The Frog Prince

Chapter Ten

C hapter T en

I give Mom an awkward hug good night and wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a loose ponytail, but once in bed, I can’t fall asleep despite the pi?a coladas.

Fairy tales always started with “Once upon a time,” and they always ended with “happily ever after.” And in between there’s struggle and tragedy, love and loss, heartbreak and triumph. But in the end, love conquers all. In the end, everyone is happy.

Why did I ever love fairy tales? And why did my mom love reading them to me?

And why does my mom still think Jean-Marc was Prince Charming when he has so completely rejected me?

She’s my mom. She should be on my side. She should think Jean-Marc was a jerk—a villain, not a hero! I close my eyes, put an arm over my face, trying very hard not to get teary and upset. I’m still so ashamed about the whole wedding and divorce. It was—is—such a fiasco. It was so not anything I thought it would be, and I thought it’d be beautiful. Wonderful. I thought I’d be a perfect princess bride.

I take a rough breath, and my throat burns and my eyes burn and the tears are coming anyway. What is love anyway? Why do we need love? Is wanting to be loved, needed , a weakness, or a necessity? Is wanting someone to love you, maybe even validate you, bad?

When I first met Jean-Marc, I swear, I felt like Cinderella. I felt important. Exciting. Transformed. Jean-Marc’s love made me feel strong. With his love, I could do anything.

But then he took his love away, and I was turned back into the old me again. The magic’s gone. And I’m scared. I’m scared I never was good enough, or pretty enough, or smart or strong enough.

Lying in my ridiculous girly princess bed, I pull my sheet over my head so Mom can’t hear me crying. No wonder Jean-Marc wanted out. He saw through my mask to the real me.

*

I wake early the next morning, my head pounding like mad. Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t need three pi?a coladas. I should never drink more than two of anything.

It hurts to stand. Staggering to the bathroom, I pop some Advil, and seeing it’s not even six yet and still dark, I struggle to put on running shoes and sweats and sneak Mom’s car keys from her purse. Leaving my apartment, I zip up my sweatshirt hood and blow on my fingers and begin walking up California, toward the top of Nob Hill, where we left our cars.

I always forget this city is built on hills, until I have to walk. I’m half walking, half jogging my way up the hill, and it takes me twenty minutes to reach Mom’s car. Wheezing, I climb into her car, start it, and drive it back to my apartment. I’m home in minutes and sweating profusely.

I find a spot for Mom’s car just a half block from my apartment. Checking my watch, I see it’s now six thirty, and I slowly begin the second jog/walk up Nob Hill.

If I thought it was hard the first time, it’s even tougher the second. My legs remember how steep the hill is and how it just climbs endlessly. But I don’t stop. I keep puffing and moving my feet, one after the other, and eventually I reach the block where I left my car, and soon I’m home again.

I don’t go inside the apartment after parking my car. Instead I go to the nearest Starbucks and buy two lattes and blueberry scones and carry them home.

Mom’s still asleep, and I leave the coffees and scones on the kitchen table while I shower, but she’s awake and in the kitchen when I get out. Her hair’s all rumpled, and she has a deep crease in her cheek from the pillow’s welting.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, yawning.

“I got your car.” I’m still wrapped in my towel, but I need some coffee. I take a sip even as I slide her keys across the table. “Your car’s parked just a half block down, same side as the house. When you go out the front door, take a right and you’ll see it.”

Mom wraps her arms around me for a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers, and I stand in my towel, awkwardly receiving her hug.

“My pleasure,” I say, but I can’t warm up, can’t feel anything with her arms around me. I don’t know why I’m all numb and cold inside. I don’t know why I can’t reciprocate or feel anything other than regret. I step away, breaking free. “I better get dressed. Can’t be late.”

And it’s not until I’m heading out the apartment door that I realize it’s Friday. And I was supposed to do something on Thursday. What?

Brian Fadden coffee meeting. And something in the evening…

Something… something… oh, shit!

Dinner with Paul. I stood up Paul.

Racing back inside, I check my message phone, and sure enough, four calls. All from Paul. Last night he called every fifteen minutes from the restaurant, each call increasingly agitated, until the last is downright scary, a rambling tirade about how I could have at least had the courtesy to call and cancel, and how he had a life and it’d been a sacrifice for him to leave his book when he was in the middle of writing a difficult scene, but he’d done it and he’d appreciate some respect, please.

His tone and word choice give me the weebie-jeebies, but I have to give him credit. He did wait nearly an hour before accepting that I wasn’t going to be meeting him.

But Mom has also heard the last message. She looks at me, alarmed. “He doesn’t sound very nice.”

