Promises Promises

Chapter 11

To normal people, the Shop-Rite in Renlow Park was probably just another grocery store. But to me, it was so much more, and that made all the difference.

From the moment I stepped inside, I was in love with the place. For one thing, it was part of a long chain. There were other stores just like it across the state and not a single Mom & Pop vibe could be found anywhere. It wasn't owned and run by the same person who'd owned and ran it since their great grandad passed it down a million years ago. The cashiers and bagboys weren't the same people you went to highschool with or the kids you grew up babysitting.

Everyone was a stranger. The store was strange. The whole town was strange to me and in the best kind of way.

As I walked the much longer aisles than I was used to and took in the larger variety of groceries, I scolded myself for not venturing out sooner. The shelves were brimming with specialty items and brands I'd never seen before, stuff that never made it into small-town stores. It made me wonder what else I'd been missing out on all this time.

What else did other towns have to offer that mine didn't? Why had I never branched out before? I mean, what did it even say about me to hate my hometown so much and yet, never go anywhere else?

The answer was simpler than I wanted to admit: obedience and fear.

Fairhaven was home, that's what my dad always said to me and Mom. We were safest there and never had a reason to leave. I believed his lie for so long, but "home" no longer felt safe. Safety had become synonymous with a distinct lack of freedom. Safety felt more like the devil we knew.

The boundaries were finally slipping away, though, and I smelled freedom in the Shop-Rite. Felt it deep in my bones. It was ridiculous and thrilling.

In the produce section, I did a quick scan for the Cosmic apples. They were right up front in a fancy display, and I grabbed a couple bags of them before glancing around to see if anything else looked worthwhile.

When my eyes snagged on rows and rows of perfectly yellow and beautiful lemons, a little flutter rushed up my spine. It had been years since I made lemonade.

It wasn't because the market in Fairhaven didn't have lemons or anything. It's just that whenever I saw them there, I never felt the urge to bring them home. But there in the Shop-Rite, surrounded by that newfound freedom and the hope of endless possibilities, I found myself reaching for them without hesitation.

I was going to make lemonade from scratch. My day was only getting better. My mood was flying high.

Once the lemons were secured, I decided I wasn't done. I wanted to ride the wave of motivation I was on, since it came around so rarely. And that's when I found myself in the baking aisle, scouring the options for sugar cookies.

I didn't want to commit to the whole process of making those from scratch, worried I'd lose steam and the wait wouldn't be worth it, so I grabbed a bag of the easy pre-mixed stuff and practically skipped to the checkout area.

A pretty girl with a lip ring, dark black hair, and the best eyeshadow job I'd ever seen greeted me with a warm smile. I didn't know her and she didn't know me, and I loved that for both of us.

Her name tag said "Jillian" and she didn't give me any sidelong glances, knowing I was the girl whose father was incarcerated for his work with the hometown crime syndicate. Or the one whose brother had been shot in Chicago.

She wasn't Leann's cousin who'd talk my ear off for an hour at the register. She wasn't Debbie's sister who would call my coworker up and tell her all about our interaction later that night. And she wasn't the wife of a crooked politician, passing out voting propaganda to get her husband re-elected where people were trying to buy groceries.