The Frog Prince

Chapter Six

C hapter S ix

I t could have been worse. He could have been an ax murderer.

These are my waking thoughts the next morning, and perhaps they could be a little more cheerful, but I’m depressed that Tom has intruded into my morning already. I don’t want to think about him. It was bad enough he took over my Friday night. He doesn’t get Saturday.

Still lying in bed, duvet pulled firmly to my chin, I know that Tom is the reason I married in the first place. The Toms of the world scare me. I don’t understand them. I don’t know what they want from me (besides my vagina), and that’s not a prize buried in a box of Cocoa Puffs.

Rolling over, I press my face into my pillow and close my eyes and will myself to think of happier things. And not a lot comes to mind.

Waking up and knowing I’m the only one here, that even when I get out of bed I’ll still be alone, and that unless I go out for breakfast I’ll continue to be alone, depresses me almost as much as remembering my night with Tom Lehman.

This is a terrible thing to admit, very immature and antiprogressive, but I’m not great at being alone. When I’m alone, I have too many thoughts and too many feelings, and I don’t know what to do with them.

I could shop. Lots of people shop. I could exercise. Lots of people run and work out incessantly.

Or I could try to get used to being alone and to how it feels to have more thoughts and more emotions than I want.

Eating is really a lot simpler, isn’t it?

Considering my options, I decide to go out for breakfast. Eggs and coffee are cheaper than shoes and still cheaper than my favorite reasonably priced Benefit cosmetics (which I love and wear almost exclusively because the company was founded by two cool chicks in San Francisco, which means you must ignore all the bad things I say about the city’s predilection for turtlenecks and my difficulty finding parking, much less successfully parking, on steep hills), and eating out means I get company of sorts.

So I throw on some jeans, much baggier, more comfortable jeans than I wore last night, a favorite oversize men’s shirt in a great shade of blue (of course it was Jean-Marc’s), and the cowboy boots I can’t give up even though I’m not in Hicktown anymore. The truth is, I like wearing my cowboy boots; I like that they’re not hip, not fashionable, not pretty. I like the pointy toes, the low stacked heels, the battered, faded brown leather. I also like the fact that Jean-Marc hated them and now I get to wear them. When I wear my boots, I feel tough and interesting and far more together.

Cow Hollow, like most neighborhoods in San Francisco, has its own little center of business, plenty of corner coffeehouses, cool restaurants tucked into the ground floors of various renovated houses.

I head for one of those hole-in-the-wall restaurants, buy a Saturday morning paper on the way, and with the sun shining and the sky a wispy Northern California blue, I feel almost human.

A real person.

And the real-person sensation stays as I order coffee, juice, scrambled eggs. The real person reads the paper, savors a second cup of coffee, and suddenly feels so good about herself that she smiles, thinking that life’s not so awful, that maybe, just maybe, everything’s going to be okay.

“Can I borrow your sports page?”

It takes me a second to register that I’m hearing a voice, and that the voice is talking to me.

Looking up, I see Gorgeous Guy sitting at a table across from me. He’s leaning on the table, elbows braced, looking rough-and-tumble in a way you don’t often see in this city.

For starters, he’s big. Tall. He’s got shoulders. And from what I can see of his right-thigh—tight, hard quads—he must have tight, hard legs.

He’s wearing a denim shirt open over a white T-shirt and a pair of well-washed, well-worn Levi’s.

“You want what?” I ask, unable to focus on anything but his legs. I had no idea I was so damn visual, and for a moment I think this is what it must feel like to be Tom Lehman.

“The sports section.”

I nod to show that something has finally registered, and quickly riffle through the paper. Fortunately, with Jamie for a brother, a rabid sports fan since his terrible twos, I know where to locate the sports page. “Here.”

I’m blushing as I give it to him, and I’ve no idea why I’m blushing, or adjusting my collar, or brushing the tip of my ponytail. But I know that the moment I adjust something, touch something like my ear, my hair, my mouth, I’m attracted. I’m sending out some physical, biological signal. I don’t know the specifics, but I’m transmitting “you male, me female,” hormones engaged. I’m sure my cousin who works at the Bronx Zoo could do a better job explaining this.

