Page 12 of The Frog Prince
No.It’s okay. You’ve had a momentary lapse, a stumble, but not a big fall. I’m back on the diet plan. I’m serious about losing weight.
In fact, I’m going to do three more push-ups right now.
On the kitchen floor I squeeze them out: one… twooooo… thhhhhrree.
Back on my feet, I dust off my hands because the floor is surprisingly dirty, and glance around the kitchen.
It crosses my mind that I really need a roommate. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing push-ups for. I’m so lonely I’ve become my own source of entertainment.
Holly beats herself.
Holly needs a life.
At least Jean-Marc was company. One of the advantages of sticking together almost a year despite knowing he didn’t want me anymore (besides being able to keep the wedding stuff) was not being alone. But now I am alone. In the kitchen.
I’m suddenly so tired.
My kitchen is so quiet. The street noise doesn’t reach the back of the apartment, and I can’t even hear Cindy’s music tonight. It’s just me. Me alone with my thoughts.
How did I get here? Moving truck, yes. But how did I get to be twenty-five and divorced? I don’t even remember ever dating.
Slowly I put the tea kettle on the stove, grab a box of herbal mint tea from the cupboard, and sit down at the cute table by the window to wait for the kettle to boil.
The panes of glass are cold, and all the warmth in the kitchen rises to the ten-foot, ceiling. I hunch over the table, stare at the green tea box with the picture of a bear in a nightcap. I like the idea of a sleepy bear, and when the kettle finally boils, I fill a big mug with hot water, drop in my tea bag, turn off the kitchen light, and head back to my room.
I sit in the middle of my princess bed, hold my big mug, and think of Goldilocks. I think of all the different bowls of porridge she tried, all the different beds she lay down in before she got it right.
Maybe I need to take a page from Goldilocks’s book and get out more.
Maybe one bowl, one bed, isn’t enough. Maybe you have to try lots of porridges and lots of chairs and lots of beds before anything feels right. I never really sampled different chairs and beds.
Was that the mistake? Was that where I got it all wrong?
I think more on Goldilocks, think about how angry the bears were when they returned and discovered the little human-being girl asleep in Baby Bear’s bed. I don’t remember Papa or Mama Bear saying, “Oh, how sweet, let’s keep her.” If I remember right, they chased Goldilocks away, threatening to eat her.
What a bad story to read to little girls. Talk about passing on erroneous information.
I need better info.
I also need a life. As Olivia pointed out none too gently, I need to start meeting people, making friends, settling down into my single life in the city. I suppose that means I’ll even have to test the dating scene—not that I know where I’ll meet single guys.
Oh, God. A spike of panic. Am I really going to put myself on the market again? Yes.
I take a deep breath, hold a mental picture: Holly smiling, Holly laughing, Holly looking killer in tight brown suede pants and spike-heel boots.
Maybe tight jeans and spike-heel boots.
Maybe comfortable Levi’s and medium-heel boots in case the Bears come home and get pissed and threaten to eat me, and it becomes a Nike ad—you know,Just do it.
Anyway. The visual isn’t about wardrobe. Or bears. It’s about taking risks. Going for it. Putting myself out there.
I’ve been legally separated for six months, but I’ve been alone far longer than that. Jean-Marc and I slept in separate bedrooms since returning from St. Tropez. For ten months we tried to play the part; for ten months we kept the pretense going, but I’m done. Can’t pretend anymore.
The marriage is over. There’s no going back. The divorce isn’t final yet, but you could call me Holly Available.
ChapterThree
Less than twelvehours later, I’m at my desk at City Events, preparing to work through my lunch hour because I always feel as though I’m a day late and a dollar short in the team meetings, when Aimee phones and then Olivia suddenly appears and is hovering over me.