Page 55 of The Frog Prince

ChapterTen

Igive Moman 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 piña 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 earlythe next morning, my head pounding like mad. Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t need three piña 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.”