“Just for a minute,” he adds.

“No hurry.” And there isn’t. I’ve got no plans for the rest of the day, and so I just stare. His teeth are straight and white, and I swear, he’s a bona fide Gap model.

Why wasn’t I out with him last night? I would have been charming. I would have been eager, happy, funny. Candy-floss appletini? Why not? Al Unser Jr. behind the steering wheel? Bring it on. Hours between courses? Who needs to eat when your heart’s in your throat and everything in you is wishing for happily-ever-afters?

He’s far too good-looking for me. Far too sexy. Far too everything. But after last night, when I felt like a slab of meat in cold storage, I welcome the wash of heat.

“Damn,” he says, and shakes his head. He’s frowning now, and he closes the paper.

I take the paper back. “Didn’t like what you saw?”

“Nope. They lost.”

They? “Your team?”

“My high school.”

The guy’s at least thirty. Maybe even thirty-five. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but he’s not a kid, and I can’t see him still trying to follow his high school team. I open my mouth to ask a question, but he’s already standing and heading for the door.

I watch him walk out, the tail of his blue denim shirt flapping, and as the café door shuts behind him, I feel a moment of utter loss.

We could have been so good together.

My coffee isn’t as tasty as it was, and I don’t feel quite as buoyant as I did. I slowly return to my apartment, open and close the door, and head into the kitchen, tossing the newspaper and my keys onto the little table beneath the window.

For a split second I picture a life with him. Gorgeous Guy.

Isn’t there some ancient Asian philosophy that says you are often confronted by the same problem over and over until you’ve mastered it? If not, there should be.

The whole reason I picked this apartment was because it looked perfect for a couple. Even though I was still reeling from the divorce, in the back of my mind I was already keeping my options open.

I saw the apartment’s possibilities. Yes, the crown was thick and glossy white, and the living room’s large bay window overlooked a sunny street, but I also saw the big bedroom (big enough for trading up to a king-size bed if need be), the fireplace for romantic evenings, the space in the kitchen beneath the window, where a cute table would go.

I saw it all.

The good-looking guy sprawled on the sectional sofa I’d soon buy. The weekends, when he’d be reading the paper or idly flipping through the TV channels, watching three different football games simultaneously. I saw me preparing extravagant Sunday brunches, dazzling him with my culinary skills, slipping him incredibly tasty food while I slipped into something sexy. (I do have all that lingerie that’s never been worn.)

This idea of me, this vision for my future, is what made me sign a year lease on an apartment that I couldn’t afford and that wasn’t all that convenient. I could have gotten apartments for far less—newer, more modern apartments that came with parking—but this apartment had charm. This apartment had style. This apartment shouted, She’s worthy!

And so the movers left my boxes in my newly leased apartment, which has twenty-three steps to the front door, and the smallest, narrowest toilet-in-a-closet I’d ever seen. But I’m not complaining, because I don’t cook or eat in the bathroom; I do that in the kitchen, and the kitchen might not be ideally laid out, but it is spacious and has new appliances and, of course, room for that table beneath the window.

Now you know everything about me. I’m not just impulsive and romantic; I’m dumb and broke, too.

Dumb, because once again I signed on for something reason and responsibility should have told me I couldn’t afford.

Broke because when Jean-Marc and I divorced, I asked for nothing since I came with nothing, and it seemed wrong to ask for a piece of his house or his bank account when he’d never wanted me in the first place.

That thought alone stops me, and sinking onto the back of my sofa, I stare blankly at my fireplace’s pink marble surround. Why didn’t I know that Jean-Marc didn’t want me?

Why couldn’t I tell how he really felt about me? Surely there were signs. Symptoms.

I rack my brain yet again, trying to discern what must have been there, true, obvious. But before the wedding we seemed so happy. We didn’t fight. We took trips together. Jean-Marc spent more time at home with me than he did in his campus office.

There was a distinct lack of sex, but I thought… I thought… what?

The phone rings.

Panic floods me. I tense. Every muscle knots, locks. Who is it? I don’t know, and therefore I can’t answer.

I wait through the six rings until my answering, machine picks up. But when the machine picks up, the caller hangs up.

