Page 4 of A Really Bad Idea

“You’re so lame!”

I give her a backward wave as I head out the door.

Since it’s still light out and the weather is mild, I head down Seventy-Fourth street, cross Fifth Avenue, and go into Central Park. My apartment is on the opposite side of town, so I like to walk across the park and stop for a moment at Bethesda Fountain.

With its bronze angel statue at the top with her outstretched arms, the iconic fountain beckons me. For years, I’ve tossed a coin in the water and made countless wishes.

I’ve always believed in wishes, good-luck charms, and totems. It started when I was a kid and carried on to when I moved to Manhattan and made my first wish at this fountain. I had just returned from visiting Christian in medical school in San Francisco. I know it seems silly, but I put a lot of hope in my wishes. Maybe, one day, my greatest wish will come true.

I take a penny out of my purse, hold it up, and listen to the sound of water falling and the soft chatter of tourists.

“Splash!” a tiny voice yelps. A little boy is sitting on his mother’s lap, leaning into the fountain and slapping the water, making it spray all over his father sitting next to them. “Splash, Daddy!”

Instead of being mad, like I assume some parents would be, the man seems to find his son amusing and laughs as he continues to get sprayed on.

“Come here, you little rug rat,” the man exclaims as he grabs his boy, picks him up high, and then lowers him down for a kiss on the cheek.

The little boy squeals, and his mother looks like her heart is about to burst with love at the sight of her son giggling in happiness.

I hold the coin in my hand up to my chest, close my eyes, say a silent wish, and toss it into the fountain before continuing my walk through the park.

Central Park in the spring is beautiful. With the cherry blossom trees at the earliest onset of their flourish and the tulips creeping through the earth, I inhale the sweet fragrance and fresh air.

When I’m in my neighborhood, I stop at the corner market and grab a few groceries before arriving at my apartment building. My doorman, Salvatore, is quick to greet me.

“Good evening, Ms. Duvane,” Salvatore says as he opens the door.

“I have something for you.” I motion with my chin to a box at the top of one of my brown bags.

He sees the package of Good & Plenty peeking out the top and smiles. “Always thinking of me.”

Whenever I go to the grocery store, I get him his favorite candy. It’s the least I can do for the kind old man who always makes me feel safe and welcome.

“How’s Carol?” I ask, referring to his wife, as he takes the candy from the bag. “Did she get her stomach checked out?”

“Yes, ma’am. You were right about it being an ulcer. Doctor has her on an antibiotic and is helping her get rid of the acid.”

“So happy to hear. Give her my best.” I walk into the elevator that Salvatore already pushed the call button for.

When I’m on my floor, I juggle my grocery bags as I fiddle with the key ring. I let myself inside my apartment, close the front door with my foot, and place my groceries on the counter.

Living alone has taken some getting used to. When I got married eight years ago, it was for better or for worse … except no one told me “for worse” included my husband cheating on me with a puck bunny.

Brock Lannister is a defenseman for the New York Islanders and my now ex-husband. When we met at a bar on Bleeker Street, I knew absolutely nothing about hockey, let alone who was on the roster for the Islanders. He was handsome as hell, told the best jokes, and was romantically spontaneous. Many times, I’d get off a shift to find him waiting on the curb with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a limo ready.

He’d say, “Where do you want to go? Just pick a place, and we’ll vanish.”

We’d choose sleepy towns within driving distance, stay in bed-and-breakfasts, make love all weekend, and come home in the same clothes we left in. If we ever dared to venture out, it was in tourist T-shirts and silly woven hats or anything we could get our hands on.

He never cared if I took an extra shift, and I wasn’t one of those women who gave him hell about all his fangirls hanging around after his games … although, looking back, I definitely should have.

We only dated for a year before getting married, and then we bought this apartment.

I love this apartment.

It has two bedrooms, an all-white, open kitchen—which is scarce in the city—and a living room with a view of Central Park. It’s not huge, but it’s cozy and perfect and the place I call home.

When I caught Brock in bed with another woman, he knew from the look on my face that it was over. His main concern was that we hadn’t signed a prenuptial agreement, and he’d recently negotiated an eight-million-dollar contract with the team. I didn’t want a dime of it—just my home.