Page 52 of A Really Bad Idea

Looking down at my white knee-length skirt and cap-sleeve T-shirt, I said, “I can’t skate in this. I need to change first.”

He rose from the couch and grabbed my hand before I could make it to my bedroom. “Don’t change. You look beautiful just as you are.”

And that’s how I wound up on in-line skates in Central Park, wearing a flowing skirt and large wool socks. At least the skates are cute—light gray with pink blades and buckles. He even bought me a helmet, but I put my wheel-lined foot down on that one.

“Just like riding a bike,” he says, zipping past me and wrapping around the fountain, dodging tourists and dog-walkers. He looks good in cargo shorts and a V-neck T-shirt that shows off toned, tanned arms and legs.

“Come on, I’ll race you,” I call out and take a lead, heading back under the terrace and through the enclave lined with bronzed tiles on the ceiling, coming out on the other end and onto the Mall, a walkway leading from Bethesda Terrace through the park. The pathway is lined with benches and American elm trees on both sides.

I have a decent lead despite trying to keep myself from running over people, but then he comes up from behind and pinches my ass as he passes. My cheeks rise to my eyes as I squint with determination and power forward to catch up.

Christian reaches out for my hand, pulling my pace down to where we’re now skating together. We stop to watch a set of street performers breakdancing, doing tricks and flips. He tosses a ten into the bucket a guy is carrying around to the crowd.

We skate on, stopping again so that I can peer over the shoulder of an artist who is drawing a caricature of a little girl and then listen at the end of the path to a band of musicians playing hip-hop music on classical instruments. I give them ten dollars of my own.

At the southern end of the pathway, we play tag around the statues of well-known literary figures. Behind William Shakespeare, I grab the baseball cap off his head, watching his dark hair fall messily onto his head, and he tackles me to the ground in front of Sir Walter Scott, ripping the cap from my hands and securing it back on his head with a smile.

When we reach the zoo, I’m relieved to take off the skates and slide on my shoes that Christian placed in his duffel bag before we left my apartment. He puts our skates in the bag and then secures it across his body. Then, we walk into the Central Park Zoo.

I lean on the railing of the sea lion pool and watch as one swims by. Lifting a fin above the water, it waves at us. I wave back with a laugh until a warm body presses up behind me.

“Is this okay?” Christian asks, placing his hands on the railing on each side of me, enclosing me in.

I lean my head back to his shoulder and nod as another sea lion appears on the rock above the pool.

“He’s jumping in,” he says into my ear, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

We watch the sea lion jump into the water and stay for the noon feeding as the trainers show off what the beautiful mammals can do.

“What is your favorite animal?” he asks as we walk around the octagon-shaped pool, hand in hand, down the paved walkway.

“Chickens.”

“Chickens?”

His response makes me shake with laughter.

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted a chicken coop. Maybe even property to grow my own vegetables.”

He grimaces. “That’s not something you can do in Manhattan.”

“That’s why I’ll never have one. I love it here. I can’t imagine ever moving.”

It’s true. I grew up across the Hudson, but once I settled in Manhattan, I fell in love with its scents and sounds, the way old and new collided to form a bond of history and futuristic expectations. The museums and Broadway shows are incomparable, and the health care is top notch. There’s a coffee shop on every corner, and you always have a place to sit for a while when you don’t want to be alone.

“You could get a vacation house. Maybe a cabin Upstate,” he suggests.

“Who would watch the chickens?” I counter.

“We could hire someone to tend to them when we’re not there.”

I lean back and blink at his use of the word we.

He shrugs. “It would be nice to have a place for our kid to run around and experience life outside of the city. Some chickens, maybe a goat. It would teach him some responsibility.”

“It would be impractical. She’ll already be carted between two homes. Adding a vacation cabin would give her whiplash.”

“He’ll think it’s normal because it will be our normal.” He squeezes my hand. “I notice you used the pronoun she.”