A Really Bad Idea Page 5

  He crosses his arms and asks, “Is there someone you’d like to bring?”

  “No,” I quip.

  “Then, neither do I.”

  I raise my arms up high and slap them down on the table. “What does me not bringing anyone have anything to do with you bringing someone or not? I’m not a child who needs my hand held. If you want to bring a date, bring a date. Maybe I will bring someone.”

  “You will?” they ask practically at the same time.

  I blanch. “Well, probably not, but you never know. Stop worrying about me being the single one.”

  His lips press together in a slight grimace as he looks down at the floor with a small nod. “I could ask this girl Natasha.”

  “Ooh, Natasha sounds sexy. Where did you meet her?” Angela claps her hands.

  “She’s a nurse in the cardiac care unit at the hospital.”

  “You totally had sex in the supply closet!” I accuse with a laugh and a tone of absolute shock.

  He turns seven shades of red. “I’m not having this discussion with you. All I will say is, it wasn’t a closet. I’m more of a gentleman than that.”

  Angela is wildly amused but quickly gets a serious face on. “If you bring her to the party, that’s fine. Just make sure she’s not wearing anything too suggestive. I refuse to be upstaged by Sexy Nurse Natasha.”

  His smile widens as he looks at Angela. “No one can upstage you.”

  With a playful shake, she responds, “Damn right!” She walks to the door, opens it, then looks back at us with a heavy sigh, and states with exaggeration, “Now, please, will you people get back to work? We have a business to run here!”

  She walks out the door, and it swings behind her. Christian follows her out.

  I place my mug in the sink and clean it before putting it away. When I’m done, I walk out and down the hallway toward the exam rooms.

  “Meadow,” Christian calls after me.

  I stop and swing around. He’s standing outside an exam room, looking like he’s about to go inside.

  I walk over to him, and as I approach, he looks down at me with those kind eyes and asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “That comment you made before about your eggs shriveling up and dying.”

  I place a hand on my forehead as I feel ten kinds of embarrassed. “Oh, yeah. I was just joking.”

  “You brought it up the other day, too.”

  I shake my head and lower my hand to rest it on my hip. “I think it’s my birthday coming up. You know, getting older sucks.”

  A loose strand of hair falls out of my low ponytail and into my eye. He wraps a finger around it and pushes it behind my ear.

  “You’ll tell me if something is worrying you, right?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “No,” he answers quickly, and I curve my brows in question. “You internalize until it eats you up and you’ve made some crazy, rash decision.”

  I adore him, except for his ability to know everything about me. Well, almost everything.

  “Name one time,” I challenge him.

  “You got married without even telling me you were engaged.”

  “That’s pretty much the point of eloping.”

  He looks at me from under those thick lashes and tilts his head. I know what he’s thinking. That was a tense time in our friendship. He was across the country—had been for years already—when, suddenly, I called to say I was a married woman. The distance had already put a strain on our friendship. Brock’s inability to understand how close Christian and I were only made it worse.

  Christian gives a self-deprecating smile and then pauses meaningfully. “What’s on your mind?”

  If you only knew …

  “I’m fine. Stop fussing over me. I’m excited to meet Natasha. I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

  “I’m not. We’re just—”

  “Fooling around in supply closets. I get it,” I say with a cheeky grin.

  He lowers his forehead a touch and speaks as if he’s about to tell me a secret, “I wouldn’t have to sneak away in closets if you gave in to my wit and charm.”

  The way he says the words makes my stomach flutter and my body tingle in response. Any other girl would think he was serious. I, on the other hand, know better. He says things like that for my ego, which he thinks is shattered even though my self-confidence is pretty well intact.

  “I wasn’t aware it was being offered,” I answer jokingly.

  “Then, I’m not doing a good enough job.”

  “Go to work, Dr. Gallagher,” I scold and turn him around toward his office where I’m sure he’s way behind schedule.

