Page 111 of A Really Bad Idea

“I want you to tell me what to do.”

I tilt my head at him. “Why me?”

“I don’t know,” he says seriously. I squint my eyes at him, and he laughs, looking up at the chandelier and letting out a loud, “I’m so fucked up.”

I lean back against the window and look up for divine guidance. What do you tell your ex-husband who is having a child with a woman who is not you, and, oh, he doesn’t want her … just the baby he didn’t have with you?

When we were together, I took the motherly role for him. Brock’s mother had left when he was a kid, and his father based his love for Brock on how well he did on the ice. I tended to be more mother than a wife to him at times.

It’s also another reason my family didn’t like him. Brock didn’t have respect for my family. He thought they were too clingy, and he couldn’t understand the emotion. He resented them, and they resented him for the way he’d behave. Then, I’d pick up the pieces.

“You’re not fucked up. You just have a shitty support system.”

My answer causes his face to ignite in agreement and a bit of surprise. He puffs a large breath from his lips and then leans back, too. He turns his head, and I stare into his eyes.

We used to end our days like this, except we were lying in bed, looking at each other. The days that I refuse to erase because they are part of me. They happened. There were bad times, but there were so many good times, which is probably why I decide to cut Brock some slack and help him.

“Be a dad. Buy a place in Boston, so your daughter can have a place to go to where she feels welcome. Lord knows, you have enough money to do so. You like it there anyway. Maybe that can be your home base when you’re in the off-season.”

“I’m away so much—”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re getting old. How many more years will you be playing? Think about what you want to do next and include your daughter in your decision.” I close my eyes and remember the advice Thomas gave me. “You’ll never regret it. One look at that child, and you’ll be so in love, so fulfilled, that you’ll know it was the right thing to do.”

Brock grimaces as he takes in my words. As they seep in, a smile builds on his face.

“You think so?” he asks.

“A wise man once told me so.” I stand up and adjust my purse on my arm. “Good-bye, Brock.” He stands up and looks like he wants to say something, but I answer for him, “You’re gonna be a good dad.”

As I walk out of my building, Brock doesn’t follow. It’s fulfilling this time to walk away from him, not feeling lost or sad. For the first time in years, I don’t have this unfortunate feeling of a failed marriage and a longing for what could have been. Brock might have done me a favor by being unfaithful. Our love affair was intense, but it wasn’t for ever.

It was fast.

Insta-love is addicting because it’s so much fun to fall in love. Problem is, you get hurt when you fall.

Brock Lannister swept me off my feet in a bar, and I was blinded by his whimsical nature—so blind that I crashed. If love were the Brooklyn Bridge, I jumped off the rails and crash-landed into the East River.

The relationship didn’t work because he didn’t value my love. He didn’t earn my trust or get to know my inner thoughts. Honestly, I didn’t know his either. I loved the idea of him and thought that was love.

I don’t want to fall again. I want to walk steadily with my eyes open and looking ahead. There is someone who walks beside me, over the rushing waters and onslaught of traffic, who holds my hand and keeps me from focusing on the creaky boards of my fears. A man who knows my inner soul and crazy thoughts yet still wants to be by my side when we step off the bridge.

I know I told Brian I fell in love with Christian. That was a lie.

Christian Gallagher slowly walked his way into my soul and built a home in there, stirring a fire in my belly and a hearth over my heart.

That kind of love, you can’t walk away from. It’s firmly rooted with two feet on the ground.

“Good to have you back, Mrs. Lerry,” I tell the patient who just came out of the hospital and is here for her follow-up.

“I feel good and have you to thank for it.” She beams at me.

“I taught her everything she knows,” Thomas says as he writes the results of today’s examination in her file.

“He’s so modest.” I undo the blood pressure cuff from her arm.

Mrs. Lerry holds her finger out, so I can check her oxygen level. “Even the hospital staff was fantastic. I had this wonderful nurse, Natasha, who calmed me in the middle of the night. I think I had post-surgery anxiety, and she stayed with me until I relaxed.”

Thomas lifts a brow at me.