I stare at the phone, hating it. It could have been a good call. Could have been someone I wanted to talk to.

I should have gotten caller ID, like the saleslady at Pac Bell suggested when I first moved in. All I had to do was buy a new phone.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go to Circuit City and buy a phone with caller ID, because if I’m going to date, I need to know who is on the other line.

And then I’ll go to the gym.

*

On Monday morning, I’m back at work, sitting in an early morning team meeting. Olivia is briefing us on a new event we’ll be coordinating—the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Beckett School in Hillsborough. The Beckett School is one of the most prestigious academies for boys—impossible to get into, and yet an education at Beckett ensures lifelong success, if not due to personal achievement, then due to the extremely loyal network of alumni.

Olivia is enthusiastic. Even though her African-American Georgia-born father, Terrell Dempsey, would never have been allowed within a hundred feet of socially restrictive Beckett, Olivia embraces old money. But to be fair, she also embraces new money. To Olivia, money is opportunity.

Olivia is one of the reasons City Events is so successful. Olivia isn’t just an event planner; Olivia is the company’s top account executive. She’s not afraid to go after business, not afraid to ask for what she wants. She’s smart. Tough. Teflon coated. She’s learned to separate herself from her work, learned that rejection isn’t personal, and that just because someone says no now, it doesn’t mean they’ll say no later.

I wish I could be smart like that. Not to mention a lot more Teflon. I still can’t say what I want, what I need. I don’t ask. Instead I’ve hoped that being good, being just, being fair would reward me.

I’m not so sure anymore.

“How did you get the account?” Sara, the fourth person on Olivia’s team, asks, Olivia’s team consisting of Olivia, Josh, Sara, and me.

Olivia nods at Josh. “Josh’s connections.”

We all look at Josh. He shifts uncomfortably. “My dad went there,” he said after a moment.

“Josh did, too.” Olivia’s sitting on the edge of her desk, and we’re facing her like kids in a schoolroom. “He’s third generation.”

We’re all still staring at Josh. Tuition to Beckett is around seventeen thousand a year. And we’re all thinking approximately the same thing: does that mean Josh’s family is loaded? And if so, why is Josh working here? A job at City Events is creative and diverse, but it doesn’t pay. You don’t really start making anything until you’re a director, like Olivia or Tessa.

Speaking of Tessa, I saw her summon her staff together earlier this morning for their weekly meeting, and I prayed she’d had a brainstorm over the weekend about how to save the ailing Leather silent, gender-neutral Josh; vivacious, alluring Olivia—I see us all fast-forwarded into the future; I see a story that hasn’t yet been written, but the ending is the same. We all will age. We’ll all get sick. None of us shall live forever.

And I know I must do something about the Leather and I stay there until I can shrug. “If you say so.”

But I don’t leave.

I should, but I don’t.

The Hospice Foundation depends on the ball. David says the ball is the foundation’s primary source of income, and I believe him, and maybe this is why Jean-Marc fell out of love with me. I get stubborn at all the wrong times, for all the wrong reasons.

Tessa’s dark red eyebrows flatten. “If you’re done…?”

I feel really stupid, but I’m good being stupid. I hang on doggedly; I hang on and don’t let go. “Olivia doesn’t want me involved with the ball. I’m coming to you behind her back, and she wouldn’t like me coming to you. But this ball means everything to David, and I respect David. A lot.”

“Olivia would fire you if she found out.”

The cold feeling’s back, but so is a hotter emotion, one I can’t name. The hot threatens to swallow the cold. “David signs the paychecks.”

She leans back in her chair, eyes me for a moment. “So what do you want to do?”

“Whatever needs to be done that I could help do—away from the office, of course.”

“You don’t want Olivia to find out?”

“I don’t want to be fired.”

She puts her feet up on her desk. “We only have a quarter of our tables sold. We don’t have any high-end sponsors. I’m working on sponsorship, and the rest of my team is trying to approach various companies about buying tables, but…” She shrugs, and it’s the shrug that says she’s losing faith.

The event’s been done to death.

“Let me try the media,” I say, and Tessa smiles. I know she’s thinking that this is San Francisco, not Fresno, but she doesn’t say it. “I’ll see if there isn’t a way to generate some excitement that way,” I add, trying to sound convincing.