  I walk down the hall toward exam room four and grab the file that’s sitting in the holder on the door. I sneak a glance back to see Christian watching me as I walk away, pretending I’m not walking to the beat of my own biological clock.

  No matter what I do, the egg-freezing brochure seems to be stalking me.

  I thought I’d trashed it before I left Brian and Beth’s house, but there it was, in my bag, as I took the train back to the city. Every time I go to get money or a MetroCard or my damn ChapStick, there it is. Like right now, I’m getting my keys out of my bag, and the first thing I see is the blue-and-white trifold peering up at me.

  I close the door behind me with a thud and toss my bag on the sofa table where it falls over. Of course, the only thing to spill out of my bag is the damn brochure with the perky blonde on the front with her cheerful smile, looking at me saying, Read me! I take the brochure and toss it on the kitchen counter while I sort through my mail and throw out the junk. Then, I go to bed.

  Of course, when I exit my bedroom in the morning, Fertile Myrtle is still on my counter with that egg timer in her open palm.

  I head out to my spin class and stop at the store for groceries. Then, I give Salvatore his candy. When I get back, I sit on the stool of my kitchen counter, open my dinner, and take a sip of wine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bright blue color of the brochure with the words Stop Your Clock. I slide the brochure off the counter.

  After dinner, I head to my room to take a shower when my foot glides over something. My toes fly up in the air, and my butt bangs on the hardwood floor. After rubbing my backside a few times to relieve the sting of landing on my tailbone, I see the brochure in the corner. I slipped on the damn thing. I grab it, march it down to the bathroom, and toss it in the trash.

  This is all why I shouldn’t be surprised that, while I’m now showered, standing in the bathroom, and brushing my teeth before bed, laying at the top of the wicker wastebasket is the back of the brochure. A baby, swaddled in a soft pink blanket, is looking up at me as I rotate my brush over my gums.

  With my head tilted to the side, I gaze at the sweet face nestled safely in her cocoon and the gleam of joy on the mother’s face as she peers at her little miracle.

  After spitting the mouthful of toothpaste in the sink, I rinse my teeth and turn off the water. Bending down, I lift the brochure and run a finger over the face of the child. I can’t explain why, but lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about having children.

  When I was younger, I knew I wanted a family. I assumed it would happen at the appropriate time, like it seems to happen for everyone else. My personal timeline was on track, too. I went to college to be a nurse practitioner and spent years establishing my career and becoming damn good at providing care to patients at Park Avenue Cardiology. I was married by twenty-five, and I really thought Brock and I were forever. Sure, he traveled a lot, and the time we were together was spent in almost a fantasy, but that was all chalked up in my head as the babymoon years—the time we were getting our travel and crazy nights out of our system before we settled down to have a family. I know that’s how Brock felt, too, because we talked about it. A lot.

  I walk the brochure into my bedroom and sit on my bed. Inside my end table are photo books. No one knows I’ve kept them. In fact, Beth and Christi
an would berate me for even taking them out and placing them on the bed as I am right now.

  These are the four sets of memories I’ve allowed myself to keep after Brock moved out. I know he’s a liar and a cad, but there’s a part of me that needed to know, still needs to know, that it was real.

  I open the first book, a photo book I made online for Brock for our first dating anniversary. It’s a compilation of photos from our first year together. The picture in the front is a selfie we took the night we met. My hair is short, cut to my chin, and my smile is crazy big as my cheek is smushed against his brawny jaw, thick with a beard he grew during the season yet kept well manicured.

  It was April, just after his regular season had ended. He and a few buddies were out on the town, enjoying their off-season, when he approached me and asked what I wanted to drink.

  “I don’t accept drinks from strangers,” I replied.

  “Good thing I’m not a stranger.” He bent his corded arm on the bar, and leaned into me.

  “Oh, really? Then, who are you?”

  “Your future husband.”

  I was a goner for Brock Lannister after that.

