Page 78 of Dear Pink

Heat floods my body, and I whip off my hoodie. I worked myself into a frenzy in the middle of Target. I glance inside my cart, shocked. Apparently, my hands have a mind of their own. There are nail files, nail clippers, ten different nail polish bottles, cuticle creams, and buffers I won’t use. Pick up, throw in, forget Gabe, and repeat. But nothing fixes the terrible situation I created. This shopping expedition is a complete failure.

“Hannah dear, are you opening a nail salon?” A female voice behind me asks.

I freeze with an ultraviolet nail dryer in my hand. Yikes. I’ve been caught overloading my cart with inane nail items. And holy sweet tacos, I recognize her kind voice. Nooooo. It can’t be. Not when my world has fallen apart. The universe can’t be this heartless.

Maybe I can ignore her. If I spin around and speak French or German, will she believe I’m someone else? Problem is, I don’t speak another language fluently enough. And what ifshespeaks a second language and answers me? Nope. Terrible option. I could pretend I didn’t hear her and run—seems extra rude though. What if I throw nail polish bottles on the floor? Would she freak out and run from me? While it would create the best distraction, I’m sure to attract Target security. I’m in no frame of mind for a police interrogation. I have no sane options.

The awkward silence moves into the psychotic territory. Standing here like a concrete statue won’t work either. I’m finally ready to face the music when a Russo sister yells down the aisle.

“Found Mom! She’s in aisle five.” Giovanna stops short when she sees me. “Hey, Hannah.”

I cringe. Does this mean the whole Russo clan is in Target today . . . of all days? Corn Nuts. Is Gabe here too? Maybe the earth will open and let me fall through.

I twist around like an unhinged lunatic, searching for Gabe.

“Oh, having a nail party? Sounds fun,” Giovanna says.

“Huh?”

I catch her rummaging through my cart. “You have a small dog? Gabe never mentioned.” She holds the pet carrier. “What kind?”

“Umm.”

“Hannah, dear? Are you okay?” Franny gives me a puzzled stare.

No, I'm dying in front of you. I drop the stupid nail dryer in the cart and face Gabe’s mom. “Hi, Mrs. Russo.”

“Franny. Call me Franny.”

I nod.

“I could use a manicure and pedicure. My feet resemble hooves,” Gemma says, coming around the corner and digging in my cart. “Mani-pedi party at Hannah’s tonight,” she announces exuberantly, inviting all of Target to my house.

“What?” My vision blurs, and my legs turn to jelly. Maybe if I pass out, I’ll awake in a different store. A different life.

Gemma ignores my question and holds my dark nail polish collection in her hands. She frowns. “These colors are too dark and the wrong palette for summer. Let’s grab a few lighter shades to go with my new sandals. I have new cream open-toe heels. Ooh, maybe a baby pink?”

I cringe at the word pink. I’ve never felt less pink.

“I found a couple of sports bras,” Ghita says, joining them in the aisle. “Didn’t you say your favorite fell apart, Mom?” She stops short. “Hey. Hannah.”

I grimace, growing claustrophobic in the narrow Target aisle. Russos swarm me, invading any empty space. I haven’t spotted Gabe yet. I exhale in relief.

“We’re painting nails at Hannah’s house,” Gemma announces.

I open my mouth to argue, but Gina pops around the corner. She beelines her way to me. “Hannah? Oh, my god. I can't believe you’re here.” She gives me an enormous hug and eyeballs my cart. “Are you having a mani-pedi party?”

“Yep,” Gemma answers for me.

They speak at once, suggesting facials and brow waxings. I can’t keep track. I’m freaking out. Can’t they tell I’m on a depression-induced shopping spree? Don’t they see me falling apart in front of them? I almost shout, “Read the Target aisle, ladies.” Maybe Gabe didn’t tell them I blew him off. So what? It’s only a matter of time before they find out. How do I get out of this hellish situation?

“Gemma, you can’t invite yourself to someone else’s house,” Franny says, and I nearly jump into her arms. Thank the heavens for Moms, even if it’s Gabe’s. “Didn’t I teach you better manners than that?” Franny points at her daughter, frowning.

I might get out of this disaster after all.

“You’re right, Mom.” Gemma’s face falls and guilt washes over me. Must I open my house for a mani-pedi to every girl shopping at Target? “I have an idea,” she says, her eyes brightening. “Come to our house, Hannah. We’ll do nails and facials while we cook dinner. You eat pasta?”

The sisters stop and stare at me, waiting for an answer. I watch Franny tilt her head to the side, examining my face. Geez. Did I even comb my hair today?

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