Page 88 of Dear Pink

On the back, she left a note.

Gabe,

Fun time last night. You’re a sweet guy. See you around.

XO,

Hannah

Chapter 22 - Hannah

6. Pitch that brilliant graphic novel. I know it’s hiding in your sketchbook. Don’t you dare give up on your art. I believe in you.

My phone blares theRockytheme. I check the clock. 5:00 a.m. Last week, Gabe downloaded the song on the alarm setting with strict instructions: “You should have a special ring for bike training mornings to motivate and move.” The distant memory forces my head under the pillow with an angry groan.

The song goes off again. Damn you, Rocky Balboa, and your unflagging positive attitude. Flipping over, I shove the phone off the bedside table. Gabe hasn’t called since I left him that lame note. I have solely myself to blame. I asked him to give me casual, and now I have nothing, radio silence. A casual relationship is supposed to protect the heart and promise fun.Cosmois sooooo wrong. I’m unhappy, and I miss him.

My phone sings a third time. Reaching for the annoying device, I swipe “dismiss,” and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I drag my feet into the bathroom and find the mirror reflects exactly how I feel inside. My cheeks have crease lines from the sheets, and my mouth has crunchy white spots where the drool dried in the corners.

My note practically said, “Hasta la vista, baby.” I cringe at the funny memory of Gabe imitating the Terminator, “I’ll be back.” He’s definitely not coming back. I wish I could rewind time and have a redo. I’d tell him about Libby, the bucket list, and how I’m afraid of losing people I love.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve ruined everything.

I walk out of the bathroom and fall into bed, yanking the pillow over my face. A screeching sound shrieks from my phone. Nuts. I forgot about the backup alarm. I should get dressed for work anyway.

***

Standing outside the revolving doors of Burton & Baker, I stare at the mirrored glass. The chaotic reflection reveals my current state of mind. My mascara is smudged from the five-minute crying session I had in the parking garage, and the ruffled blouse I threw on this morning is misbuttoned and untucked from my wrinkled skirt. I glance at my shoes. Crap. I sport a navy ballet flat on my right foot and a black one on the left.

Even in the blurred reflected image, I detect blotchy spots on my cheeks and swollen red eyes. Ugh. Did I forget to brush my hair? I smash a random spike by my ears with no success. Maybe I should go home?

A briefcase hits me in the back of the knees, and I yelp.

“You going to stand there all day or what?” A man in a suit shoves past me. Can’t he tell my heart is broken?

Call Gabe and tell him you changed your mind.

I push Libby’s voice away.

Did I change my mind? I still don’t want a broken heart. A casual relationship keeps everyone’s heart intact. No one gets hurt. I wipe at the returning tears. Damn it. Who am I kidding?

I bulldoze through the spinning doors, walking lopsided to the elevator. I check my feet. Not only are my shoes two different colors, but the heel on the navy one sits slightly higher. Crap.

I enter the elevator, thankful to be alone for a moment, and hit the button for the basement. In the quiet, I imagine Gabe rolling in with his bike and a devastating grin. My heart clenches, and I swallow a sigh.

When the doors open to my floor, I don’t move. June turns her head in my direction, and I mash the button for the roof. I have to clear my head. The ding startles me when the doors open to the roof, and I freeze again. My legs are heavy with regret and sadness. The doors close, but I change my mind, quickly pressing the button for the roof. It reopens, and I step out.

What was I thinking? I left Mr. Fancy a letter. No, the opposite of a letter. A note on a piece of scratch paper, not even a text or an email. I left him a scribbled note, like a coward.

See you around?What did I expect would happen? Gabe told me he wanted a serious relationship. He never wanted casual sex. Hell, I didn’t want a superficial affair either. I can’t lose another person I care about.

Ugh. That’s exactly what I did. I lost him.

Closing my eyes, flashbacks appear in snippets . . . Gabe undressing me . . . kissing my bare skin . . . caressing my body. I fight the image of him asleep in my bed, his tangle of blond waves against the pillow, and his soft breathing sounds. What a mess I made of things. I cover my face to block the invading visions. I’m living a nightmare—one where the perfect guy calls you his girlfriend and you run away screaming and end up alone with a turtle.

When I remove my hands, nothing has changed. I stumble into a wire chair next to an ashtray. Settling into the uncomfortable seat, I wish for a cigarette except I don’t smoke.

I should have told Gabe about the bucket list when we began dating. Libby’s damn list. I stomp my feet in frustration and tears threaten to break through. Holy cow. I’m hiding on the roof like a child.

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