Shades of Pink

by 33 authors

  “Thanks for the ice cream,” I say and stand up. I like this being it; there is no depressing ending this way. It’s just one moment in a collection of fleeting moments. “And the kiss.”

  I run up the beach, not getting far because my flip-flops keep catching in the sand; I take them off and stumble back to my parents, hiding my tears before I make it to the picnic benches by the ice cream stand. I don’t even notice until my mom asks that I left my ribbon on the sand.

  * * *

  PART III:

  Cam, Summer 2013

  “Well, tell him that he either takes the deal or the company goes under,” I shout into the phone and then slam down the receiver. I don’t know why today is getting to me, but it’s barely 10 a.m. and I’ve already yelled at five people. My secretary pokes her head into my office and I just shake my head. There is nothing to say.

  The familiar bing from the computer informs me that I have mail. I look; I’m not surprised that it took no time to get the deal agreement. They probably already had it signed before they called me. So why bother with the theatrics? I realize I’m tired. I drink my coffee, but it’s gone cold and my exhaustion is more than physical. The heat wave is making the air conditioning work overtime and I don’t dare to go outside, but the building feels stifling as well.

  “Sir?” My secretary again. She’s a temp and I forget her name. The agency keeps sending me these college girls with no experience and no capacity for the job.

  “What is it, Sally?” I think that’s right. Sally or Suzy. Something like that.

  “Sandra,” she corrects. Sandra. Damn it. Well, at least I got the S.

  “Mr. Venser came to see me at the end of the day yesterday, when you were at your meeting…”

  “I remember the meeting. What did he want?” Venser is a decent old guy, but he runs this place like a family operation; it has worked for him for years, but I wonder if he would be better off being more cutthroat.

  “He wanted me to ask you to see him. Immediately. You were on your cell phone, though, when you came in and I—”

  “It’s fine, Samantha. I’ll go see him now.”

  “Sandra,” she corrects again. The thing is—I don’t really care what her name is. The agency will replace her within the month.

  Venser’s office is three floors up and I choose to take the stairs rather than the elevator. I need the exercise. My mood has been growing worse over the last week; it’s not going to take much to send me over the edge.

  I knock on the frame of the door and look inside the office. He’s sitting at his desk, reading over a file, but motions for me to come in. I sit in one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. Even his office looks as much like Grandpa’s study as it does of a wildly successful executive. While he reads, I notice that my tie has a coffee stain on the bottom. This is shaping up to be one shitty week.

  “Cam,” Venser starts. “How many years have you worked for me?”

  “Ten,” I answer, although I don’t like where this is going. There is no way he can fire me. I’m more successful than anyone else he has working for him, and I know the company is doing fine financially.

  “And in those ten years, you have taken how many sick days?”

  “Three. When I had my appendix out four years ago.”

  “Three. And how many vacations?”

  “There was my sister’s wedding my second year here,” I reply.

  “You were gone for three days for that as well,” he remarks.

  “It was local.”

  “So in ten years, that makes a total of six days you've missed.”

  “Sir, if you’re concerned about my performance,” I start.

  “Cam, I’m concerned about you. Do you even have friends?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but he’s right. I don’t have friends. I live alone, and other than work, I avoid socializing for the most part. That doesn’t mean I don’t go out; I just don’t make long-term connections.

  “What about a girlfriend?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, there is no shortage of girls—”

  He cuts me off. “Cam, I am well aware of the extensive network of bars and nightclubs that Chicago possesses, as well as the sort of women who patronize them. But what about a girlfriend? A loved one? Someone to talk to, to spend your weekends with? What do you even do on the weekends?”

  “I—” I stop short, because my answer is that I take work home to get a head start on the week. I got this job shortly after college ended and I’ve never been one for relationships or friends. When my parents got divorced at the end of high school, I lost interest in the fantasy of marriage. Megan, my girlfriend during senior year, cheated on me at Prom. In college, I kept to myself, maintaining top grades and seeking out companionship when needed from the kinds of girls who were more than willing to think of nothing but the physical urges.

  “I’m suspending you. For two months.” For a second, I forget that I'm sitting in Venser’s office. I shake my head to decide if I heard him correctly.

  “What?”

  “You’re being suspended. With pay. For two months. You’re my best employee, but you’ll be dead by forty. Take a fucking vacation, Cam.”

  The curse from this pleasant old man is amusing, but I don’t smile. Two months?! What am I going to do with myself for two months?

  “But— Where?” I ask. I don’t know why I think my boss knows where I should take a vacation, but I don’t know who else to ask.

  “Go to the beach. Hiking. Visit Disneyland. I don’t know, Cam, but you need a vacation.”

  With that, he moves to dismiss me from his office and I return to mine in a daze. Am I supposed to finish out the day? I look at my briefcase, but there is nothing for me to take. I only have work things. So, with nothing but my wallet, keys, and cell phone, I leave the office and walk out into the sweltering heat. I notice that my mother called, so I decide to call her back. Maybe she knows where I should go for vacation.