“He’s upset,” I say, deleting the messages even as I pick up the phone. “I was supposed to have dinner with him last night and I spaced. He waited at the restaurant for an hour for me.”

But Paul doesn’t answer. He’s probably already left for work. (But wait. Didn’t he give up his technical job somewhere to be a full-time unemployed novelist? So he works from home, right?) I leave him a wordy apology with the general theme being, “I goofed, I owe you, I’m sorry.”

*

Paul ends up calling me late in the day. I’m at my desk at the office and surprised to hear his voice, wondering how he got my work number, then remember that he’s one of Josh’s crowd, so of course he knows the office phone number. It’s a tense call—Paul’s still fuming—but I grovel some more, and eventually he accepts my apology under the condition that I make it up to him soon.

I tell him my mom’s in town and try to schedule a makeup dinner for Tuesday or Wednesday. Paul doesn’t want another weekday night. He wants Saturday. I don’t want Saturday but, feeling guilty, succumb to Friday. So one week from today we’re going on what now seems to be a date.

The rest of the day has been anticlimactic. Olivia has pretty much acted as though everything’s normal, so I trust everything’s normal. Josh and Tessa never mention dinner, and I actually get a lot of work done. By the time I leave the office for the weekend, I feel as if I’ve finally accomplished something, and return to my apartment to find Mom waiting at the door with her purse and coat.

I look at my mom, dressed in her second-favorite color combination, licorice red and cobalt blue paired with white running shoes, and think, You’ve got to be kidding. There’s no way I can go out right away. I’m beat. And I can’t take my mom out to dinner somewhere in my neighborhood wearing the American flag. It’s fine to be a tourist. You just don’t have to look like one.

“Mom, did you bring anything brown, or black?”

“Black?”

“Like a black T-shirt or turtleneck?”

“I don’t wear black.” She sounds almost traumatized. “You know I never wear black. I love bright colors.”

I noticed. “Let me change into jeans,” I say, trying to hide the wilting note in my voice. I swear to God, I feel as if I’m back in high school and Mom’s raining on my parade. I try to remember Tessa’s attitude. I’m lucky to have a mother. It shouldn’t matter what she wears, what she says, or what she thinks I need.

“How does Italian sound?” Mom shouts through the half-closed bedroom door. “I thought we could go to North Beach. I found a little restaurant that has an early-bird special—”

Oh, no.

“And if we get there before six thirty we can get a free appetizer or drink with my happy-hour coupon.”

*

Sunday morning arrives, and it’s time for Mom to head home. She doesn’t like to drive after dark, and it’s a good four-and-a-half-hour drive—or longer if you go the speed limit, and Mom always does.

But before Mom does go, I take her to one of my favorite cafés, and we have a great brunch. Mom keeps smiling at everyone and everything. “I feel like I’m in Paris,” she says for the third or fourth time whenever someone wearing black enters the café. Mom thinks wearing black is something of an artistic statement, but whispers that it also reveals a certain instability of character.

“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer, compelled to defend the color black. “People like it because it’s understated—”

“It’s not understated; it’s dramatic.”

“—and sophisticated at the same time.”

“Black’s boring.”

“How can black be boring and dramatic?”

“It’s boring to look at, and dramatic because people who wear it want to appear like something they’re not.”

“No.”

Mom leans so far across the table, I think we’re going to bump heads. “What child wears black?”

My mouth opens, closes. I’m genuinely stumped.

“My point,” she concludes, straightening. “No child wears black. Children reach for color. Jamie would wear only yellow and royal blue T-shirts. His favorite sweatpants were St. Patrick’s Day green. Ashlee loved pink. Pink underwear, pink skirts, pink sweaters, pink hair barrettes, pink everything. And if pink: wasn’t an option, she’d grudgingly choose lavender.”

“And me?”

Mom hesitates. Frowning, she shakes her head. “I forget.”

“You don’t remember?”

“You liked all the colors of the rainbow.”

“But I had to have a favorite.”

Her frown deepens. She’s thinking. Her shoulders finally lift, fall. “I don’t think you had a favorite, or if you did, I don’t recall.”

As we walk back to my apartment, Mom takes my arm, gives me a little squeeze. “I really enjoyed having a girls’ weekend with you, Holly. It’s so fun doing girl things together.”

I nod, and I’m completely conflicted on the inside, but I’m glad I was able to spend time with her. I probably don’t see enough of her. “Thanks for driving up.”

“You were surprised!” She laughs.

“It was a good surprise.”

