Page 29 of Dear Pink

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Libby.

She wasn’t one of those rah-rah friends, the type who strokes your ego so you’ll reciprocate like a parasite instead of a person. Libby was honest, loyal, and a badass, and when I was beside her, I became a badass too.

The last time I was a true badass was when I caught Jack-O-Looser with Goth Girl in his bed. I picture him standing in front of me, his hands gesturing wildly as if moving them enough would block my view of the naked reptile girl behind him. I swore off men ever since he destroyed my heart, and I’m happy with my decision.

Your vagina isn’t happy.

Shut up, Libby.

My vagina loves my vibrator, BOB. My blue dildo satisfies me better than any man because he only pleases me while I focus on Ryan Gosling. Although lately, I've cheated on Ryan with Mr. Fancy.

The same fantasy gets me going. I’m in a backward freefall when he catches me in his arms. He lifts me off my bike and lays me on the grass. He whips off his shirt, his tanned muscles gleaming with sweat, and pushes my jersey up to reveal my breasts. His tongue circles over my peaked nipples. Other cyclists ride past us, but we don’t stop kissing, sucking, touching. He rips off my shorts and moves his lips lower. And that’s when BOB takes over. Who needs a real man? Real men cheat and break your damn heart.

Mr. Fancy would break my heart too if I gave him the opportunity. I have every intention of keeping him in my erotic dream world, where it’s safe. He also seemed super chummy with the odd cat woman in his office. Plus, with that gorgeous body, he probably dates a slew of women. Who wouldn’t date him? Between BOB, Ryan Gosling, and my imaginary Mr. Fancy, my vagina does fine. This might become my new mantra.

As if Libby and my vagina conspired to make their point, Mr. Fancy stops on the trail next to the parking lot. I glance at the early morning sky and wonder if Libby did this.

“I hoped I’d run into you again.” His eyes travel the length of my body. “You look even pinker today.”

I feel pinker as blood rushes to my face. “I guess I went overboard.”

“Nah. Pink suits you. It’s your color.” His expression shows genuine kindness.

I never entertained the idea of a signature color, but he makes it sound cool. “Maybe I’ll wear pink for you more often.” Wait. What did I say? “I mean, I’ll wear pink for me, not you. You can see it, but I won’t wear it for you.” Stop talking.

Mr. Fancy leans his bike against my car and inches closer. He smiles. Is he going to kiss me? Yes, please. I mean, no, don’t. I mean—

“Your helmet’s crooked,” he says, loosening my strap and yanking it tight. Heat radiates from his body. I stop my fingers from touching his chest, his arms, or his chiseled jaw. I ache for him to push me on the grass, whip off his shirt, and fulfill my fantasy.

“Thank you,” I croak. His glacier blue eyes penetrate me in a way I never experienced before.

“I like your new bike. They build Treks to last.”

I don’t want to admit it, but this real live man might be better than all the vibrators in the world. “You were right. My Huffy wouldn’t make a single mile, much less 100.”

“I didn’t mean to sentence your bike to death.” He smiles, oblivious to the butterflies he gives me. I grin back. “You headed out?” he asks, rolling his bike onto the trail. “I better not keep you from it.”

“Okay.” Okay? Say something else. Hurry. Quick. Ugh.

He crooks his head but says nothing. Instead, he hops on his bike and pedals away, waving behind him.

That was dreadful.

No shit, Sherlock. Ugh. Libby’s sarcasm cuts me even in death. I’m tempted to jump in my car and call it a day when I spot two women leaning against their bikes with flames on their jerseys. The Hell Raisers? Surely, there’s more to this group than two ladies. Fingers crossed. I walk my bike over.

“Excuse me,” I tap one of the women on the shoulder. “Are you part of the Hell Raiser training group?”

The woman turns around. She has the biggest breasts I’ve ever seen beside Ju—

“Hannah?”

“June?” How did this happen? Why is this happening?

The other woman turns around and removes her helmet. Maude too?

“Hannah, what are you wearing?” she asks. “Someone vomited their strawberry milkshake on you.”

“Ignore Maude,” June says, pinching her on the arm. “I love your cheerful outfit. The color goes with your hair.”

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