Page 45 of Dear Pink

I’m engrossed in this inner debate when the worst happens. Gabe slowly pivots, and his eyes widen when they meet mine. I’m caught. This time, I’m the stalker. The way he stares makes my entire body explode in goosebumps.

He raises an eyebrow and excuses himself. He meanders through the crowd in my direction. Those lead feet of mine haven’t moved an inch. When he reaches me, I’m unsure what to say. Is he happy to see me? Surprised? Good surprised? Bad surprised? I’m lost in endless questions. Yep, I’m a spaz.

“Hannah, what are you doing here?” His warm greeting melts the goosebumps into a heatwave throbbing straight to my heart.

“I . . . uh.” Yep. I’m super interesting compared to acclaimed astronaut Elise. Also, this rosacea skin condition I currently suffer from is the newest fashion trend.

“I’m happy you’re here. I didn’t expect you today.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to his chest. My breath catches in my throat. “You ran out too fast last night,” he continues. “I planned on calling you this afternoon.”

“Doctor,” says a Green T-shirt, running toward us. “Sorry to bother you, but could you examine an animal for me?”

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he says to her, keeping eye contact with me. “Hannah requires my attention.”

“It’s okay, Gabe. Go help. You’re on work duty.”

“I will, but I’m happy you came.”

He is? Why? He could have Elise with a snap of his finger. Why wouldn’t he choose her over me given the chance? And Elise will give him the chance, that’s for sure. Maybe I’m just a hook-up? The weird cake conversation flashes in my memory. Did he want to eat my cake? Or he wanted me to eat his cake? Did he mean for me to eat my own cake? Did cake mean sex? God, I feel dense. We’rejustfriends. He said so. Friends who kiss? No, almost kiss. I take everything too seriously. Weiner-Jack ruined me for men forever. Mr. Fancy isn’t my boyfriend.

A different Green T-shirt approaches him. “Doctor, Otis got his head stuck for the fourth time.”

“Oh no, again? Hannah, I must deal with this issue. Otis is a verified rascal. Don’t leave. It will take five minutes.” He releases my hand, and an emptiness appears the minute he lets go. I definitely take his affectionate gestures too seriously. Get a grip, Hannah.

Standing there in the middle of the parking lot waiting for his return seems weird, so I wander the other rows of pets. This is the best opportunity for escape, I realize. He’s busy, and I haven't found a pet anyway. A dog isn’t the proper fit, and the cats have a vendetta against me. I should leave. Then the realization hits me. Ugh. Gabe presumes I came here for him, like a desperate hanger-on who has no clue. He doesn’t know I want to adopt a pet.

I scan the crowd and find him in the middle of a gaggle of gorgeous women. As he works on freeing Otis, an audience of young yogis gathers around him. Yogis might be a stretch. Beautiful women in $200 yoga pants with no intention of practicing yoga ogle him. They flip their long, shiny, blown-out hair and make fake-lashed googly-eyes at Gabe, but he doesn't seem to notice their attention. He stays focused on the cat, intent on releasing the small animal.

A shrill reverberates from the crowd, and I catch the culprit’s bright red lipstick pucker. Gabe can get any woman, and the list of women begging him to pick her is long, too long. He can date a surplus of women, but I won’t be #27 on his hookup list.

Walking backward to avoid attention, I stumble. I pitch my body forward and land spread-eagle on my stomach. What a moron. I touch a box next to my foot. Please don’t be a squashed kitten. If I killed a kitten, I’ll die right here. I swivel and spot a small shoebox on the ground. Thank tacos, the container remains intact. I squat for an inspection. Inside, a turtle hides in his shell.

I scoot closer and say, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

A Green T-shirt appears out of nowhere and sits cross-legged beside me. “Meet Homer.”

“Homer?” I peer into the box. The name’s appropriate for this guy.

“Homer’s a box turtle.”

“Is that why he’s in a box?”

Green T-shirt laughs and then frowns. “His owner died. I’ve fostered Homer for a month, but he needs a new forever family.”

“Poor Homer. He lost his home. That’s terrible.”

“His owner was an older man. Turtles live a long time. Finding a person willing to commit for a prolonged period is difficult. Most people are ill-suited for a possible twenty-year commitment.”

“Wow. Turtles live forever.”

“He’s a young turtle, maybe five years old. Some turtles live for forty years. Not typical, but it’s possible.” Green T-shirt pets his shell. “Homer’s an outgoing guy.”

He doesn’t seem outgoing. I only see his shell, but I won’t argue with her. She’s lit up like a Christmas tree talking about him. “Why don’t you keep him?” I ask.

“Can’t. I’m in college. I help the clinic when I’m in town for the summer with adoption days. Dorms won’t let me keep pets.”

She holds him in front of me. “Here. Hold him.” I hesitate. One pet injury is enough for today. Green T-shirt pushes him toward me, and Homer’s head pops out. I swear the turtle smiles. I hold him, and we peer at one another. His eyes roam over my face.

“I . . . I . . . adore him,” I stammer.

---