Page 31 of Dear Pink

She hits pause on her phone and swivels her head. She slips off her sunglasses, and her eyes widen to double the size. She halts, paralyzed. A statue of surprise. At least I hope from happy surprise and not fear.

“I’m not following you,” I say too loudly. “I know you. I mean, you know me. We know each other.” I’m rambling. “It’s weird to run into someone in Dallas. Don’t you think?” I’m the weirdo in this situation. Why can’t I make decent sentences?

She smiles, and my shoulders relax.

“It’s you, again,” she says.

“Me, again.”

We say nothing for a moment, both of us grinning at one another. She tucks a small pink strand of hair behind her ear.

“Mind if I sit with you a minute?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she slides over on the bench.

“I really do have an extra tube. I don’t mind fixing the flat for you if you don’t know how.” I point to her phone, and she turns bright red.

“I didn’t anticipate the possibility of a flat tire. I didn’t expect changing one to be complicated either. Who knew there’s a tube inside a tire?”

She seems to have more to say, so I wait. She frowns and wrinkles her brow. Pink’s upset. Did I do something wrong? Maybe I make her uncomfortable sitting next to her. Oh, damn, what if I smell horrible from biking?

We’re two people sitting on a bench saying nothing for several minutes.

“Did you get my note?” I ask, hoping to make her smile again.

“Your note?”

“Yeah, I left you a note on your windshield.”

She gapes at me. Her gaze sharpens. Those eyes. I want to lean in and inspect them closer.

“On your car,” I say.

“On my car?”

Her confusion makes my stomach sink. She has no idea about the note, and I am a complete fool.

“Forget it.”

She leans away and studies her bike. “Why do I replace the tube instead of the tire?”

Of course. This awkwardness has nothing to do with me. She’s still preoccupied with her bike issue. Thank goodness.

I lunge toward my bike. “I have a tube and a patch. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah?” she asks, her smile returning.

“But if your kickboxing boyfriend catches me helping you, what will happen?” I’m half-joking and half-serious. Is there a burly man coming to save her?

She bites her lower lip and inspects the ground. “He isn’t coming.”

Her voice is low and mumbly. I want to make sure I heard her, so I repeat her words. “Your boyfriend isn’t coming?”

“Umm.” Her eyes don’t leave the ground for an uncomfortable minute.

I’m confused. Is he coming or not? I picture a jealous rager eager to beat my ass.

“There’s no boyfriend,” she admits. “No one’s coming. I said that so you would go away.”

---