Page 54 of Dear Pink

“Gabe tells me you entered the Hotter'N Hell race. Why choose such a difficult competition?”

I’m thrown off by the question and answer truthfully. “My best friend Libby gave me a bucket list, and the race is one of her items.”

“Aren’t you supposed to write your own bucket list? Or is she doing the list with you?”

No one in my adult life knows about Libby, and it’s suddenly weird I haven’t mentioned her. Ever.

“No. She can’t.” I brace myself on the hard picnic bench. Franny’s eyes remain on my face. She waits while I take a huge breath. I’m going to tell her, and it feels like the right time for the truth.

“Libby was my best friend. No . . . more . . . a part of my family. A sister of sorts. She died of breast cancer.” My voice cracks. Franny grips my hand in a little squeeze, and her support gives me the strength to continue. “She sent me an email after she died. In it, she told me her last wish was for me to complete her bucket list.”

I exhale in relief. I didn’t realize how much room the secret took inside my head and in my heart. It’s liberating to share Libby with Franny. I want to say more, but it’s strange to bring my best friend's ghost into Franny’s home.

Franny’s lips curl up, and her eyes tell me she understands, and she welcomes Libby’s memory. “Hannah, what a special gift she’s given you. The friendship you had with Libby is rare. What else is on the list, dear?”

“They’re challenges I would never do on my own. Libby’s pushing me to participate in my life, to live it without her. Already, I cut my hair and adopted a pet, and I must perform at an open mic next.”

His mom tucks a strand of pink behind my ears and her smile reaches all the way to her eyes. “I’m sorry you lost a dear friend, but I bet Libby had a reason for leaving such a specific list for you. Those challenges sound like fun adventures, but I suspect they mean more.”

I haven’t considered the list that way. Until this moment, I only ticked the boxes. But what was Libby really trying to achieve? What message did she have for me?

Franny gives me a side hug. “I’m glad you joined us today. And thank you for sharing Libby’s story with me.”

“My whole life, she brought out the best in me. I’m not myself with her gone,” I stammer, realizing that until this moment, I viewed her directive as a burden more than a gift. “I guess this list is a reminder of who I used to be. Who I want to be. Does that sound silly?”

“No, honey. The list sounds fabulous.” She squeezes my hand. “Who did you use to be?”

“In high school, I considered myself an artist . . . a dreamer.”

“An artist?” She claps her hands in excitement. “Visual or performance art?”

“Visual, but I don’t call myself an artist anymore.”

“Why?”

I’m afraid to answer. How do I tell her I didn’t get into art school? She might consider me a loser because the admissions department didn’t accept me. I decide a half-truth is better. “I’m trying to avoid unrealistic dreams.”

“What’s wrong with dreams?”

Everything, I’m desperate to say. Dreams break your heart. Love breaks your heart. “I’m still an artist at heart,” I manage to admit.

“I could tell you’re an artist,” she says, and her words make me feel like one again. “What do your parents think of your bucket list?”

I pause. How many dead people can you bring to a family lunch? I glance behind me. No one else is around. I don’t want sympathy, but I don’t want to lie either. I respect Gabe’s mom. She listens and my answers matter.

A few seconds pass and I lean in close, indicating I don’t want anyone else to hear. “They passed a few years ago. A car accident.”

His mom does the unexpected. Instead of pity or pushing the subject, she hugs me tight and says, “They would be extremely proud of you, Hannah.”

Gabe walks toward the picnic table, taking in our embrace. “You okay, Pink?”

“She’s fabulous,” Franny answers for me. Her enthusiasm erases any sadness dominating the space. She rises to take the tray of layered dough Gabe’s holding.

“I apologize for the sister ambush,” Gabe says, sitting beside me. “I’m accustomed to them interfering in my business. I forget how intrusive their jabbering feels.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and I snuggle close.

“You’re forgiven.” He exhales, and I’m glad to drop the subject.

“What do you want on your pizza?” he asks.

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