  I flip through the next pages and the memories of that exciting time. Me at his hockey games, dressed in his jersey, and others of us at parties and with friends. There’re even a few of us bumming around, watching Breaking Bad on the couch or splashing around during summer fun.

  In the next photo book is my favorite picture of us. Beth took it at one of his games. Brock had skated up to the plastic wall atop the board that surrounds the corners of the ice. He placed a hand on the Plexiglas. I did the same on my side. It’s not just me looking at him with absolute love and endearment, like he’s the most magnificent being on the planet. He’s looking at me the same way, too.

  I brush a tear that has fallen down my cheek and turn the page to see more awesome memories we shared. When I reach the last page, I turn to the third photo book. It’s not our wedding album—that I tossed in a tearful rage—but this one has photos from our first year of marriage. I vividly remember the time because it’s when we began talking about our future—namely, when we wanted to start a family. We agreed we wanted two kids but would wait a few years and enjoy this time of just being us.

  We were a good us. Like this photo of him getting my name tattooed on him. My name is written in Gothic bold letters on his chest, across his heart. Yes, while he lies in bed with other women, he has my name emblazoned on his skin.

  I let out a large breath of air and close the book. I don’t even open the fourth. Running the pads of my fingers over my eyes, I stretch out the skin of my lids. Then, my hands glide to the sides of my face and down my neck.

  For the life of me, I’ll never understand why he cheated. I surprised him in his hotel room while he was on the road, but I was the one who got the greatest surprise. Turned out, it wasn’t a one-time thing. Sophia was his Canadian girlfriend, traveling to meet him at all his games in the land of maple leaves and honey. They had been hooking up for five years.

  My hands shake as the memory surfaces—the moment when I told him not to come home. I was so mad. Mad at him. Mad at myself. I’d had reservations about him before we got married and let the daydream we were living in cloud my reality.

  I hired a divorce attorney the next day and cried for days as Christian slept on my couch.

  The first day was the worst. I never left my room and only stayed hydrated because Christian was here. He held me a lot that day as I cried into his chest and fell asleep in his arms.

  On the second day, he cleaned my entire apartment and boxed up anything that would serve as a painful memory.

  On the third day, he forced me to shower and took me out for ice cream. That man knows the way to my heart is with a decent cup of chocolate chip cookie dough.

  I close the albums, toss them back in the drawer, and kick it shut with my toe. While they bring up the hurt, they also remind me that there were so many good times. I can’t just pretend years of my life didn’t exist. That’s like saying I never lived.

  I twist my torso around and see the brochure on the duvet. I almost forgot why I’d taken those albums out tonight. This trifold piece of paper is a reminder of everything I wanted in life—a family.

  Leaning against the headboard, I prop my feet up, open the brochure, and read.

  The Loeb Boathouse is nestled in Central Park across the lake from Bethesda Fountain. Couples in rowboats are careening about as the sun sets, casting a red-and-orange hue over the trees.

  It surprised me a little that Angela would pick the Boathouse to have dinner since it’s a tourist magnet, but I’m glad she did. With the enormous trees that cascade over the walkway, the path from Bethesda Fountain to the Boathouse feels like a warm hug. My feet float on the pavement as I breathe in the sweet cherry blossoms and magnolia leaves.

  I arrive a few minutes before seven and pull my heels out of my purse, placing them on the ground. I take off my ballet flats and slide my feet into the jewel-encrusted stilettos. I don’t get to wear them often, so when the dinner reservations were made, I decided it was time to break out these sexy little toe-dazzlers.

  I text Christian to see where he is.

  Wait for me outside, he texts back.

  I’m placing my phone in my purse when the front door of the restaurant opens, and Christian comes outside, wearing a black suit, no tie, and a debonair smile. His emerald eyes turn dark at the sight of me standing here. His gaze skims over my face, taking in the dramatic eye makeup and extra-long lashes, and then settles on my dark red lips. My long blonde hair is curled from a trip to the salon, cascading over the front of my trench coat.

