Page 94 of Dear Pink

“Good for you, honey.”

“It still doesn’t explain why you threw away your art.” Maude's a British detective on the case.

I scratch my head. Maude’s right. It doesn’t explain why I let my passion go.

“I lost my mojo. Then too much time passed to get it back.”

Maude frowns. “It’s never too late.”

“Maybe I was scared of failure.”

“Quitting is the ultimate failure,” Maude says.

“What you should be scared of are boils on your butt.” June shakes her head as if she’s an expert on butt boils. “Not sharing your art.”

“Uh, boils? On my butt?”

“You bought the Butt’r?” June takes out her phone. “You have to put on the Butt’r before the race, otherwise you’ll get boils.”

“I have to put butter on my butt? Why has no one mentioned this until now?”

“Not butter, Butt’r.”

“You keep saying the same word twice.”

June turns her phone in my direction and shows me a picture of a purple and yellow tube called “Chamois Butt’r.” I'm relieved it’s not literally butter, but frightened it’s something so necessary it’s available on Amazon Prime for same-day delivery.

“Gooch Guard and Chub Rub are also fantastic choices,” Maude says.

“They should list this in the race pamphlet. It’s false advertising.”

“No one would even consider the race if they knew all the things that can go wrong,” June says.

I’m seriously reconsidering myself. “There are worse side effects than butt boils?”

“Let’s just say you better take an Imodium in the morning,” June says.

“Or, two,” Maude adds, winking.

“Geez. Are you telling me I’m going to poop my pants during this ride?” Maybe I should fall off my bike at the start and pretend an injury.

“We’re joking, dear.” June hugs my shoulder. “Sorta.”

I’m petrified. Did Libby know about the boils and diarrhea when she added this race to the list?

“On that note, let’s ride.” Maude walks her bike onto the trail and June follows her.

I’m waiting for a break in traffic before crossing when I spot a flash of yellow and black ascending the hill. My heart plummets. I recognize the jersey. Oh, and that fine ass. It’s Gabe. He’s a beef-cake bumblebee. I straighten my helmet. Wait. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me? Of course, he doesn’t want to see me. I left him the awful dismissal note. Who would want to acknowledge the woman who blew you off?

I search for a place to hide and step out onto the trail with my bike. My eyes are trained on Mr. Fancy, and I don’t catch the blue spot whiz by me.

“Get off the trail, you idiot,” the biker yells.

I jump, and he nearly crashes. He cusses, and I cuss back. Maude and June stare at me like I’m a crazy person. There’s no place to hide, so I run my bike over to a tree as Gabe rides past.

I peek around the trunk. Did he see me? He must have. My ass is covered in pink polka-dots.

Maude and June cross the tail to my tree. “What are you doing? Was that Mr. Fancy?”

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