“Go for it.” And she’s still smiling, but she’s less antagonistic. “You’ll be our media queen, only stealth.” She reaches for her iced mocha, shakes the cup, rattling the ice. “So keep me posted. Let me know how it goes.”

*

It was a bold offer on my part, but it doesn’t take me long to discover that being media queen (even stealth) has more lows than highs.

During the next week I make endless phone calls that go nowhere, leave messages that never get returned. I turn to Outlook Express, which isn’t as effective as a personal call, send a flurry of e-mails, introducing myself, asking for a moment of so-and-so’s time. Half the e-mails get ignored. The other half come back with a “thanks but no thanks, not newsworthy, not groundbreaking, not interesting,” the underlying message being that people already know about the Leather I’ve got another call holding.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Who?”

“A reporter from the paper,” I fib, but it’s a good fib.

“Which paper?”

“The Chronicle .”

Tom’s quiet now, and I want to get off the phone before he asks me out for tomorrow night. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, trying to sound cheerful but not too encouraging.

But he jumps on it, like a dog on a stick. “When?”

Never. “Next week.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

I’ve no doubt. I hang up. I still have Tom to deal with, but at least I’m off the hook for now.

Josh appears at my desk. He’s attractive in a nearly invisible sort of way. Slender frame, about six feet, lightish eyes, light brown hair. He probably was a very sweet child.

I can’t imagine him attending Beckett. Beckett has more than money. It’s been investigated twice in the past ten years for its “history of hazing.”

I don’t know if Josh is gay. He might be; he might not be. But I can’t imagine him wild in high school, pumped by testosterone surges.

“You’re leaving,” I say, seeing he’s got his brown leather barn coat on.

“Going to meet friends for drinks.”

“Sounds fun.” I sound wistful. I didn’t mean it to come out that way, either, but suddenly I dread going home, dread being alone again, dread the moment my front door closes, shutting me inside an empty apartment that reminds me far too much of my newly empty life.

Josh hesitates. “You want to come?”

I actually feel sorry for him now. I’m not much better than Lehman, am I? “No,” I answer brightly, far more brightly than I feel. “I’m good. But thanks for asking. That’s nice of you.”

He laughs uncomfortably. “It’s not a date, and I’m not making a pass—”

“No, I know.” I cut him off, mercifully short. I don’t think either one of us can handle this. I don’t know if Josh is gay or straight, but he’s the one person at work who hasn’t gone out of his way to make me feel like a complete idiot. “But thanks. Really.”

He just looks at me, his expression curious. Surprisingly thoughtful. His eyelashes are long and thick, and as they drop, he looks almost beautiful, in an androgynous David Bowie sort of way.

“The person you want at the Chronicle is Fadden,” he says after a moment. “Brian Fadden. I forget his exact title, but he’s a features editor and has a lot of seniority.”

“Thanks.”

“Fadden can bark, but he doesn’t bite.”

I nod, but on the inside I’ve hit the red panic button with both hands. Just what does Josh know? He’s been here three—four?—years and will probably be the next to be promoted to events director, if Tessa or Olivia should leave.

“She wouldn’t like you doing this, Hol. Be careful.”

I know who and what he’s talking about, and he’s giving me fair warning. I wasn’t sure if he knew what I was doing, all those calls I was quietly making, but now I do. I shouldn’t be surprised. Josh is quiet at work, often goes unnoticed, but he’s usually aware of everything.

And he also sits just two cubicles away.

My face feels hot, the skin prickly. “You won’t say anything?”

“It’s none of my business.”

It may be none of his business, and he doesn’t want to get caught in office politics, but he did give me Fadden’s name. Warned me to be careful. I’m touched. Grateful. And even more determined not to go home and sit in my apartment, lonely and alone. “So where are you going for drinks?”

“The Mission.”

The Mission district’s the in spot in recent years. Josh looks at me, thick lashes lifting, his brown eyes half-smiling. He dangles his car keys. “Don’t worry, you’re not my type. I don’t drink a lot. And I’m happy to drive.”

I’m hugely tempted. I really don’t want to be alone. “Your friends won’t mind?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I thought they would.”