  “You’re beautiful.” He kisses me on the cheek and holds on for a long moment—longer than usual. His nose inhales the scent of my perfume as he gives me a second kiss along my jaw.

  “I didn’t know you were inside already. I would have come in and had a drink.” I motion toward the entrance.

  He inhales deeply. “This way is better. I get a second alone with you.”

  He’s such a smooth-talker sometimes; it makes me blush.

  “Are you ready to go in?”

  “Right this way.” He takes my hand, leading me past the wrought iron fence and under the red awning grand entrance.

  When we pass through the front door, it’s into a bustling restaurant. It’s not overly loud, but there’s enough of a hum and chorus as people enjoy their dinner and conversation.

  Instead of heading toward the bar, where I assumed we’d wait for Angela, he leads me down a short flight of steps into the main dining room that overlooks the lake. We weave in between tables, and as we get closer to the open windows, I see a group of people at an extra-long table, all standing and looking our way.

  “Surprise,” many of them say, followed by, “Happy birthday!”

  I jump back in shock, my heart racing a thousand beats per minute at the realization that this isn’t a dinner for Christian and me to meet Angela’s boyfriend.

  “You’re here for me?” My hand is on my chest as I take in my first ever surprise party.

  Not expecting to see Brian and Beth along with some of my girlfriends from college and a few of the staff of Park Avenue Cardiology, my eyes well up with emotion.

  “Happy birthday, Meadow,” Beth says with a squeeze.

  “I can’t believe you threw me a surprise party!” I hug her back, loving the soft fabric of her suede dress.

  She steps back, looking elegant in her chignon. “It was all Christian. He planned this months ago.”

  I spin around and collide with Christian, my hand landing on his firm chest. I look up at him with an expression of complete admiration. For a man who has an insanely busy schedule and spends his free time reading medical journals, working out, and visiting his parents, he threw me a birthday dinner.

  He’s looking down at me with a glint in his eye, accepting my thank you with the slight rise of his lips.

  “Go
say hi to your friends,” he says with a hand on my back, motioning me toward my guests.

  I make my way around the table, saying hello to college friends, Jen and Marissa, and their husbands. I stop for a moment to catch up with them. Christian comes over with a glass in his palm and places it in mine as I’m listening to stories about their kids. He walks back to the other side of the table, and I move onto the girls from work, who completely surprised me by not spilling the beans on tonight’s dinner.

  Angela made good on her promise and brought Denny. He definitely has this hipster vibe with his skinny jeans and suspenders, jet-black hair, and the longest handlebar mustache I’ve ever seen. It looks almost wet as it curls up at the ends.

  “Right now, I’m just lying low and working on my music,” he says when I ask what he does, realizing Angela never told me.

  “What do you play?” I ask.

  “The bass. It’s just a hobby until I follow my real passion of opening up a bicycle repair shop in Amsterdam. They have over eight hundred thousand bicycles there. That’s more bikes than people,” he replies before asking the waitress if the bread is gluten-free.

  Angela is behind him, smiling at me with a side-eye glance, wanting to know what I think of him. When he lowers his head, I give a thumbs-up even though I’ve met him for all of thirty seconds.

  I walk over to my seat that has been preselected, sandwiching me between Christian and Beth and across from Angela and Denny.

  “Hi, Brian,” I say to my brother, who is seated next to his wife.

  He gives me a nod from his seat, not bothering to stand. “How does it feel to be a year older?”

  “I still have another day. Let’s not push it,” I respond jokingly as I untie the belt of my trench coat. “Who has the boys tonight?”

  “Beth’s parents,” he replies.

  “Great party last weekend. Thank you for hosting it.”

  He lets out a light laugh. “You certainly walked away with your dance card full.”

  I lean back and wonder if it’s just me hearing a tone of sarcasm in his voice. “What is that supposed to mean?”