  She wants to ask me what she should do about Becca, who has been sleeping on my mother’s couch for two weeks after a huge fight with her husband. I am the last person to fix anyone’s relationship troubles.

  “Mom, I don’t know. Make her go fight it out, I guess. She depends on you too much.”

  I can tell she doesn’t agree, but she just makes a noise of recognition.

  “Listen, can I ask you something, Mom? I’m going to take a vacation. Where do you think I should go?”

  “You’re taking a vacation?” She’s as surprised as I am.

  “I’ve been a little stressed and it will probably be good to relax.” Even the words feel unnatural.

  “How about the beach? You always loved that beach in Maine we went to when you were kids. The last summer you were, what, fifteen?”

  We say a little more and I thank her before hanging up, but it’s that sentence that I can’t shake. The beach. I find a bench and rest for a minute. The heat really is unbearable. Opening my wallet, I reach into the hidden pocket and take out my one secret. Twenty years, yet something has prevented me from throwing it away. The color is fading, no longer hot pink but now more of a soft muted rose. The edges have begun to fray and the smell of apples disappeared long ago, although I can still smell it in my memory.

  Twenty years. My sexual escapades have been on par with most men’s fantasies—meaningless hookups with slutty girls at bars, threesomes, blowjobs in club bathrooms, and raunchy pictures sent to me at work. Yet I haven’t had a girlfriend since Megan. I lost my virginity to her, but she is nothing more than a bad memory. After twenty years, the one thing I can’t forget is the nerdy, flirty girl on the beach and the pink ribbon that fell from her hair as I kissed her. Even running the silky fabric through my fingers now transports me—the salty air, the taste of Maple Walnut ice cream, and the sounds of the roller coaster overhead.

  Standing up, I put the ribbon carefully back in my wallet. If Venser wants me to go on vacation, I will go. Back to the beach. A
s if there is anything there to find after twenty years.

  * * *

  PART IV:

  Jessica, Summer 2013

  It’s amazing how much junk you accumulate over ten years. Now, with the last box packed, I look at the empty living room. Paul’s not a bad guy; I’m lucky he’s helping me move the things to my new apartment. The divorce doesn’t become official for another couple of weeks, although we’ve been over for years. He comes in behind me and takes the box from my hands.

  “That’s everything?” He asks.

  “It is.” I want to be sad about it all, but I’m not. We aren’t still friends exactly, but there is no animosity. It's not that either of us did anything wrong—it just stopped working. People always talk about the heartbreak of divorce and I’m sure that’s true for many of them, but for Paul and me? It’s like when the time comes that your car needs more in repairs than it would cost just to buy a new one. He was my first serious boyfriend, which happened quickly after we met in college. We were young when we married… and now we’re older. Life goes in a lot of directions and ours went in divergent ones.

  “Well then. Do you want a ride?”

  “No, I’ll just follow you,” I say.

  We bring the boxes to my new apartment and then Paul stands in the doorway. Neither of us is sure what to say.

  “If you need anything,” he begins.

  “I know. You, too.”

  “Are you going to the cottage?”

  “Yeah. I think I’m going to take a few weeks there. Mostly because I can’t stand the pity.”

  He laughs. “Gotcha.”

  “Do you want me to call you when I get back?”

  “If you want. I was thinking of going up next month, so…”

  “Right.”

  We stand there awkwardly for a few more moments before Paul says goodbye and leaves. The door closes behind him. None of the furniture has been delivered yet, so I take the small suitcase I packed a couple of weeks ago and head to the car. The traffic going to the beach will be awful today. Rush hour will fall during my trip, but I would rather sit in my car in traffic than stare at the empty walls of the apartment.

  In the car, I think about the cottage. It was our last hope for the marriage. My parents suggested the beach, because when we went there when I was a kid, it had been a good escape for them from the daily grind. However, for Paul and me, it only reiterated what we already knew; we had nothing in common anymore. He wanted to spend his days golfing and I was up for walking on the beach. We compromised for a while, but eventually, we only kept the cottage because we had spent too much money to sell it after the market crashed.

  It takes me five hours to make it to the beach and it’s twilight when I pull into the small driveway. The caretaker has been here; the curtains are pulled back and there are fresh flowers on the counter. Even when Paul and I knew what was happening to our marriage, we would each come here for a break. I don’t think he ever brought women with him and I definitely never brought a man, although neither of us would have been upset. I think Paul feels the same way that I do; I’m not opposed to meeting someone, but I’m not looking either.

  I drop my suitcase on the familiar bed and think about taking a nap. If I do though, my sleep schedule will be messed up from the start. Instead, I grab a shawl—the summer is still new and the evenings are not sweltering yet—and walk down to the boardwalk. It’s changed so much since I was a kid. The amusement park is now a hotel; Six Flags is less than an hour away and families don’t want rickety roller coasters and big plastic ladybug rides. More stores have popped up each year, although, by September, eighty percent of them don’t make it. This year, the trend seems to be tea shops. Last year, it was scrapbooking. The only constant here is Lehrmann’s, the “world famous,” albeit mediocre, ice cream stand.

