Page 62 of The Frog Prince
“So what do you want me to do?” the manager says.
“Don’t you have something I can sit on?” Paul holds his hands up, showing a good twenty inches of space. “You know, something tall?”
“Like what?”
“Phone books.”
“You want to sit on phone books?”
“Three or four.”
The couples on either side of us are listening. They’re not even trying to hide their interest. Both couples, one young and chic and the other older and silver, are following the discussion now.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the manager answers, “but we don’t have phone books.”
“Youhaveto have phone books. Every restaurant has phone books.”
“But not for people to sit on.”
“I just need—”
“No.”
Paul flushes. “You have to have something in the back. Something I could use.”
“And what do you suggest?” The manager’s voice drips ice.
Paul glances around, his gaze traveling across the restaurant, over the tables, the linens…
“Napkins. Towels. Something like that.”
If I were boneless, I’d slide beneath the table right now.
“You’d liketowels,” drawls the manager.
“Or tablecloths.”
“Tablecloths.”
“Yes, tablecloths,” Paul repeats stiffly. “If you don’t mind.”
The manager bows and walks away. I lower my menu. Paul glowers at me, and I rise. I’ve had it, absolutely had it, and I want to be polite and find a cordial way to make my escape, but before words leave my lips, two busboys return with a stack of tablecloths, still wrapped in plastic from the cleaners.
“Wonderful!” Paul enthuses, as if this were entirely normal. I stand next to our table as he takes half the tablecloths, places them on the bench, sits down, tests the tablecloths, and then stands and takes three more.
And that’s when I go. I don’t even say a word. I can’t. Holding my coat and purse close to my body, I run from the restaurant and all the way to my car as if the devil himself were chasing me.
That was horrible, horrible, and I will never, ever endure another bad date—or rude man—just because I’m supposed to be a nice girl.
I’m not that nice.
God help me, I’m honestly not that nice.
*
I’m so upsetdriving home—upset with Paul, upset with Tom, upset with me—that I can hardly see straight.
By the time I reach my apartment, I crack, absolutely crack, and do the worst thing possible, I pick up the phone and make the absolutely worst kind of call.