expect them to. Blond. Easy posture. Eyes that moved across the room and found mine like he’d been looking for a while.

That night, I just thought he was beautiful.

He came to me through the crowd. The room made way.

“We keep meeting behind glass,” he said.

I laughed before I could think about it. So that was you — the face I’d glimpsed that morning through a boutique window, gone before I could be sure. He bought me a drink. We danced. And when he asked my name, he said it back to me like it meant something.

“Anna.”

Not fireworks. Warm water after rain.

I sent Megan my pin. Safety is a habit. I built it before I understood why I needed one.

I didn’t know what glass was trying to tell me then.

I would learn.

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Some people believe in coincidences.

I used to.

* * *

The university hallway smelled like new paint and ambition. Students blurred past on both sides. I gripped my backpack strap and told myself: fresh start, clean page, new city.

I was late. I burst through the classroom door, cheeks flushed, chair scraping the floor as I slid into a seat. A few stifled laughs. I stared at the desk and told myself: It’s fine. It’s fine.

The professor turned around.

He was setting down a bag I recognized. Smoothing a jacket I’d seen before. His eyes moved across the room — not searching.

Landing.

He already knew where I was.

“Good morning, class. My name is Ethan Barberini, and I’ll be your substitute professor.”

The room kept going. Around me, pens clicked and notebooks opened and the ordinary machinery of a Tuesday morning continued without interruption.

Inside my chest, everything stopped.

This wasn’t an accident.

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