There’s a nudge at my shoulder as my dad leans into me. “Too bad you two are just friends. I’ve always said you’d make a fine pair,” he whispers into my ear.
I shake off the notion. “We’d make the worst couple. We’d probably kill each other.”
“I remember a day when you used to have a crush on that boy.”
“I never—”
“You were thirteen and followed him around like a puppy dog. Even convinced him not to date a few girls that year if I’m correct. I believe that was the year you told him Sally Romano had herpes.”
“I did not,” I say, hoping Frank and his parents didn’t hear that, but my dad is just glaring at me with an amused brow as he sips his Tom Collins. “Fine, I did, but I didn’t make that up. A very reliable source told me. That was two decades ago. My tiny crush on Christian Gallagher has long ago dissipated.”
He laughs and swings an arm around my shoulders. “Always keep an open mind and an open heart, Meadow. And your eyes focused.”
I’m not blind. Christian is gorgeous and smart and all the things a woman wants in a man. Except available. He’s married to his career, and I spent six years of my life married to someone else. Our views on commitment are skewed.
“I could never risk the friendship,” I say honestly.
“You know your mother and I were friends before we were lovers.”
Despite being a grown woman who well knows of my creation, I cringe at my father’s use of the word lovers.
He laughs, deep and burly, and releases me. “On that note, I’m going to go save our guests from my lover before she talks their ears off. That woman sure does love to command an audience.” Dad kisses my cheek and walks off.
I’m looking back in Christian’s direction. He must feel my stare because he looks my way and then raises his chin with his eyes looking to a place beside me.
I follow his gaze to see Aaron Vaducci, Bachelor Number Three, standing by the barbecue. I widen my eyes at Christian, but he’s now nudging his chin over toward Aaron, insinuating that I talk to him.
After the talk we just had, I decide to pull my big-girl panties on and give the afternoon a chance.
Of the three sons my mother arranged for me to spend time with today, Aaron is the easiest to talk to. He’s also quite handsome with curly brown hair, hazel eyes, and an easy smile. He’s a dentist, and according to my mother, he’s recently single, so I’d “better snatch him up before someone else does.”
We talk for a few minutes before Christian comes over to say his good-byes, heading back to the hospital, and Aaron and I continue to talk about restaurants, work, and politics, which doesn’t get awkward—thankfully. Then, we head inside together when dinner is served and continue with light conversation through the evening.
I joke with Christian’s mom, Lucille Gallagher, and catch up with the Romanos. I listen to my mother’s lively stories about her friends in Boca and even play a game of horseshoes with Dylan and Aiden.
When Brian lights the firepit to make s’mores, Aaron lets me show him how to toast the perfect marshmallow because, apparently, he doesn’t know how to make his not look like a charred rock of sugar. All in all, it turns out to be a good party, and I have a really nice time.
It’s probably why, an hour after all the guests have left, Beth looks confused when she sees me sitting on the floor of her hundred-square-foot shoe closet.
“I’m impressed you squeezed your feet into those.” She motions toward the Manolo Blahniks that are hanging from my feet.
I hold a foot up, so she can see my heel is on the outside of the shoe.
“I feel like Anastasia and Drizella when they try on the glass slipper.” I flick a toe, and one of the heels falls to the floor. “Always a stepsister, never a princess.”
“Aren’t you extra melodramatic tonight?” She takes a seat beside me on the plush carpet. Beth has been my sister-in-law for twelve years, which makes her the only sister I’ve ever known. “Aaron was certainly smitten with you.”
“He was not.”
With a look that says she doesn’t believe my modesty, she replies, “The man was everywhere you were and even pretended he couldn’t roast a marshmallow just so you could teach him something.”
“I did find it peculiar that he was so inept in the art of placing a piece of sugary goodness over a fire.”
Beth stretches out her legs. “You should call him.”
Aaron gave me his number before he left, and while he’s absolutely worthy of a date, I didn’t feel that spark with him. If I went out with him, it would only be because of this push to find someone when I’m just not ready. That’s unfair to him and to myself.
