Page 35 of The Frog Prince
“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 theChronicleis 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.”
ChapterSeven
Ihad noidea that Josh was so interesting.
And I don’t just mean interesting because Josh gave me the name at the paper or promised not to say anything to Olivia, but interesting as in intriguing. The guy’s a poet. He’s had a collection of his poems published—he claims no one read it, but his friends say Josh is too modest.
His friends are all artsy types—there are three novelists (one Spanish, one American, and the other is Middle Eastern), a short story writer, a playwright, a sculptor, a photographer, a graphic artist, painters, and so on. They’re men and women. Diverse, international, and heavy smokers.
And I like the idea of them, the idea that I’m part of something intellectual, weighty, of substance, particularly because Jean-Marc used to say after we’d been married a couple months,Why don’t you read a real novel? Why don’t you do something with your mind?Or, if I was leafing through a magazine at night, You should read a real newspaper.AEuropean paper. Your American newspapers are all so biased.
We’re at a Greek restaurant for drinks—we’re supposed to be going elsewhere for dinner later—and everyone’s loose, enjoying their beer and wine and taking turns going outside for a quick cigarette, cursing San Francisco’s ridiculous antismoking laws as they come and go.
Even though I’m sitting next to Josh, I spend most of the evening talking to an intense novelist named Paul Petersen, who could be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. Paul doesn’t actually have a book published yet, but he gave up his day job two years ago and takes his work very seriously. He doesn’t write genre stuff, only “good fiction.”
I’ve nursed the same beer for over an hour because I want to keep my wits about me—I am starting to watch my weight a little more—and Paul is fiercely argumentative about what constitutes great writing. I think he thinks he’s an authority on great writing, and apparently he’s crafting something that’s very dark, serious, and relevant.
Although I’m not sure what that means.
I do know that critics and reviewers love novels filled with unhappy people searching for meaning. The search for meaning speaks of human nature. And suffering. But my problem is, I’ve lived suffering, and I’m just about suffered out.