Page 14 of A Really Bad Idea

“I know; I know.” I run my fingers along my scalp. “She loves me enough to try, and that’s awesome. And, my dad, he’s such a great man. It’s like I have this impossible standard to live up to. Anyone I marry has to be as great as he is.”

Beth is looking at me with an arched brow, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

“Yes, I thought Brock was as good a man as George Duvane. Chalk that one up to a failed comparison made with rose-colored glasses.” I lean my head on her shoulder.

She rests her head on top of mine. “You’re not broken. You’re lost. It’s been a year since you finalized the divorce. Maybe you need more time.”

While time seems to be dragging on, I still can’t help but look back and think of how fast the time has passed. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a woman and I have this biological clock that my mom wants me to freeze my eggs in some special time-capsule facility or if it’s because, as much as I enjoy my life, I want more in my future and don’t want to wait any longer to seize it.

Time. She’s such a fickle bitch.

Dreams. They’re equally dangerous.

“You know what would help?” I lift my foot and stare at the beautiful sapphire heel I’m coveting right now. “If your shoe grew another inch.”

“Shoes aren’t the answer. Although”—she lifts her head and taps a finger to her lips as she rises from her spot—“I might have an eight and a half in here you can squeeze into.”

I pop up alongside her. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.”

Shuffling through the cabinet, I can’t find the box of plastic spoons that are always on the bottom shelf. I close the laminate door and rifle through the drawers under the sink. I see straws, napkins, and some random Andes mints … but no utensils. My lunch is sitting on the countertop as I place a hand on my hip and run a finger over my temple.

“Love your scrubs! The gold zippers against the gray are so chic,” Angela compliments as she steps into the break room.

“Beth got them for me,” I say absentmindedly.

“You look perplexed,” she observes as she snags a green tea pod from its box and pops it into the Keurig.

“I can’t find the spoons.”

“They’re right up there.” She grabs a mug with the words Hello … Is it tea you’re looking for? written in big, bold font.

“We must be out.”

She squints her dark, angular eyes at me as she leans across and opens the cabinet. When her hand lowers, it’s with a blue-and-white box of plastic spoons—the exact ones I was searching for.

I furrow my brow. “I looked in there sixteen times.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes, we can’t see the thing that’s right in front of our eyes. It’s called a schotoma.”

“A shit what?” I blanch.

With a snicker, she hits the brew button. “It’s a mental blind spot. You convinced yourself that what you were looking for wasn’t there.”

“Why would I tell myself there were no spoons?” I grab my coffee-filled mug that reads Might Be Vodka.

“Hell if I know. There’s an entire science behind this. You should Google it.”

Considering it, I take a seat at the table and open my yogurt. I’d have to pronounce that word and maybe even know how to spell it before I could look it up.

I have the spoon at my mouth when Angela lets out a large huff. I give her a glance and watch her let out another deep sigh that rises in volume and pitches out at the end. I lower my spoon with a smile, knowing full well she wants me to ask what’s bothering her.

“Is something worrying you?”

With her freshly made tea in hand, she turns toward me and glances around the room with a bewildered stare. “You know me. I don’t like to burden other people with my problems.”

I point my spoon at her. “Drop the act, woman. Let me have it.”

“You sure?” Angela is adorably coy sometimes, which is funny. It’s like she’s dying to tell you information but doesn’t want to just unleash it. She needs you to ask her about it.