Page 38 of Dear Pink

“I don’t know. My butt?”

“Sniffing butts is Buddy’s specialty. Right, boy?” He howls in agreement.

“Whatever. I’m desperate.”

I dump out my junk drawer where I always put my wallet, but it's gone. “Any luck?” I ask Jon as he goes through the seat cushions on my couch.

“Nope.”

This is a disaster. I might have to borrow Jon’s wallet at this point. I’m about to ask him when Buddy barks. We both look over. “Did he find it?”

Buddy’s nose is crammed into the corner where the arm of my chair hits the wall. He tries to yank something out. I lean over and grab the strap of my bike pouch. In my rush to get ready, I threw it on the chair when I got home from the clinic. It must have fallen off. I unzip the pouch and inside is my brown leather wallet.

I kiss Buddy’s nose. “You’re a lifesaver.” He licks my face in return. I heave my bike off the ground and follow Jon and Buddy out.

“Good luck,” Jon yells as I pedal away.

My confidence has returned. It’s only been fifteen minutes. I can make it to the restaurant in five if I take a shortcut. As I turn left at the alley, my bike slows to half the speed and rides lumpy. It won’t pedal forward, so I pull over. I gape, unwilling to believe my situation. A flat tire. Holy hell.

No problem. I can fix a flat in no time. I’m an expert now. I chuckle, picturing Hannah on the ground beside her pink bike, watching a YouTube video. She had no idea a bike tire had a tube. I laugh at the memory until I start to hyperventilate. Crap. I gave her my spare tube. I unzip my pouch, praying for another spare to magically materialize. Fuck. It’s over. I stare at my bike in astonishment. Why didn’t I drive my car? Because I’m a dumbass.

The only option left is to call Vine & Dine and pay the bill over the phone. Hannah will never speak to me again, but at least I won’t stick her with the bill. I dig into my pant pocket and my stomach drops to my feet. My phone isn’t there. It must have slipped out when I was under the sofa. The irony is not wasted on me. Now what?

I hoist the bike onto my shoulders. It’s now or never. If she’s gone by the time I get there, at least I tried to do the right thing. I pass Sidebar and consider throwing in the towel and drinking my sorrows away, but a kid yells out the window, “Loser.”

“I haven’t lost yet, kid,” I yell and keep moving.

The bike’s crankset tears my shirt and cuts into my skin. It hurts. The blood pools in seconds, plastering my shirt to me. I adjust the bike, but one of the pedals digs into my ribs. My sweaty hair sticks to my neck. I pass my reflection in a window and do a double-take. Blood soaks through my shirt and red blotches cover my face.

I place the bike down to rest for a second. Does the universe want me to forget this girl? A man pushing a shopping cart full of trash stops next to me. “You look like shit,” he says and hands me an unopened water bottle.

I thank him and chug the whole thing. I pick up my pace. It’s not over yet. I’m a block away now. I hop onto the sidewalk and run. I’m at the door in another minute. I lean my bike against the building and peer inside. My heart sinks.

Hannah sits next to a man at the bar, talking to him. I push my face to the glass. On closer examination, the man hovers near Hannah. He leans close in a way that wards off approaching men. He’s staked his claim. I’m too late. I raise my hand to motion Sasha outside so I can pay the bill and leave, but then I stop. It’s not strike three yet. I’m here. I made it. I may still have a chance. An unfamiliar sensation courses through my body. I’m ready to make my move. If she rejects me, at least I tried to date a woman with a heart.

I shove open the door, remove my helmet, and park my bike in the corner. Natasha hurries over, but I wave her aside. I stride to the bar and rest my hand on Hannah’s shoulder.

“Sorry, I took so long.”

Hannah’s mouth drops and her eyes widen. She inspects my disheveled appearance, and her face changes from shocked to amused. “Gabe, this is . . . sorry, I forgot your name.”

I sigh in relief. I mean, she rememberedmyname.

“Arthur.”

“Oh yeah. Gabe, this is Arthur. He wants to buy me a drink.”

No way. I unzip my bike pouch, which is embarrassingly clipped around my waist because I didn’t want to lose it again, and slam my credit card onto the bar. “I’ve got this, Arthur.”

“What else do you have in your fanny pack, Mr. Fancy?” Hannah asks, wearing a playful grin. Is she flirting with me? I second guess myself. Maybe she pities me?

I dump out an LED mini flashlight, a handful of dog treats, a tube of Neosporin, a package of bandages and lay them on the bar. By this point, Arthur has moved to an empty seat next to a redhead. Yeah, Arthur, better scamper away.

Hannah tugs at my shirt where the blood dried. “Lucky, you made it back. Rough ride?”

I place my hand on hers. “I’m so sorry, Hannah.”

She doesn’t move her hand, but she doesn’t say anything either. The silence tortures me. What is she thinking? Should I say something else? Should I tell her about Buddy and the flat tire? Should I tell her how much I enjoy her easy laugh, her openness? That she’s beautiful?

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