Page 31 of The Frog Prince

“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.

AndthenI’ll go to the gym.

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