I lightly bang my head against the shelf behind me, probably hitting a pair of thousand-dollar heels.
“Do you think I’m broken?” I ask.
She lets out a small sigh. “Damaged, yes. Broken, no.”
“Brian barely talks to me.”
“He hardly speaks to anyone.”
“My mom—”
“Means well.” Beth sighs. “You’ve gotta cut her some slack.”
“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 m
ental 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.
“I’m dying for some romantic gossip.” I lift my mug and take a sip.
Her tiny frame practically bounces up onto her toes. “Okay, so, remember that blind date I went on a few weeks ago?”
I nod. “Denny, the guy with the handlebar mustache?”
“Yes!” She nearly spills her tea. “That sexy Daniel Day-Lewis–looking motherfucker.”
I have to stop for a second and run through my mental file of movie stars to realize she’s referring to the actor who he played Bill the Butcher in Gangs of New York.
“So, things are going well?” I put my mug back on the table and lift my yogurt.
“Here’s the problem. We’ve been dating for three weeks, and I have spent multiple nights at his place.”
“Multiple?” I ask with my spoon hanging out of my mouth.
“Multiple,” she says slowly and resumes her usual quick-witted way of speaking. “This morning, as I was leaving his place, he hands me my toothbrush. I was planning on leaving it there since I’d been staying over so much. He insisted I take it home with me. Then, he gave me a kiss good-bye and said he’d see me tonight. What the hell does that mean?”
“He didn’t want you to keep your toothbrush there but expects to see you again tonight.”
“Does that mean it’s because he doesn’t want other women to see my toothbrush on his sink? Is he, like, playing the field?”
“Are you exclusive?” I ask.
“I thought so!”
The break room door swings open as Christian saunters in. “Does anyone work around here anymore?”
“We’re on a break!” Angela and I say simultaneously.
He walks to the refrigerator, grabs a can of V8, and kicks the door closed. Angela scrunches her nose as he pops the top of the can.
“Who voluntarily drinks that stuff?” she asks.
He takes a large swig, smacks his lips, and makes a sound of satisfaction. “It’s like tea for my prostate.”
“Oh, that’s nasty,” Angela quips.
“Way too much information,” I add.
Christian gulps down the small can and then shoots it into the trash like he’s playing basketball. The swoosh just earned him two points. “It’s also good for your sex drive.”
“I don’t need any encouragement with my libido,” she states proudly with a sway of her hips.
He looks over.
I raise my hands, palms up. “Leave me out of it. This”—I motion toward my body—“is closed for business.”
He gives a crooked smile with a shake of his head as he looks at me seated at the table and Angela standing in the center of the room and back to me in question. “What were you two talking about before I walked in?”
I raise my brows at Angela and motion toward Christian. If anyone is going to give her the low-down on what a guy is thinking, it’s a bachelor.
Her lips are pursed as she considers this, and then she turns to him and declares, “My boyfriend won’t let me leave my toothbrush at his house.”
“So, he’s your boyfriend now?” I chime in.
“Well, yeah. I’m over there all the time. This isn’t high school where he needs to properly ask me to be his girlfriend,” she says and then pauses with her hands wrapped around her teacup and her eyes staring off into the fluorescent lights. “Is it?”
“It is,” I say.
“Fuck yeah,” Christian adds, leaving Angela with a pout. “You can ask him, too. Guys like that.”
“They do?” My head pivots in his direction.
He pushes his white doctor’s jacket to the side and dips his hands into his pants pockets. “An assertive woman is sexy as hell.”
“Then, why doesn’t he want my toothbrush?” Angela asks, slightly flummoxed.
“Because you’re box girl,” he replies matter-of-factly. By the curious scowls on my and Angela’s faces, he explains further. “A girl who brings a box load of her stuff to a guy’s place, practically moving in before he is ready for commitment.”
