I was not skinny-minnie.
I was absolutely not skanky and could never be, no matter if it was cool and could get you Raiden Miller. I just knew I was the kind of girl who had no latent skank huddling deep inside, waiting for the makeup, hairspray and tight clothes that would let her out.
I was also not petite.
“Chère,” my great-grandmother always stated (more than once), “thank the good Lord above He gave you those legs. Women the world over would die for your legs. They go on forever, precious girl, and trust your old biddy of a grandmother, she knows, one day, you’ll be glad for those legs.”
That day, as much as I loved Grams and knew she was (almost) always right, was not today.
Slowly I pushed out of my couch and moved through the house to the bathroom. I switched on the light, stood in front of the basin, leaned in and looked in the mirror.
I’d had three boyfriends, and all of them, obviously, started with dates.
They also always went long-term.
Not one boy who asked me out didn’t ask me again and again.
But they always broke up with me.
And staring into the mirror in the bathroom, just like I suddenly figured out why Raiden Ulysses Miller making out with a skanky (but cool) blonde hurt so much, I figured out why my boyfriends broke up with me.
Because I sat in cafés hoping for a glimpse of handsome guys and didn’t do anything about it.
Because I didn’t poof out my hair big.
Because when I was in high school I stayed home and studied. I didn’t go out to parties. And when I wasn’t studying, I was at the movies or reading. When I got older I didn’t go to bars and do tequila shots and flirt over games of pool. I hung out with my ninety-seven year old great-grandmother, my friend KC, or again, went to the movies or read. I didn’t take fabulous vacations where I could have ill-advised but delicious holiday flings that gave me good memories and better stories to tell. I went to my parents’ house in Tucson, visited my brother in California or rented a cabin two hours away in the Colorado Mountains and, yes, you guessed it, I sat around and read.
I was living a narrow life and that narrow life made me uninteresting.
Boring.
Nothing.
I was twenty-eight years old and my great-grandmother, who had lived nearly a century, had a more active, fun-filled life than I did.
This was insane.
It was even more insane than falling in love from afar with a nine year old boy and hoping like heck I got picked for his tug of war team at my Grams’s annual picnic. Which I did, sickeningly gratifyingly, three years in a row, even though he never noticed me and thus didn’t care. It was more insane than harboring that crush all through high school and even when he was away for years.
It was certifiable.
“And now it’s done,” I told my reflection.
Then I did what I never did.
I made a decision and acted on it.
I went to my kitchen, got a pad of paper and made a to-do list.
Once done, I immediately started on my list.
First up, I called Betsy at the salon and told her I needed a new style and she was in charge.
“Ohmigod, Hanna! I’m moving people around right now! You have to come in tomorrow! I… can’t… wait!” she exclaimed.
I went in the next day and got a trim, flippy layers and highlights.
Then I drove straight to Bob’s car dealership and bought myself a pearl white Nissan Z.
It was awesome.
The next day I drove my new Z into town, walked into the travel agent and booked a vacation on a cruise ship.
After that I walked down the block. Something caught my eye at the bike shop, and, even though it wasn’t on my list I turned and went right in.
I did not go back to Rachelle’s except for the occasional coffee, but those were only flybys.
I did not see Raiden Ulysses Miller.
Not for five months.
What I didn’t know was…
He saw me.
Chapter Two
Cat Food
Five months later…
“Voila!” Bodhi shouted.
He shifted back. I saw the results of his ministrations, threw my head back and laughed before I looked back down at my girl. My pink and white daisy Schwinn now had opalescent white and pink streamers mixed with twirly silver ones streaming from the handlebars.
I looked at Bodhi, who had straightened away from my bike. I jumped up and down twice while clapping, and cried, “It’s perfect!”
And it was. It was over the top, cutesie, girlie, perfect.
I loved it.
I loved it so much I rounded my girl, threw myself in Bodhi’s arms and hugged him, exclaiming loudly, “I love it!”
Bodhi hugged me back, giving me a side to side shake.
Since the day I bought my Schwinn five months ago, Bodhi and I had become friends.
Good friends.