She pats my arm. “I’m glad. I did want to see you. I’ve been worried about you… you know… since separating from Jean-Marc and moving up here alone. I just felt so much better when he was taking care of you.”

We’ve reached the steps to my building, and I stop on the sidewalk. The sun is high and shining warmly, having decided to act like summer after all. “Mom, I’m not a little girl. I didn’t need Jean-Marc to take care of me.”

“I know, but it’s nice to be treated special… have someone do things for you. Protect you. That sort of thing.” And she sounds wistful, full of longings and regrets she never talks about with me.

“I can do things for myself.”

She nods quickly, too quickly. “Of course you can.”

“I can.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“But you look completely dubious, Mom, as if I haven’t managed to do anything right in my life.”

Mom reaches for me, gives me a swift hug. “Now, that’s silly. You do lots of things right. And someday you’ll meet someone new and even more wonderful and he’ll sweep you off your feet—”

“Mom.” I cut her short, and I’m not gentle and not patient. “I don’t want to meet anyone new, and I certainly don’t want to be swept off my feet, or rescued. I don’t want or need another Prince Charming.”

Mom’s features pinch. “I was trying to be supportive.”

Christ. I cover my face, take a breath, fight the twenty-five years of shared history. She’s my mom and I love her, and I’m her daughter and she loves me; this is okay; everything’s okay; conflict is normal between mothers and daughters…

“You’re very supportive,” I say after a moment, dropping my hand and forcing a smile. “You’re great. You really are.”

I carry Mom’s suitcase down to her car, which is still parked down the street where I left it two days ago. As Mom climbs into the car, I ask her to call me, let me know that she’s made it back safely; sometimes I’m not sure who’s the parent and who’s the child.

Then her car pulls away, heading down the street, and she puts on her blinker, signals she’s going to turn at the corner, and as her car disappears around the corner, I feel something break loose inside me.

It’s terrible. Sad. I feel so sad.

I want to run after her, chase her car down like a five-year-old on the first day of kindergarten, crying, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t go!”

And I think I’ve missed her my whole life, and I’m not even sure what that means, but I wish I could go back in time and undo whatever has been done so I’m not hurt and scared any longer.

Cindy and Drew emerge from the Victorian even as I head back in. Cindy nods at me, and I nod back as I climb the front steps.

In the apartment I face the empty living room, the empty hall, the emptiness beyond. It’s okay to be alone. I’m not lonely—Mom was just here—but right now I don’t want to be in the apartment all by myself, and I have no money to blow, so I change into my sweats and put on running shoes (an optimistic purchase for me when I’ve never done much more than jog/walk) and head out for a jog. Walk.

And I’m going to keep jog/walking until I can handle the emptiness and loneliness, because this is my life.

*

Back at work Monday it’s busy, which helps the time pass, and our usual Monday morning team meeting is smooth, without any obvious tension.

I spend the week doing everything I should, plus following up with phone calls to the media, and although I’m tempted to call Brian Fadden, I don’t. I can’t—won’t—call him until I really have something for him, and right now my interest is more personal than professional, so I definitely can’t call.

Despite the rather frenetic pace at the office, I do finally manage to use Olivia’s gym guest pass, going every day, even though the time isn’t consistent. Some days it’s before work, other days it’s after work, and on Tuesday and Wednesday it’s during my lunch.

I even see Olivia Thursday morning before work, at the gym. She’s just finished the hybrid yoga-Pilates class, and though I’ve heard it described as a ninety-minute torture fest, Olivia walks out of the class as if it were kids’ play. She’s wearing a cropped brown athletic top and bootleg brown velvet yoga pants, and she looks as if she were still a model. I envy her. I can barely do a circuit in the weight room, and I don’t look anything like a model in my navy blue workout gear. I’m short and hippy and relatively flat-chested. But I’m here, I tell myself, and that’s what counts.

In the women’s locker room Olivia makes some small talk, but she’s fairly distant, and it’s a reminder that she hasn’t totally forgotten last week’s Tessa incident. I can’t help wondering what would happen if she found out I am actually helping Tessa with the Leather it’s a directive, and I do.

I sit down in one of the chairs opposite her desk and wish I’d brought a notebook and pen just so I’d have something to hold, because right now I feel like a kid called into the principal’s office.

I hate this feeling. I only ever went to the principal’s office once (no, make that twice), but the time that stands out in my memory was in seventh grade, when I put a mean note in a girl’s locker because I was jealous of her. The girl was pretty and had great hair and great clothes and tons of friends, and the cutest guy in junior high for a boyfriend. I didn’t think it was fair that she should have so much when I had so little.

