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Ginger's cadillac lulled to a stop, in the parking lot of a cream-colored warehouse with an unattractive neon sign. It read: SKYHOUSE.
"Sky Flaherty would love this," I said with a chuckle, amused by my stupidness.
Ginger couldn't help but crack a smile as we climbed nimbly out of her vehicle. She wrapped her keys in her hand as we crossed the pavement, strolling toward the building.
For a "grand opening," not a lot of people were attending. Only a dozen---or so---cars cluttered the vast space; which was, in all honesty, more than I was anticipating. Whoever informed Ginger should've told a few more people.
"Didn't you say this was the grand opening?" I asked suspiciously.
"Maybe not a lot of people are interested in bouncy-places," Ginger replied, not exactly answering my question.
We reached the glass double doors, and I yanked one open.
"I thought kids and families would be all over this," I stated with a cocked smile. I tugged at the sleeves of my shirt. "Speaking of which, are you sure we're not too old for this? I mean, it's like a kids thing."
"It's a trampoline...thing," Ginger corrected---kind of. "Anyway, the guy said it was for all ages. Actually, adults come here all the time."
I stopped Ginger by touching her elbow.
"What do you mean 'all the time?' I thought this thing just opened?" My eyebrows were raised in dismay, patiently awaiting her explanation.
"Uhm---well---it's not exactly the grand opening. But...it's open!" Ginger stammered awkwardly.
"Yea, I've---" I lowered my voice after receiving several annoyed glances in our direction---"gathered that. Why would you tell me that it was the grand opening?"
"I thought it might help convince you." Ginger sounded so innocent, but I knew she'd sneakily been planning this. That's just how she operated.
"I'm guessing this guy you met with doesn't even exist?"
"Oh, no, he definitely does." I rolled my eyes in obvious annoyance.
I pressed my index, middle, and thumb fingers against the bridge of my nose. I sighed, trying to calm myself while I was still in control. Sometimes, under certain circumstances, my emotions could grab hold of me and, if in public, destroy my social life---not that I had one already undamaged.
"We already got dressed and drove all the way out here," said Ginger coaxingly. "Why not just...enjoy it?"
"On one condition," I said solemnly.
Maybe I was overacting, but I was tired of constantly being guilt-tripped into things. It made me feel vulnerable and easily convincable---which I was. But that only dampened my spirits.
"What?"
"You have to stop bribing and guilt-tripping me into situations like these. Permantly. And," I added hastily, "you have to be honest."
I felt like a mother parenting her child. I shouldn't have to tell a nineteen year-old to act truthful, but, in Ginger's unusual case, it was completely different. She'd always possessed a sneaky, devious side to her. Of course, she had many fine qualities, but I'd always be trapped by her constant schemes.
"Ugh, fine," Ginger said, tossing her honey-blonde hair over her right shoulder.
Then strode over towards the long counter, where three uniformed cashiers stood. She began a conversation with them as I turned my phone on. I'd forgotten it'd been grasped within my hand this entire time.
I fumbled with the password, accidently entering the incorrect one three times in a row. However, when I finally succeeded, I tapped on my Instagram app and flicked through my timeline, giving the posts only a seconds glance. I wasn't in the mood to tap hundreds of pictures are they rolled across my screen.
Just then, I received a notification saying: @bentylercook posted on his InstaStory for the first time in a while. My heart leaped a little as I felt colour rushing to my cheeks. Rolling my eyes at my sudden rush of emotions, I tapped automatically on the announcement.
Instantly, the screen turned dark, which was then replaced with a boomerang of him tumbling---shirtless, nonetheless---in what seemed to be a gymnasium of some kind.
Before I had any time to process the image, Ginger returned, handing me a bright red wrist band.
"Ready?" she asked, strapping the paper around her thin wrist.
"Sure," I mumbled, fumbling with the band.
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