  As always, the lines extend down to the sand. I like that something has stayed the same; it’s a connection to my youth, a nostalgic reminder of what was. I get in line and blush when I think of one night here, twenty years earlier. He was tall and shy; his hair was probably stylish for the early 1990’s—a spiky and overly moussed look. For some reason, even now as an adult, I can still remember the feeling of his hands on my neck when he tentatively slipped his tongue into my mouth. All of the kisses I’ve collected over the past twenty years have just never lived up to that one. He wasn’t even that good of a kisser, but something about that night…

  I shake my head. The line has been moving and suddenly I’m standing at the window. The kid working looks bored and I smile, remembering that night again.

  “Can I get a double scoop of Maple Walnut on a sugar cone?” I ask.

  The echo is a figment of my imagination, a memory taking form as something tangible. I tell myself there is no way, but when I look to my left, the man standing next to me smiles.

  “You too?” He asks. “You know, Maple Walnut is the ice cream of—”

  “Old people,” I say. It’s his eyes that get me. In twenty years, he’s changed a lot. The shyness, the awkwardness have become harder; he has the posture and physicality of a man who knows what he wants and gets it. I get the impression that he gets a lot of it, too. I look down at my light pink sundress and sandals. Girls like me don’t exist in the periphery of men like this. Still, when I look up again and meet his eyes, he’s curious and I know he remembers.

  “It’s impossible,” he says.

  “Cam?”

  “Jessica.”

  Neither of us moves, and when the kid reaches out to hand us our cones, Cam looks at him like he’s not real. The kid gets annoyed and pushes it closer to Cam’s face. I take both cones and Cam, shaking himself from the confusion, pays for them.

  I hand him his cone and we walk through the crowd toward the beach, not talking. He devours his ice cream, but as always, I can’t finish mine before it starts to melt all over me. We make it to the waterline before he turns around; when he does, I am covered in Maple Walnut.

  “Why are you still getting doubles?” He laughs and grabs the top scoop from the cone, tossing it into the ocean.

  I shrug and eat my ice cream. He sits on the sand and I take his lead, trying not to look a mess. He has not let one drop of ice cream land on his clothes. Although he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I feel like he’s uncomfortable without a suit and tie. When I’m done eating, and covered in ice cream, I crawl to the water and rinse my arms in the sea. I figured this trick out a few years after I met Cam; it seems more sensible.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined you,” he says.

  “You’re sweet, but look at you. I’m sure you get your fair share of beautiful women.”

  “I never—” He stops and looks at me, a smile creeping across his face. “I am in love with my boss.”

  My heart shatters but I smile. “Congratulations.”

  He moves toward me and pulls my face to his. “He’s a seventy year old man who makes Santa Claus look like the poster child for a diet program.”

  That’s the line. That’s what Cam says to me before he brings his mouth down on mine. Twenty years both fade away and come crashing against us in a rush. When he kissed me before, he was unsure, uncomfortable. Now, he is a man who knows how to satisfy a woman; still, he is not doing anything but kissing me. His hands don’t leave my neck and head; his tongue, although insistent, does not demand more. The roller coaster is gone, but I swear I can hear it across time; at sixteen, I didn’t know what this was, but now I do. Moments like these don’t happen twice for nothing.

  “Cam,” I whisper.

  “Don’t run away from me this time,” he says. He leans back, although his eyes don’t leave me. “I have something.” I can’t imagine what it is, but when he goes for his wallet, I think he’s reaching for a condom. I don’t want to have sex with him here on the beach, with families and children running around. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe too much time has passed. However, all of my rational doubts dissipate when, instead of a condom, he t
akes out a long piece of pink silk.

  “I thought—”

  “It fell out onto the sand, but you ran away. I’ve never been without it. I don’t know why. It just seemed…”

  I kiss him again, although this time it’s not a kiss of memory, but one of the present. His hands move down to my back but stall there. I reach under his shirt and let my hands touch his chest, his flesh, the realness of him—this is the man of my memories, of my lonely dreams. I may not have wanted him to take this somewhere farther here on the beach, but I’m not sixteen anymore.

  We break apart from the kiss. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask.

  “I’d like that,” he says and takes my hand. We head in the direction of my cottage—and into the hope of the future.

  ~~~

  Sarah Daltry writes romance and erotica that ranges from sweet to steamy. She has completed several collections of short stories, as well as two novellas and two novels. She can be found online at http://sarahdaltry.com.

  THE PINK HIPPO

  C. Deanne Rowe

  Fate used Seva Franklin's past to change her future the day Michael Peterson walked into her store and also her life.

  ~~~

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Welcome to the Pink Hippo. May I help you find something?” Seva Franklin peeked up from her bookkeeping ledgers to welcome her customers.