Page 36 of Dear Pink

“Umm . . . yeah . . . I mean, I do now, since . . .”

Gabe’s face grows distant. He studies the table. Did I say something wrong? I grip his hand tighter. Wait. Is this what I want? He’s wrong for me, and we’re only friends. I’ll never see him after tonight. My heart lurches at the thought, yet when Sasha delivers the food, I snatch my hand and hide it under the table. She gives us a sad side-glance, and I can’t tell if she feels sorry for Gabe or me. It doesn’t matter.

We eat in silence, each shoveling forkfuls of salad into our mouths. Finishing at the same time, we chug our glasses of wine. The tension runs high, and I want to tell him I didn’t mean to snatch my hand away. Instead, I praise the meal. “You’re right. The fregola is better than couscous.”

“You can’t go wrong with anything on the menu here, but it’s my favorite dish.”

Sasha reappears with the check, and Gabe goes for his wallet. Just like I guessed, he can’t wait to get out of here and away from me. I should have asked for cake. Wait, did cake mean sex?

I watch his face go white, and he drops to the floor. He raises his head so fast he knocks the table. “Ouch,” he says, rubbing it. He runs over to his bike and scrambles to the floor. Sasha and I follow him with our eyes. Something definitely happened. He rushes back to the table. “I . . . can’t find my wallet.”

“Did you drop it outside during your phone call?” I ask.

“Good idea.” He runs out the front door and reenters in under a minute. “Nope.”

People stare, and I want to duck under the table and hide.

“I’ll be right back.” He runs to his bike and hurries it outside.

What the hell? Did he abandon me? Sasha makes a face like she wonders the same thing.

Natasha speeds over. “Don’t worry. He’ll return in a couple of minutes. Gabe doesn’t live far from here,” she says.

Of course, she would know where he lives.

“Can I get you something while you wait?” Sasha asks.

“Water, please. Thanks.” I want to cover my head on the table with my arms. How did I end up here? Oh, yeah, Jack-Pot-of-Shit broke my heart, and now I attract losers like a magnet. Except Gabe doesn’t strike me as a loser. God, why does he have to date multiple girls at the same time? I should pay the bill and go. There’s no reason to stay. He left.

He’ll be back.

And then what, Libby? We live happily ever after, me and his harem of women?

Sasha returns with a glass of water and a strawberry tart. “On the house.”

Can I eat a dessert slathered with pity? I pick at the sweet with my fork, taking my time. Too bad I can’t set foot in this place again. The food’s delicious.

Sasha collects my empty plate and pours me water. The other tables fill with smiling couples ordering fancy cocktails. I stand out conspicuously alone at a table for two, missing my second half. I catch Sasha whispering to Natasha by the kitchen. I doubt Gabe will return.

I dig out my phone to pay the bill with my wallet app so I can leave with a trace amount of dignity intact, but when I hit the power button, it turns black. Dead. I scream inside my head. Of all the moments in my lifetime, my phone battery dies now. I blame Libby for this mess, but I listened to five hours ofConan O’Brienon audible this morning, so I’m at fault. Plus, I can’t blame Libby for every lousy decision. What will I do now?

Wait for Gabe.

Get a clue, Libby. He’s not coming back. We have a “dine and dash” situation here, and I have no way to pay. I doubt they’ll let me do sketches of customers for money.

I scan the restaurant. Our table is at the rear, so I’ll have tons of ground to cover if I run for it. At least the Bond girls will struggle to catch me in their spiky heels. What else can I do? They won’t let me wash dishes to pay the bill. Or will they?

Sasha returns. “Hannah, may I move you to the bar? I need to seat customers at your table?”

I want to die.

“Sure.” I push out my chair and walk to the bar with as much decorum as I can muster. Sasha brings the check and puts it next to a coaster with a fresh glass of water. I examine the guy sitting beside me. In his early thirties and missing a ring, he’s attractive in an “I wear button-downs and work in a tech start-up” kind of way.

“Hey there,” he says, scanning my body with greedy eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I pause. I’m tempted to say yes because I have no money, but that seems rude. Instead, I smile and say, “No thank you. I’m . . . uhh . . . waiting.”

“Someone joining you? A boyfriend?”

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