I press my finger against my lips and ponder this for a minute. When Brock and I were dating, I brought an overnight bag to his place very early in the relationship and left a few things behind.
Angela’s right eye is closed as she asks, “It wasn’t a box. It was a stick with bristles. You’d think he’d appreciate my love of good oral hygiene.”
“I’m sure he definitely appreciates the oral. He just might not be ready to move into the next phase of your relationship,” he says with a grin.
I toss my now-empty yogurt container in the trash. “Have you ever let a girl leave anything at your place?”
“No,” his answer comes out.
“What about that girl you dated last year? Thalia? You were with her for, what, four months?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Angela steps in. “Not even the yoga instructor you went to the Hamptons with?”
“No.” He crosses his arms and rests his backside against the counter.
“Do you leave things at their place?” she questions him.
He shakes his head.
“Dr. Gallagher, are you afraid of commitment?” Angela asks.
I already know the answer, but I let him tell her anyway.
“Absolutely not. I’m actually looking forward to getting married someday. Just not now. I’m on the fourteen-year plan. If I want to be director of structural heart disease of cardiovascular medicine by the time I’m forty, then I have to devote my life to my career.”
Angela still looks confused. “What does that have to do with being in a relationship?”
“Everything. A woman I’m casually dating won’t mind if I take on an extra case and spend eighty hours a week in the hospital. I can’t always keep dinner reservations. Nor can I promise to go on a planned vacation without it being canceled because a patient went into critical heart failure. Women in committed relationships expect more of your time and energy.”
“Are they allowed to sleep over?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “The night before a surgery I spend alone, studying the case, watching previous surgeries on tape, and reading research papers. Most women don’t understand.”
Christian has been leading the way in breakthrough cardiothoracic valve replacement surgery. He’s one of a handful of surgeons in the world with the finesse to perform techniques not yet approved by the FDA. Everything he does is in critical trial. When I say his career is his sole focus, it’s not because he’s some arrogant guy who wants to be the best. It’s because he is paving the way for the future of medicine.
Angela’s eyes shift to the side. “And then what? When you’re forty, you’ll get married to the first girl you meet?”
“I’ll focus on running my unit for a few years and possibly consider settling down.”
&
nbsp; She taps her foot and asks incredulously, “What if the most perfect woman comes along? You’ll pass her up because you want some fancy words on your placard someday?”
His eyes roam my way for a brief moment before he shrugs and replies, “I have time.”
“I wish I were a man. When I’m forty, my eggs will be shriveling up at a vastly declining rate,” I say out loud—a lot loud actually—which earns me the surprised stares of both Angela and Christian. I wave off what I said and throw the focus back on Angela and the reason we started this conversation. “You should talk to Denny about where you are in your relationship before you leave anything at his place.”
“I guess so,” she says, unconvinced while looking at me like I have three heads.
“It doesn’t mean he’s a player. He just might not be ready for the box,” I tell her.
“He definitely likes the box. Just not that box,” Christian says seriously.
There’s an awkward pause until Angela lets out a sharp belly laugh to where she has to brace herself by holding on to the countertop.
I find myself amused. “For a successful man, you certainly take it to a level of crass that astounds me,” I chide as I bite my lip to keep myself from smiling.
“You love it,” he says with a devilish grin, making his dimples show. He pushes off the counter and turns to Angela to make a suggestion. “Bring him out this weekend. Meadow and I will vet him for you.”
Angela’s laughter subsides as she tilts her head to the side before her eyes and mouth widen with an almost-surprised look. “Yes. Let’s go to dinner at the Boathouse on Saturday night. You guys can meet Denny and tell me what you think.”
“The Boathouse is a great idea,” he says way too enthusiastically. “Meadow and I will meet you there.”
I feign feeling insulted. “It’s the day before my birthday. Maybe I already have plans.”
“Do you?” Angela asks with wide eyes.
“Well, no.” I bite my lip and then turn to Christian. “And what makes you think I don’t have someone I want to bring?”
A Really Bad Idea Page 4
