Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(68)
He walked through the darkness like a drunkard, his feet slow and uncertain at first, then picking up momentum and balance until he was running down the driveway like the devil was at his heels. When he got to the barn, he walked into the tack room, grabbed his keys, then pulled the door shut behind him. His dog tags were around his neck. Anything else could be sent or replaced.
Heading out into the night, he straddled his bike, threw on his helmet, and turned the key, clenching his jaw and eyes shut for a moment as the engine thundered to life. The Ginger of his dreams, the sweetest, loveliest girl who ever lived—the princess of his broken heart—was just another fickle, f*cking bitch.
Opening his cold, flinty eyes, he turned his bike toward the road and squeezed the throttle. He roared down the driveway, down the road, out of Apple Valley, out of Kentucky.
All that mattered was distance.
All that mattered was getting as far away from both of them as f*cking possible.
PART FOUR
Three years later
Chapter 16
Ginger
“What do you think, Gran?” asked Ginger, holding the paint chips closer to the light. “Sandy Beach or Ray of Sun?”
“D-doll b-baby,” Gran said slowly, shifting her troubled eyes from the almost-identical colors to her granddaughter’s face, “D-does it . . . m-matter?”
A nurse peeked her head into the room and smiled kindly at Ginger. “Afternoon visitin’ hours are over in ten minutes, Miss McHuid. You can come back this evenin’ after supper if you like.”
Ginger’s shoulders slumped. “Anna, please stop callin’ me Miss McHuid!”
“Nurse Ratch—I mean, Nurse Arklett prefers for us to address visitors properly.” Anna shrugged an apology and gave Ginger a polite smile before turning and leaving the room.
Ginger sighed deeply, pulling the pile of paint chips back into her hands and squaring them neatly like a deck of cards.
Nine months ago, after Woodman proposed, and under oppressive pressure from her parents, his parents, and him, she finally agreed to take a “leave of absence” from her job at SSCC in order to concentrate on wedding planning and festivities. Except she didn’t really feel needed—it seemed that every detail had been taken over by her mother, future mother-in-law, and their very expensive, very exclusive wedding planner, Charm Simpkins. Which basically left Ginger choosing paint colors for the little house that Woodman had purchased in town last year. Though she still kept all her clothes and personal things at her cottage, to maintain an expected propriety, and wouldn’t start decorating the house until they were officially married, on New Year’s Eve, sometimes it all felt like a silly charade since she slept over there two or three nights a week.
“I guess I better be goin’, Gran,” said Ginger, looking at her grandmother, who had been transferred to a private hospital-style room about a year ago, when her health had taken another bad turn. Since then, however, she’d leveled off again, and while she couldn’t get around without a wheelchair, her speech had somewhat stabilized, and her thoughts were still clear when she was able to express them. She tired easily, though, and after half an hour spent looking at paint chips, she was probably ready for her afternoon nap.
Gran’s trembling hand reached out to cover Ginger’s. “We s-still have . . . eight m-minutes.”
Her grandmother had been the only person in her life who didn’t support her decision to stop nursing. In fact, for a month or two it had actually created a divide between Ginger and her grandmother, which Ginger had mourned deeply. She also mourned the loss of a career she loved so much, but she kept telling Woodman that she planned to go back to work as soon as they were married, and he said, though she suspected he was humoring her, that he’d support her whatever she decided to do.
“How’s . . . J-Josiah?”
She looked away. “How is he? He’s real good, Gran. I told you he made lieutenant last month, right? Amazin’ because he doesn’t actually go to the calls, but he’s become indispensable down there at the firehouse. He’s basically in charge of all internal operations and—”
“Y-you . . . and J-Josiah,” her Gran clarified with slightly narrowed eyes.
Ginger raised her chin. “We’re real good.”
Without saying a word, Gran let her disapproval seep into the room, and Ginger blinked before looking away from her again.
“I never should have told you that, Gran. Never should have talked about it. Never.”
Her grandmother’s hand, which had been limp and trembling over Ginger’s, squeezed lightly, and Ginger looked up.
“T-tell . . . m-me how . . . you’re d-doin’. F-for real.”
Ginger had never made very close friends during her three years of high school—most of the girls had been friends since preschool, and besides, Ginger was sort of an oddity. Everyone knew who she was—the girl who’d had the heart trouble, the little princess from McHuid Farm—but no one seemed to want to get to know her for real, on a personal level. There’d been no slumber party invitations or midnight phone calls from girlfriends wanting to talk about boys. Just Ginger, quiet and shy, friendly to everyone but friends with no one.
She had made a couple of friends while in nursing school, but since she’d taken her leave of absence from SSCC, she felt an ever-widening social divide between them. And while she was making some friends in the ladies auxiliary group at the firehouse, she wasn’t on intimate terms with any of those women yet, which meant that Ginger didn’t really have anyone besides Woodman to talk to. Anyone, that is, except Gran.