Page 131 of A Really Bad Idea

“If I had the right mind, I’d…” I pause, my shoes halting on the pavement, as an odd pang of shame washes through me. No, not from calling a bride ungrateful or from the almost one-nighter that will never be lived again. It’s something else.

A memory.

My phone.

Facebook.

Last night.

I pull the phone away from my ear, open my Facebook Messenger app, and say a silent prayer, Please tell me I didn’t do what I think I did. Please don’t let me see that I—

I did.

Rolling my head back, I look at the sun and put the phone back to my ear. “I drunk-messaged him.”

Naomi lets out a sigh. “Drunk Facebooking is never a good idea. Did you at least write something good?”

I almost lie and make something up. Instead, I groan and unenthusiastically answer her question, “I wrote, You ducker. You duckity, duck, duck ducker.”

Naomi lets out a loud laugh. I can picture her grabbing on to her sides as she bellows over in hysterics. “Oh my God,” she says, mid laugh. “What is wrong with you? Why would you write something like that?”

“Stupid autocorrect wouldn’t even let me drunk-message my ex properly.”

Naomi is winding down from her laughter. Her sympathy genes are clearly missing in this conversation. “I’m sorry, but that is hilarious.”

Okay, fine, it is pretty funny. But she could at least pretend to feel bad.

She must sense my silence as annoyance because her tone changes as she says, “You need a reboot, babe. Get out of that city. Come to the West Coast and recharge your soul. Trust me, it’ll be your Eat, Pray, Love moment.”

“And where would I live?”

“With me. You can crash on the futon in my office. It’ll be like old times.”

“I’m a little old to be sleeping on a futon.”

“You’re a little old to be drunk-texting your ex.”

Thank goodness she can’t see the face I’m making at her correct yet unappreciated statement.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Approaching my building, I rest the phone on my shoulder as I take the keys from my purse and open the front door.

“Think about it. Offer is always on the table. Now, let me get some sleep because some people have to get up and feed children in the morning.”

I push the front door open and start the climb to my third-floor walk-up. “You only have one child, and she could probably raise herself since she’s so independent.”

“True,” she concedes and then adds, “Come to Napa. You’ll love it. Okay, that’s the last time I’m asking…today.”

We hang up the phone just as I step into my apartment. Falling back on the couch, my body relaxes, and the memories I wanted to forget start to surface.

I met Steven in Paris when I was twenty-three-years-old. I was taking a year off after graduation to “find myself.” My parents are heavy supporters of traveling by yourself for a year before you start the grind of day-to-day adult life. They’re kind of hippie-ish that way.

There I was, in the City of Lights, eating escargot and sipping Bordeaux when I spotted him sitting at a table nearby. He was alone and reading Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. Even if he wasn’t American, I knew he at least spoke English based on the edition in his hands. He had curly sandy hair and cherub cheeks and looked like a nice enough guy. Lonely for company, I walked up to his table and asked him about the book. I quickly learned he was from Michigan and, like me, was backpacking through Europe.

After a long evening of wine and watching the lights of the Eiffel Tower sparkle, we got to know each other. By the end of the night we agreed to meet up the next day and then the next and the next.

Over six weeks we traveled across Europe together. We rode a gondola in Venice, drank Spaten at Oktoberfest, saw the windmills of Amsterdam, and tried to make the guards of Buckingham Palace smile. When it came time for Steven to travel back to the states, we decided we couldn’t be apart. We eloped at City Hall in New York City and I followed him to his hometown of Clawson.

I fell in-love with Steven in six weeks and six-months later I was packing my bags and heading home to New York. It was the first and only time my heart was broken. Shortly after moving to Clawson, I learned that the Steven I fell in-love with was not the real-life version of him. I fell for the fairy tale. The truth was, we didn’t have anything in common.