So I typed up this mean letter that suggested ways she could die (I’m not proud of this). The note was typed and anonymous. But she took it to the school office, and the English teacher recognized my fluency with language (as mean notes go, it was very creative), and that visit with the principal was followed up by a meeting with my mom, followed by several sessions with the school counselor, followed by an apology to the girl, followed by a final meeting with the principal, the girl, my mom, and the girl’s family.

I learned several important things from that painful incident: (1) You won’t become more popular by telling the popular girl she should die. And (2) if you’re going to write mean things, use small words and bad grammar instead of proper syntax and diction.

“What’s going on?” Olivia finally asks after leaving me in suspended silence for nearly a minute. “You don’t seem like you’re happy here anymore.”

I’m surprised. “I’m very happy here.”

“I don’t know. Something’s different.”

I try to keep my mouth from falling open. I’m genuinely bewildered. I’ve worked really hard all week, and handling numerous events at the same time is like juggling bowling pins. There’s always something big and awkward coming up (and down), and the only way to survive is to focus and keep moving. “I think I’ve had a great week. I’ve gotten a lot done, and the Kid Fest proposal is ready to go out first thing Monday morning…” My voice trails off, and I look at Olivia and try to understand what she wants me to say, what she wants me to do.

“You’ve changed.” It’s all she’ll say, and she lapses back into silence.

I’ve changed?

I think this over, feeling obligated to think this over. Have I changed?

I’m finally going to the gym regularly. I’ve lost a couple of pounds. And I do feel more settled in San Francisco than I did a month ago. But have I changed?

“Is it a bad change?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You’re different. That’s what I’m saying.” Olivia picks up her phone to make a call. “You can leave the door open.”

I’ve been dismissed.

Back in my cubicle, I’m troubled by the brief meeting with Olivia and would very much like to discuss it with Josh, who I think has a better handle on office politics than anyone else on the payroll, but he’s down on the Peninsula, meeting with some of the Beckett School folks, and there’s no one else I trust enough to talk about this with. So I force myself to finish up what I’m working on, and at five I stop in at the gym for a fast workout before my dinner with Paul.

But the fast workout takes a little longer, and although I shower, I don’t have time to wash my hair, and it’s not looking all that hot as I try to style it at home. I shouldn’t have worked out. And I should have washed my hair. But now I’m late, and I’m making mistakes as I do my makeup—my shaking hand means a big blob of mascara right in the middle of my eye, and now my eye is tearing up and my eyeliner is smearing and I’ve got a grayish streak in my foundation beneath my eye.

Damn it.

I don’t want to be going to dinner with Paul. I don’t want Olivia being short with me. I don’t want any more problems for the next twenty-four hours.

But I’ve agreed to the date, and Olivia is mad at me, and I can’t control life, only my attitude, so I finish dressing and try to spray more hair spray on my hair in hopes of giving it some lift before dashing to my car.

*

As I drive, I panic. Tonight is starting out all wrong. You should never forget you’ve made plans and then stand your date up. And then when you book a makeup date, you should not be late. I know this, and yet I am late, and although I’m driving as fast as I can, it’s not fast enough. Traffic is heavy, and I’m impatient and tempted to lean on my horn, but I don’t.

Calm down, I tell myself. Be calm. Nothing bad is going to happen.

By the time I reach Formaggio, I’m twenty minutes late, and I lose another five to seven trying to find parking for the car since there’s no valet. I’ve never been to Formaggio before but have heard plenty about the cuisine. It’s a hip Italian-Mediterranean place that’s always packed.

The first time I circle the block looking for parking, I see no sign of Paul, which could be good—or bad, depending on how you look at it. By the time I park and jog toward the entrance (thank goodness I’ve started to work out; I can actually jog a block without blowing up), Paul’s waiting out front, wearing a black turtleneck, black jeans, and black boots. It’s his literary look, but I’m reminded of “Sprockets,” an old Saturday Night Live skit.

I rush toward Paul, apologizing profusely, and his cheek muscle pulls, and I’m crossing my fingers, hoping this is a smile.

He opens the door for me, tells the hostess his date has finally arrived and we’d like to be seated.

The hostess, a pretty young Italian girl, most likely a local university student and not Italian at all, studies the restaurant layout a moment and then, with her wax pencil, assigns us a table at the back.

Paul leans over the desk. He’s seen where we were going to be seated. “Isn’t there another table somewhere?”

Pretty hostess looks up, smiles. “No.”

Paul has seen all the empty tables beyond her shoulder in the restaurant, as well as unmarked tables on her layout. “The restaurant isn’t even half full.”

