Page 22 of A Really Bad Idea

“Her shoe blog. Cute, right?” Angela explains, and Denny looks confused.

“Beth was a buyer for Nordstrom when she decided to be a stay-at-home mom after our first son was born. After a few years, she found herself bored and started a blog about her first love—shoes,” Brian explains in a businesslike manner as he rests a hand on his wife’s thigh.

She tilts her head at him with a smile.

Angela turns to Denny and further explains, “It’s not just pictures of her pretty heels in her fancy shoe closet—which, by the way, is amazing! She rates the shoes and pairs them with different outfits. She goes in search of complementary styles at lower price points and shares them on her blog and even demos how to cobble your own broken heel.”

“You can cobble shoes?” Denny turns to Beth, impressed, but Angela snaps him back to attention.

“This woman is a megastar! It didn’t take long for her readership to skyrocket, and designers took notice, asking if they could send her styles. Big luxury brands have been vying for a spot on Spikes and the City. The thing that makes her blog so successful is, she buys her own shoes, so she doesn’t owe favors, and her opinions are authentic.” When Angela’s rambling is over, she notices our eyes glued to her.

Beth is the first to speak, “Damn, girl. I should fire my publicist and have you promote me!”

Angela bows her head in mock bashfulness. “Sorry. I just really love your blog—or vlog, I should say. Your videos are awesome. But, on the real, if you want me to work for you, I will give my two weeks notice like this.” She makes a poof sound as she explodes her fingers.

“Good to know.” Christian, being her boss’s son, laughs, and the rest of us follow.

Salads are served, and conversation flows beautifully. As we wait for entrees, I get up and move around to talk to my friends. Christian and Brian get into a heated discussion about the Yankees, and the girls at the hospital gossip with Natasha at the other end of the table.

When dinner arrives, we lean back as servers place everything on the table. I ordered the cedar plank salmon, which looks delicious with golden beets, carrots, and baby kale.

“Do you think these are organically sourced?” Denny asks from his side of the table.

“You must be a farmers market kinda guy,” Christian says as he leans over my plate and steals a carrot.

“I get all my produce from a farm stand on Bleeker. You’ve probably never heard of it,” Denny says, followed by, “I make my own Sriracha. Would you like some?” He dips a hand into his satchel hanging from his chair and pulls out a glass jar.

We shake our heads in refusal.

“So, Denny, you said you play the bass. Are you in a band?” I ask, cutting my salmon in half and placing it on Christian’s plate.

“My music is my art. I’m not ready for it to be shared with the masses,” Denny says as he eyes my hand with a scowl while I also spoon the rest of my carrots onto Christian’s plate.

“I heard him play once,” Angela chimes in, grabbing on to Denny’s arm and looking at him, punch-drunk. “He’s fantastic.”

“How does a bass player who doesn’t play make money while you wait to open your bike shop in Amsterdam?” Brian asks.

If there is one thing Brian doesn’t understand, it’s how people don’t work themselves to the bone and save every dime along the way. He’s overly practical that way.

Christian moves a handful of his potatoes to my plate.

“I’m an environmental attorney,” Denny replies.

“You’d give up a career in environmental law to fix bikes in Amsterdam?” Brian quips.

“How I earn my money and what I do to feed my soul are two very different things.” Denny’s Gandhi-like aura is oddly refreshing. He looks back at my plate where Christian is now placing a piece of his beef. “Do you two do that all the time?”

“Do what?” I ask with a forkful of salmon in my mouth.

Denny motions with his knife back and forth between my and Christian’s plates. “Share food.”

Our plates are now a mishmash of what we originally ordered, divvied up between the two of us.

“He won’t eat more than a palm size of meat,” I explain with a swallow.

“She hates carrots,” he replies before taking a bite off his own fork.

“He always says he doesn’t want fish and then steals some anyway.”