Page 107 of The Frog Prince
And I do know. But I also know that David needs Olivia in the San Francisco office. She brings in big business, high-profile clients, and represents a significant amount of the company’s revenue.
“Tell David the truth.” Tessa isn’t done, hasn’t given up. “Tell him you helped with the ball, got the article written. Tell him how this feud between you and Olivia started—”
“I can’t. But I’m not done yet, Tessa. I’m going to fix this Kid Fest thing. I’ve got to.”
She exhales softly. “Let me know how I can help.”
ChapterNineteen
For the nextseveral hours I can’t think of anything anyone can do for me, Tessa included. I lie in a semicomatose state on my couch with a stack of magazines I haven’t yet read:Cosmo,Vogue,In Style,Glamour,People,Us,Conde Nast Traveler.
Surrounded by stacks of magazines, I read and read. I study pictures of pretty party dresses, tips on fresh makeup, how to get that summer glow with the latest in creams and bronzers and spray-on tans, the new cocktails, the cool “in” places to go.
I look at fashion.
I read bios and profiles.
I compare each of the different magazines’ horoscopes, reading mine and glancing briefly at Jean-Marc’s in Cosmo, hoping he’ll have a bad month, which is petty, but I’ll stoop to pettiness if it keeps me from thinking about me.
About my day, my career.
My abruptly terminated career.
And there the pain, the shock, the rage sneaks in, crawling between my ribs to sink deeply within. My chest hurts. Every breath aches.
Fired.
Fired.
I close my eyes to keep the tears from forming, but they do anyway.
And because it hurts, and because even if I’m a tough strong girl, I still need a friend right now, not one connected to City Events or my disastrous Kid Fest, I call Katie. Unfortunately her cell phone is off, which means she must be in a meeting or on an airplane and I hang up without leaving a message, not trusting myself to leave a coherent one anyway.
I’m embarrassed.
And angry.
If I were someone else, someone lighter, funnier, more clever, I’d laugh this off, say fate or karma will take care of Olivia—but I’m not particularly light or clever. I want fairness. Justice.
Footsteps sound on the stairs overhead. Cindy. I wait for her to pass by my apartment, on her way to her car or the garage, where her bike is, but her footsteps stop outside my door instead.
Tensing, I wait for the doorbell to ring. It does.
But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m in no condition to talk to Cindy now. She rings the doorbell again, harder, longer this time.
The fact that she can’t—won’t—take a hint, the fact that she’s such a hard-ass and unrelentingly cold and formal with me, the fact that today, when I need peace, she won’t give me any, makes me grab a pillow from the couch and squish it against me, mashing it into a little ball of down and cotton.
Finally the footsteps go away, echoing back up the stairs, and I exhale slowly, but there’s no sense of reprieve. She’ll be back.
Wearily I climb off the couch andgoto the door. I open it, take a step out, and nearly step on the bouquet of flowers lying on my doorstep.
It’s a large bouquet, filled with expensive flowers wrapped in pretty pink and green paisley paper, tied with raffia, bought from my favorite florist down the street.
I pick up the flowers, see the card tucked inside the paper between the fragrant pink lilies. Glancing upstairs, I pull the envelope out of the lilies and open it. The card reads simply, “I’m sorry. C.”
I’m sorry.
Two little words, and those two little words undo me. The tears I fought earlier fall, and I scrub them away without much success, because new tears keep falling.