Page 30 of Dear Pink

I nearly agree with Maude and say something self-deprecating, but Libby’s supportive voice echoes in my head.You never stopped being a badass.

“Thank you. I love my pink too,” I say.

“Honey, why hide this sexy body of yours in oversized blazers and long pencil skirts?” June asks.

Easy for her to say. She’s a born exhibitionist.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I say with renewed strength.

“No problem there,” Maude says. “They can detect you from space. I bet NASA diverts their satellites because of your colorful interference.” She jams on her helmet. “You ready to ride to Hell, Hannah?”

“Hell, yeah,” I say and push off.

The ride turns out better than expected. June and Maude are in the best shape of their lives, like two Jane Fonda’s on bikes. Maude, funny enough, is a persuasive motivator. I tell them I’d be happy to ride to Hell another Saturday. June’s ecstatic. Maude’s indifferent. I’m optimistic. I might make it to Hell after all.

I say goodbye and walk to my car. I dread fitting my bike inside. I should buy a bike rack. Do they make bright pink ones?

I unlock the trunk and spy a note pinned under the wiper. Expecting an ad, I crumple the paper but stop when I catch the word “Gabe'' written on the bottom.

Dear Pink,

Wanna ride sometime?

Gabe

214-867-5309

Gabe? Who the hell is Gabe? The note must be for someone else. I wad up the paper and throw it on my backseat next to the bike.

Chapter 9 - Gabe

Friday night, and the spillway swarms with leisure bikers, but I’d rather be on a bike than at home watching some game on TV. Three of my sisters texted. All wanted intel on my social life. I lied and pretended to have a date. Giovanna sent a cat and a fingers-crossed emoji. No way. I hope I'm never that desperate. I almost blocked my sister after her setup with the crazy Cat Woman. Doubt she will ever hear the end of the dinner drama from Mom, although the wild night will become great fodder for future family storytelling.

I hold my head in my hands. I left a note on her window like a crazy stalker. Why did I do that? Hell, I’ll have to stalk her if I plan on running into her again. Will she ever call? Maybe the note fell off her windshield. Worse, maybe she has a boyfriend who now wants to kick my ass. Geez. I’m terrible at dating.

I bike faster, checking my time. I got a late start this morning. I complain about the crowd, but there’s something comforting in seeing the same faces. They aren’t strangers but fellow Dallasites seeking the same thing I am, escape.

I pass the area with the sailboats when I notice a pink spot on the opposite side of the lake. Is it her? My heartbeat spikes, so I move my legs faster. “Slow your roll,” I say out loud. What’s the plan here? Run her off the road and ask her if she read my note? I don’t even know her real name.

A family of five stops in the middle of the trail and blocks my path. I wait, my eyes glued to the other side of the lake. I can’t find her anywhere. Where did Pink go? Probably wasn’t her anyway. I haven’t seen her out on the lake since last Saturday morning. I’m agitated for nothing. I bet it’s a kid dressed in a fairy princess costume. Last week, I saw Superman, the Hulk, and a little girl in a bathing suit and rain boots. You would guess it’s Halloween every day the way kids dress around the lake. When else can you get away with being Batman?

The family of obstruction clears the trail with apologies, and I take off. What if it’s Pink? Do I want to date her? I don’t even know her. I said I wouldn’t date again. Maybe Aunt Agnes is right. I should let Elise go and put myself out there. Pink is beautiful and funny. And her body. Man, the last time I saw her, I had to stop from pushing her into the grass and peeling off those adorable pink shorts. Now, I do sound like a perverted stalker.

I round the lake a second time to burn off steam so I don’t have to jump in the lake when I notice a woman dressed in cotton candy pink sitting on a bench. I park my bike and lift my sunglasses. It’s her. I spent this entire ride imagining Pink naked, and now I’m frozen. This is my chance. I left the note. I want this to happen. Even if she rejects me, my eyes want another glimpse. Despite rolling backward down a hill, she made my heart skip a beat . . . or ten.

I stand motionless and watch her bend over a phone, examining a video. Her face looks serious. Instead of interrupting, I listen. The video describes directions for changing a tire. I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing. She’s on the bench watching a YouTube instructional video on changing a tire. I search her new bubble gum bike and notice a flat rear wheel.

“You need a new tube,” I say, but she doesn’t look up.

“Yeah, yeah. Blew out my tire, I guess. Thanks for stating the obvious. Go ahead. Move on.” She waves her hand in my direction as if shooing an annoying fly.

I wait for her to glance at me. She doesn’t budge, so I clear my throat.

“I have an extra tube. Want some help?” I ask.

Her dark sunglasses stay focused on her phone. “No, I don’t want help. No, I won’t give you my phone number. And yes, my 200-pound kickboxing boyfriend with rage issues is due around the bend to help me at any moment. Really, I’m no damsel in distress, but thanks for stopping.”

I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. This woman’s hysterical. “Does that normally work?”

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