Page 85 of Dear Pink

I start to answer honestly, but wait, thinking better of it. Maybe Homer will enjoy traveling. Most turtles don’t relish getting jostled and carried around, but Hannah has a way of making the unusual normal and fun. “I bet Homer will love it,” I say.

Pink grins, a proud turtle momma, and gets in her car. “Meet you there.”

***

Hannah sits on the sofa beside me, our legs barely touching. “I have a nice cabernet. Want a glass?” I ask.

“No thanks.”

I’m relieved she says no. I have to stay sharp and on my toes. Her signals are hard to read, and I always miss them or misunderstand them. Tonight, I’ve made it my mission to decipher all her signs.

“Any movie preference?” I ask, silently dying at the small touch of her leg pressed against mine.

Her bare shoulders demand my attention. I imagine running my fingers over them, but stop myself, uncertain. Are we just friends? Does she want more? Wait. She did ask for a sleepover. Was she joking? Is kissing out of the question? Are we back in the platonic zone? My head throbs from my awful detective work.

“Maybe a cult classic?” she asks. “I could use a brush up on my pop culture references if we’re ever going to play trivia.”

Hannah winks at me, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I love when she teases me.

“We should start a power trivia team,” she says.

“What would we call ourselves? Let’s Get Trivial?”

“Good one. More like Lettuce Win.”

I laugh. “Are you saying you’d be a terrible trivia partner?”

“Let’s just say I have no idea why ‘Bueller . . . Bueller . . . Bueller’ is funny.”

I burst into hysterics. “No way. You’ve never seenFerris Bueller's Day Off?”

“It’s not that funny.” She slaps me playfully on the shoulder, falling into my side.

“Really, it is.” I move in for a hug but sit on my hands instead. I’ll let her make the first move this time. “What other movies are on your hit list?”

“Hmm,Terminator,Citizen Kane. . .” She stares at the ceiling in deep concentration. I long to trace my finger along her perfect jawline but resist the urge.

“What else?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah.Die Hard.”

I practically fall off the couch. “No way. ‘Yippie-Kay-Yay, Motherfucker!’”

She crinkles her brow.

“It doesn’t even ring a bell? Did you have a TV in your house growing up?”

“Ha, Ha.” She pinches my arm. “We had a TV, knuckle-head. We didn’t watch much, though. My mom and dad were English professors, and they read a lot. I guess I did too. And I preferred to draw rather than watch TV.”

Her face turns solemn when she mentions her parents, and I worry I made another mistake, but then she scoots closer to me and lays her smooth legs across my lap.

“You want to watchDie Hardwith me?” she asks and places her hand on my cheek.

“I want to do everything with you, Pink.” She blushes and snuggles into me.

I begin the movie and peer at her. She watches the opening scene intently as if taking mental notes. I imagine us together at a bar with peanuts scattered over the floor, playing trivia on Wednesday nights. I close my eyes and appreciate her lavender fragrance.

She nudges me. “Bruce Willis is young in this movie.”

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