The hostess doesn’t even glance down at the layout. “Those are being held for specific reservations.”

“We have reservations.”

I tense. The energy doesn’t feel particularly good, but the hostess’s glossy smile never wavers. “A half hour ago.”

Paul leans farther across the stand. “I was here.”

She doesn’t budge even though Paul is clearly invading her space, a conscious or unconscious attempt at intimidation. “As I’ve already told you, our restaurant requires all parties must be here before being seated.”

Paul shoots me a look. It’s what could be called a dirty look. I feel like shit. If I’d been here on time, none of this would have happened. “I’m sorry,” I pipe in. “It’s my fault. I was late getting off work—”

“Not to worry,” the hostess says, tone friendly again. “We have a table for you, and I can seat you right now.”

“But I don’t want that table,” Paul says, pointing to the numbered table on her floor plan. “I want a good table. That’s why we made reservations—”

“We’re going to honor your reservations,” the hostess interrupts, “if you’ll just come with me.”

Paul stares her down. “To a center table.”

This is not going to be a good evening, I realize, and every instinct is screaming for me to run. Get away. Survive. But I don’t run. I’m too worried about hurting Paul’s feelings, which worries me, because the atmosphere here is crap.

“Sir,” the hostess attempts.

“No,” Paul cuts her short. “I was here. I want to be seated at the table I requested.”

“I’m sorry, that table has been reassigned.” The hostess is looking beyond us to the couple entering through the front door now. “Good evening,” she calls cheerily. “Welcome to Formaggio. How many, please?”

Paul plants himself in front of her. “What about us?”

The hostess looks almost surprised to see Paul still standing there. “What about you?”

“ Our table.”

“You’ll have to wait a moment now. I’m going to go ahead and seat these people now.” And she takes two stiff menus from below the desk and escorts the couple to a center table.

Paul splutters. He’s mad, very mad, and I don’t know what to say or do. I barely know him. We’ve had just that one night as a group, and then our conversation earlier in the week.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Paul, watching the hostess from the corner of my eye, anxious for her to return and seat us. Paul’s practically frothing at the mouth now, muttering things about incompetent waitresses and women, and how he ought to ask for the manager, and this wasn’t the kind of treatment he expected from a place like Formaggio.

The hostess doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to return, though.

In fact, as I watch, she settles her hand on the back of the woman’s chair and laughs, shaking her head a little. She looks serene. Happy. Relaxed.

Just the opposite of Paul, who is about to blow a head gasket. I will say this for Jean-Marc. He might not have loved me, but I never had to worry about how he’d behave in a public place. And I’m worrying very much right now about Paul.

More people arrive, crowding the small entryway. Formaggio isn’t a big restaurant, and the only way they accommodate a crowd is by squeezing the maximum number of tables into the small corner space, taking advantage of two narrow walls with lots of little tables sandwiched between hard wooden chairs and a long upholstered bench.

The hostess finally leaves the couple she’s seated and returns to the podium at the entrance.

“Ready?” she says brightly.

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” Paul contradicts, lifting a hand to slice me in two. “I’d like to speak to the manager immediately.”

The hostess’s eyes have gone cold. “Then you’ll have to wait a minute—”

“I’ve already waited nearly thirty minutes.”

“You’ll have to wait one more. As you can see, I have people to seat.”

And picking up more menus, she warmly greets the four people standing behind us.

The foursome get a center table, too.

“It’s a power play,” Paul mutters furiously. “This is just a goddamn power play.” Then he stops a passing busboy. “Where’s your manager? Get your manager. I want to talk to him now.”

“ ?Cómo? ”

“Your manager.” Paul’s getting even hotter. He speaks louder. “ Man-a-ger. ”

A fifty-something-year-old man in a dark suit appears. “May I help you?”

“Yes.” And Paul is suddenly mollified. You can almost see his ruffled feathers smoothing. “I had a reservation for seven and—”

“What time did you arrive, sir?”

Paul’s look of satisfaction fades somewhat. “Seven.”

“You were here together at seven?”

“No. I was here. My… date… was running late.”

“I see. And did we not have a table available for you?”

“You did. It’s back there somewhere,” and Paul gestures to the wall at the back. “But I don’t want to sit back there. I want a center table. It’s what I requested when I made the reservation.”

“Table thirty-seven,” the hostess murmurs, having returned. She leans across the podium, pointing to the diagram of the restaurant interior.

The older man nods. “There isn’t the center table available, but we’ve a lovely table for you waiting, and we can seat you right now if you’d like.”

“Yes. Well…” Paul swallows, looking far from comfortable. “Okay.”