Page 19 of A Really Bad Idea

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 Christian 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.